Fic: Switzerland for snorkackcatcher

[springmod]

Title: Switzerland
Author: ofankoma
Recipient: snorkackcatcher
Character(s): Blaise Zabini, Justin Finch-Fletchley, others
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 9,300
Warnings (if any): A bit of profanity
Summary: Because they couldn’t be friends on British soil.
Author's/Artist’s Notes (if any): Dear snorkackcatcher, I hope you enjoy this series of missing moments from canon, and I certainly hope it meets your request of 'unexpected but plausible.' I'm afraid there's no Hagrid here. Perhaps next time!

* * *

‘...and so welcome you to this, the third sitting of the working committee on the status of house, a representative body of the Board of Governors of Hogwarts School of...’

Having decided early in life that a lexicon of parliamentary procedure would do him no good, Blaise Zabini now relies upon his intuition to tell him when to nod, when to frown, and when to offer expressions of doubt, all in order to survive this farce of a meeting. Meetings, plural, since this was the third (and hopefully the last) of what he had been told could stretch out into several gatherings of Britain’s ‘best and brightest’ as they made ‘life-changing, culture-making decisions that would forever impact the future of the wizarding world.’

Please, he thinks. ‘Best and brightest’? Try ‘selectively chosen according to blood status, gender, and house affiliation’. The Board of Governors is covering its collective arse by picking this particular panel, and everybody knows it. As for ‘culture-making decisions’ that would ripple down to his great-great-great-great grandchildren? Blaise doubts it. At a place like Hogwarts, nothing ever changed, and nothing ever would.

The Board needs to make a good show of it for the masses, though, proving once and for all that they can acknowledge the weakness of the status quo and... And what exactly? Reevaluate the old traditions? Producing an alternative for the students of Hogwarts? Placate the crowds calling for a complete overhaul of the system?

The likely answer is simply peacekeeping. Pacifying the world at large. That’s the subtext for all Ministry work now, for each bill passed and every rally thrown. The message underlying all the work at Hogwarts as well, with rebuilding efforts and student counselling sessions. The war is over, so it is now the unofficial job of every man, woman, and institution to be strong again.

Be healed.

Be excellent.

Be excellent now.

And if that isn’t to be had (as if anyone achieved it in the best of times, much less after the shit show they’d all just survived)-if that isn’t to be had, well, best be prepared to fake it.

At least that is something Blaise Zabini is very, very good at.

He drifts back into the public discourse somewhere midstream of the roll call.

‘...Quick, Francine Peasegood, Scrope Colquitt, Dorothy Gumboil, and Cox Edgecombe. Present as guests of the committee are recent graduates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry: Hermione Granger, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Padma Patil, and Blaise Zabini. Also present as guests of the committee are current professors and heads of house: Minerva McGonagall, Pomona Sprout, Filius Flitwick, and Horace Slughorn. If the chairwoman would read the minutes from the previous...’

The ubiquitous Granger on the committee? No surprise there. She’s everywhere these days - showed up to testify for Malfoy and his mum, protested that damned Ministry fountain project, and generally threw around her name as Poster Child Muggle-born for every cause.

Patil. Token Indian, token half-blood, token Ravenclaw.

Finchley isn’t much of a shock, either. The committee would never have asked Zacharias Smith (mouth-breathing dolt and waste of a wand if ever there was one), but they could have easily gone for someone like MacMillan, putting another halfblood on the committee. His loss - they seem to really want Muggle-borns around. So Finch-Fletchley it is.

Blaise himself is there to represent Slytherin, of course, and he knows this. He also knows that he adds to the diversity quota like Patil does. More than that, he knows that he is invited as a representative of his house sans Death-eater connections. The conscientious objector, one of the many who fled Hogwarts before any blood had been shed on its grounds.

He is neutral.

Looking around, he realises that they couldn’t have found an uglier room for these meetings. Odd parquet flooring, yellow walls filled with paintings of birds sitting atop various trees, not enough windows to let in anything resembling natural light. He expected better.

The clerk drones on in a monotonous voice, and Blaise struggles to stay focussed on her words. ‘...since, and will open the floor for discussion and debate. Does the current house system allow for meaningful interaction with those outside your house? The committee will record the reactions of all its invited guests.’

Sprout speaks up, first among the professorial types invited to talk to the committee. Her speech is all about double lessons being a place where students learn to grow together and yield fruit and blah, blah, blah. ‘Grow together’? he inwardly scoffs. How hackneyed. It’s a steaming pile of... fertiliser if he’s ever heard one.

McGonagall talks about a trajectory from the protection of the house in the early years to increased interaction in the N.E.W.T. level classes in the final years before leaving Hogwarts. The committee eats that up as well, but come on. The real advantage of higher-level classes is the absence of idiots like Goyle and Longbottom. Even Granger would admit to that, he figures, although it would probably take Veritaserum to make her do it.

Flitwick’s speech is the shortest yet. Appropriate, that, Blaise thinks, smirking to himself. Pity no-one here has the capacity to appreciate his rapier wit. The Charms professor says something about prefects and unity in leadership, and his turn is over.

Slughorn rattles off what he considers success stories from his personal exercise in narcissism, the friendships and marriages of the students who first met up in the Slug Club. Yep... because that gathering was dreamt up for the sake of the students, Sluggy. Right.

Apparently the students’ time to speak up, Patil pledges herself to Flitwick’s words, telling rambling stories of camaraderie and late-night patrols.

Finch-Fletchley goes decidedly Hufflepuff, talking on and on about how there needed to be more opportunities to work with people from other houses. How friendship outside your house is only possible if you could find something of value you hold in common with the other person.

Then Granger pulls several pages from the satchel beneath her chair. Bloody hell, he thinks. Kill me now. He grows distracted as she yammers on, but zones out completely somewhere around her fourth or fifth talking point. Sniffing the swill they serve to everyone as ‘tea’, he thanks his lucky stars he remembered to have the house-elf pack him something worth-

‘...your thoughts, Mister Zabini?’

The committee clerk startles him. He plasters a beatific smile on his features and wonders if he is still answering the first question posed. Maybe Granger said something they wanted him to respond to. Bugger. Should’ve paid attention after all.

‘And which question, Madame Clerk,’ he replies deferentially, ‘would you like me to answer for the esteemed committee?’

‘Such a respectful young man,’ she pronounces under her breath, smiling and smoothing out the front of her shabby robes. Frumpy, oldish witches were easy for Blaise. Frumpy, oldish wizards, too. Flash the teeth, drop a compliment and all is forgiven. ‘Mister Zabini, the question is that of interactions between the houses.’

‘Interactions between the houses?’ he repeats, deciding upon his response.

She seems to interpret his hesitation as some kind of uncertainty or misunderstanding, and asks again with slightly different words. ‘Yes, dear. Just tell us about your friends from Hogwarts. Friends from other houses.’

‘Impossible,’ he scoffs under his breath, replying without thinking.

‘That’s… “impossible”, did you say? Why is that?’

Bugger me dead. What was I thinking? He had planned on saying as little as possible at these meetings. Planned to feed them the answers they’d already decided they were going to hear and to accept his silver star from polite society for this act of community service. If only that cow would have repeated herself verbatim, he wouldn’t have given such a knee-jerk response.

‘It’s impossible,’ Finch-Fletchley states clearly, speaking up to fill the silence, ‘because Zabinis don’t have friends.’

The woman coughs, clearly uncomfortable.

And Blaise slowly turns his head to stare down the tosser at the end of his table.

‘Isn’t that right, Zabini?’

* * *

All right, yes, he was impressed when he first met the other boy in the first year.

Not that he would have told anyone - in the proper ordering of the world, no-one was ever impressed by a Hufflepuff. Blaise had long absolved himself of this particular failing, of course. He’d been just eleven years old. He hadn’t known any better.

It wasn’t that Justin Finch-Fletchley was particularly intelligent or charismatic or skilled in any way. Oh, he was smart enough from the beginning - did well in lessons and all that. Popular enough as well, always encircled by the other Badgers as they burrowed their way through the school.

But plenty of people were sharper than Finchley - take a look at Granger, jumped-up nightmare that she was, or every single Ravenclaw in their year, or even Malfoy when he wanted to be. Most were probably more well-liked, too, Sir Scars-a-Lot notwithstanding, but you could never quite tell with Hufflepuffs. They were always one campfire away from singing stupid songs together under the stars.

No, Justin Finch-Fletchley had something else altogether.

And Blaise discovered just what that something else was on one late night run for supplies.

He had emerged victorious from behind the still life, heavy laden with a small teapot for one and an assortment of biscuits to bring back to the Slytherin dungeons. As he rounded the corner, a scrawny Hufflepuff marched towards him in an expensive quilted dressing gown and matching slippers. It all vaguely resembled what he was wearing himself, in quality if not in colour.

‘Is that the entrance to the kitchen?’

Blaise looked pointedly at the stash in his arms in order to convey the message that the question was, indeed, a stupid one. ‘Of course it is.’

‘Sorry... er... It’s just that I’ve never used it before. One of the fourth years told me where to go, but-‘

‘Through the painting,’ Blaise interrupted. ‘Just tickle the pear.’

‘Is the kitchen staff still here this late? Or do you just help yourself from the refrigerators and freezers?’

Refrigerators and freezers? he wondered. What were they?

He must have been giving Justin a blank look, because the Hufflepuff rephrased his question, pointing to the food and drink Blaise was carrying. ‘Er... how did you get that?’

‘I just asked the house-elves. They run the place.’

‘Elves are servants here?’ Justin repeated quietly under his breath. ‘I would never believe it.’

‘Who else would do all the cooking and cleaning?’

‘People, of course. We have a housekeeper and two cooks at home. Dad has a driver, but he doesn’t come with us when we go to one of the other houses. And Mr Jenkins tends the horses at home, but he doesn’t travel with us either.’

Blaise was astonished. Five people worked for a Hufflepuff family? Five house-elves would have been surprising on their own right, but five people? You didn’t have to pay your house-elves, but you obviously had to pay people if they were working for you.

Hufflepuffs. They were supposed to be a notoriously scruffy bunch, all homey goodness and pie and farmlands. Or whatever. They weren’t supposed to dress as well as he did himself, and they weren’t supposed to have people working for them. Not that Blaise actually knew any Hufflepuffs before arriving at Hogwarts a few weeks earlier, but he’d heard things.

He also didn’t know how anyone acquired a house-elf, but he did know that only the oldest families possessed one. The Malfoys were the wealthiest family he knew in England, and he thought they had three of four.

Blaise and his mum had five, but everybody knew the special circumstances surrounding their situation. Bitsy and Tuttle had been with them as long as he could remember, since before he was born. As his mum married and remarried, their family began acquiring more of everything, houses and house-elves included. Husband Number Two’s untimely train accident had left them another when Blaise was learning to read, and Husband Number Three’s disappearance in Patagonia brought the number of house-elves to four. Number Four willed all his house-elves to his sister, and Number Five was opposed to house-elves for ‘moral reasons’, so the Zabini house-elves held at four until Number Six ate some improperly prepared blowfish while travelling in Japan. So five it was. For now, anyway.

He considered the Hufflepuff shrewdly. ‘What’s your name again?’

‘Justin. Justin Finch-Fletchley,’ he replied pompously, as though everyone was supposed to know that already.

Finch-Fletchley. Not a name Blaise recognised, like Greengrass or Parkinson or Nott. It wasn’t on the list his mum had given him on the Platform 9 ¾ either, like Pucey or Bole or Goyle.

‘I’m Blaise Zabini,’ he offered, nodding in lieu of a handshake.

‘It’s nice to meet you, Blaise.’ Justin stood there, smiling blandly, probably waiting an appropriate amount of time to give him the space to say something back, probably something along the lines of ‘You, too, Justin,’ but Blaise stood his ground silently.

Instead of throwing out inane niceties, he was busy deciding whether or not the boy before him was someone he was supposed to know. Justin had clearly never spent time around house-elves, so was he a half-blood who favoured the Muggle side? A Mudblood? Maybe there were pure-blood families who refused to own house-elves, and Blaise just didn’t know it. It’s not like he had spent all that much time in England growing up.

‘Right, then,’ the boy muttered, shaking Blaise out of his reverie. ‘I’m getting some tea and biscuits, myself.’

And then Blaise did the unthinkable.

He invited a Hufflepuff to join him for his midnight - well, nine o’clockish - snack.

Just in case.

After all, the kid said ‘houses’ when he was talking about his family. Plural. And ‘horses,’ another good sign. Even if he wasn’t on Madame Zabini’s Offical List of People to Know, he would probably be up to snuff. As long as Justin had a drop of magical blood, Blaise reasoned, this getting-to-know-you business was a good idea.

They plowed through a pile of Ginger Newts and custard creams, discovering that they both hated the Astronomy lessons and the French tutoring their mums had forced on them in their younger years. Both thought the broom restrictions against first years were stupid, and both wished they could explore the Forbidden Forest without their professors just to see if the unicorn rumours were true. Sometime in the evening, Blaise started calling the boy ‘Finchley’ for short (‘Finch-Fletchley’ was a mouthful for anyone). He learned that Justin’s family hopped homes almost as frequently as his own. While the Zabinis split their time between London (Mum’s regular place, also known as the original home of Number One, also known as “Father”), a small Greek island (willed to them by Number Three), and Geneva (Number Five’s estate), the Finch-Fletchleys moved between a country home in Somerset, a townhouse in Paris, and summer home in Zurich.

He seemed like a decent bloke.

Nope, Justin Finch-Fletchley might not have been the smartest or the bravest or the best.

But he might very well have been the richest.

This was confirmed for Blaise over and over again. Finch-Fletchley was always impeccably dressed, much like Malfoy, but the real kicker was the solid gold cauldron he carried around with him for Potions, an expensive upgrade from the standard pewter fare.

They didn’t share any lessons in that first year, no Double Herbology or anything like that, but they saw each other on occasion in the dungeons like all Slytherins and Hufflepuffs did. A byproduct of common room placement. They talked a bit when they ran into each other, but neither really sought the other’s company. Everyone knew that you were supposed to hang around with the people in your own house. It would have looked odd.

It was easy for Blaise to sit back and take it all in, since he mostly kept to himself. He’d tried to get to know his other housemates at first, but they were all fairly intolerable. Malfoy’s head was the size of Greenland. Nott wasn’t necessarily bad, but he lived in the library. He smelled like old books and was just a bit… off. Goyle and Crabbe were idiots, plain and simple. Morons. Dumber than a pile of Flobberworms. And there was nothing in him that wanted anything to do with the Slytherin girls, each terrifying in their own way: Pansy could and would hex him within an inch of his life, Millicent had the upper body strength of a sixth year, and Daphne was just really, really pretty.

So he watched and learned. Over the course of that first year, he learned that Susan Bones’ whole family was high up in the Ministry, that Anthony Goldstein didn’t have to go to lessons during something call the High Holidays, and that Pansy Parkinson’s mum’s cook made the best toffee ever.

He finally learned the truth about Finch-Fletchley’s status at the end of the year when everyone was busy packing up trunks and chattering about their summer plans. And he learned it from Finchley himself.

All the students had been lined up along the platform in Hogsmeade, waiting for the train to arrive. Somehow, he’d ended up near Susan, one of the chattiest girls he’d ever met. She didn’t quite pick up on the fact that he didn’t want to talk to her and was only answering her questions begrudgingly. She did, however, pick on his answer that he was going to spend the summer in Geneva.

‘Oh, how lovely!’ she squealed, clapping her hands together. ‘Do you know Justin? Of course you do! He’ll be there, too.’

She then called Finchley over and loudly announced their holiday plans to one another, as though spending the summer in the same country made two people the best of friends. They weren’t even going to be in the same city, and it’s not like either one of them could Apparate.

‘Switzerland, then, Blaise?’

‘Yep,’ he answered, acutely aware of Susan’s presence as she watched the awkward conversation unfold.

‘Me, too,’ Justin replied quickly.

A moment passed, and Blaise knew it was his responsibility to fill it.

‘It’ll be odd to pack away the wand for a few months,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘At least you’ll still be in a magical house,’ the Hufflepuff said, smiling. ‘I’ll be going Muggle again.’ He let out a strained laugh. ‘I need to get used to photographs that stand still again.’

So…confirmed Mudblood.

Oh, well.

Blaise nodded and took his place on the train with Nott.

When he’d gone home that first summer, his mum had reminded him again about meeting up with the right sort of people. People with good breeding. Groomed tastes. And absolutely no sympathisers with You-Know-Who. She seemed to be under the impression that these types - the Right Sort - were just running around Hogwarts, ready to pop out from behind suits of armour or dance down the halls.

Little did she know.

*

His second year at Hogwarts was relatively uneventful, if one didn’t count student paralysis, a celebrity professor, and a giant bloody serpent let loose on the school as ‘events’. Truthfully, it was annoying to see how quickly the other three houses turned on Slytherin, but it warmed his heart to watch them all turn their pointing fingers on Potter when he started hissing his way through lessons.

Finch-Fletchley should have done more to keep his own status quiet all along. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was like he was asking pure-bloods to shun him. And that was before the shit hit the fan and Mrs Norris showed up Petrified. By then, it was too late. The Hufflepuff had already been quite vocal about his status in the Muggle world.

If anyone had any remaining doubts about Finchley’s blood status, they were taken care of the train ride north. Somewhere after the second or third hour of rolling countryside and small towns, Blaise had slipped out of his compartment with Malfoy and Nott to find the trolley for a bite. He’d just made it into the aisle when the Hufflepuff approached him with a smile.

‘Zabini!’ he cried enthusiastically, walking over to join Blaise. ‘How are you?’

‘Finchley,’ he responded coolly. He was tense, well aware of Malfoy’s eyes on him as he conducted this conversation. Blaise knew the blond well enough now to know what he expected and who he might tell about what he saw. Mother Zabini would never approve. He knew what he was supposed to say.

‘How was Switzerland?’ Justin asked warmly.

Malfoy coughed, just loud enough for Blaise to hear it outside the door. As if he needed the reminder.

‘Same as always, I suppose.’

That would have been the time for Finchley to walk away, to turn around and avoid a messy scene.

He didn’t.

‘I had a great time with my family, but I’m glad to be back here. My name was down for Eton, you know,’ Justin said proudly. ‘It was all Mother talked about this summer, about how I should be packing my trunks for my first year at Eton instead of Hogwarts.’

‘What’s Eton?’ Blaise asked, trying to keep an edge to his voice in order to hide his curiosity.

‘What’s Eton?’ Justin repeated incredulously. ‘ What’s Eton? It’s only the most prestigious school in the UK, Zabini. Everyone knows that. Every prime minister worth anything went there, and it’s said that both William and Harry will attend as well.’

‘And I should care about some blokes named William and Harry because...?’

‘They’re the princes.’

Blaise shrugged in apathy.

‘Of the country. Well, sort of. One’s the prince of... Wales, I think, and the other-’

‘Whatever,’ Blaise replied dismissively. ‘So you’re saying you turned down the most selective school in the Muggle world to join up with the least selective house at Hogwarts?’

Justin opened his mouth to reply, a confused look on his face, but Blaise cut him off before he could say a word.

‘Lame, Finchley.’

‘It’s not-’

‘No, you’re right,’ Blaise interrupted. ‘It’s probably not lame. The worst of the wizarding world’s still better than the best of the Muggle world. I get it.’

Justin looked as though he’d been punched in the gut.

For a moment - just a flash, really - Blaise regretted his words.

Then Malfoy came to the door, poking his head out aggressively. ‘What are you still doing here? Turn around and go back to your little Badgers.”

Finchley did.

And then he proceeded to avoid Blaise in the halls of Hogwarts.

Which was how it was supposed to be.

Wasn’t it?

That’s what Blaise told himself when he slipped into the infirmary late at night after every new round of attacks, staring at the still bodies that never asked to be there.

*

In the summer before Blaise’s third year, his mum married Number Seven, a Hungarian count. Private tutors it was, then, as she’d wanted them to live together at Seven’s residence just outside Budapest. This one wasn’t too terrible, although he was much more sporty and adventurous than any of the others had been, and he kept asking Blaise to join him cliff diving and whatnot. Peculiar.

But Blaise had liked it there, and had been planning on staying with the private tutors indefinitely. He didn’t really have anything tying him to Hogwarts anyway. He basically got along with all his housemates, but he doubted any of them missed him.

That was the plan until Seven went to Pamplona in July to run with the bulls.

He didn’t come back.

So the Zabinis returned to England.

*

And Blaise returned to Hogwarts for his fourth year, quietly slipping back into his old life in the Scottish castle. Nobody even seemed to notice that he was gone. He overheard some of the younger Slytherins talking in the common room as he caught up on some of his homework and learned just how invisible he was around the place.

‘Did you hear Blaise Zabini is back?’

‘No… Is she in our house?’

She. She? He was livid. Plebians all around him. Yes, his name was French, but really, they would never assume he was a girl if it were ‘Pierre’ or ‘Henri.’

They’d learn well enough when the battalion from Beauxbatons arrived for the tournament Dumbledore had promised.

In the end, they saw more of the Eastern European contingency than the French, what with how the Durmstrang students joined their table in the Dining Hall. There didn’t seem to be much rhyme or reason to why Karkaroff’s students sat with them or why the students from Beauxbatons joined the Ravenclaws, but it worked out conveniently when the champion-naming debacle reared its ugly head. Slytherin had Krum the Quidditch God, Hufflepuff had Diggory, Ravenclaw had The Most Beautiful Girl to Ever Breathe Air, and Gryffindor had The Boy Who Cheated His Way Into the Tournament.

Okay, so they all had Diggory, supposedly, as their Hogwarts champion, since everyone outside of Gryffindor knew that Potter was a fraud. And they were supposed to all be united, supporting both the Hogwarts champions.

That didn’t stop the surprise from blindsiding Blaise when he found Malfoy and Parkinson chatting with MacMillan and Finchley and Susan Bones and Hannah… Hannah… Hannah Whatever-It-Was before breakfast one morning. Malfoy must have grown soft during third year.

All was explained when the Down with Potter! Up with Diggory! campaign spread through school.

The party after the task at the Lake marked an all-time high in Dungeon Relations. Students spent the evening running back and forth between the Hufflepuff and Slytherin common rooms, eating, drinking, and wildly cheering Pretty Boy Diggory’s success. He was winning - finally - and Potter kept on making stupid mistakes, like waiting around to save all the hostages. Thinking there was some kind of real danger lurking out there.

Blaise allowed Daphne to pull him into the Hufflepuff common room later that evening. (Since she let him take her to the Yule Ball, Blaise allowed Daphne to pull him anywhere she felt like going.) It was nice enough, all cosy pillows and whatnot. Plenty of nooks and crannies. Diggory sat there like a king on his throne, Chang perched atop his knee and a myriad of Hufflepufflets scurrying around him with drinks and food.

Chang wasn’t the only Ravenclaw around, either - he saw the entire Ravenclaw Quidditch team at the party, and Goldstein, and Boot, and Patil. And Patil. Both Patils, so at least some of Gryffindor was celebrating with them. It was almost as if… as if House didn’t matter at all. The WWN blared some loud music through the rooms, people started dancing, and the younger Pufflets kept them all knee high in pumpkin pasties and other sweets.

He literally bumped into Susan Bones at some point in the evening, a girl as nosy as she ever was.

‘Oh, Blaise!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re back now, right? Of course you are! You’re here, aren’t you?’ she said, answering her own question. He didn’t even really need to be there, he decided, and she would still feel like she had a full conversation with him. ‘You were gone last year, though. Er… Were you on the Hogwarts Express with us at the start of term?’

He opened his mouth to speak, but-

‘Yes, you were! I remember seeing you there. But last year, where did you- Oh, I bet I know where you went!’

She grabbed his arm and dragged him over to Finchley before he realised what had happened.

‘Since you both live in Switzerland when you’re not at Hogwarts, do you see each other everywhere you go?’

Justin looked like he wanted to be anywhere but next to Zabini. Evidently, he remembered the brush-off he’d received in their second year. ‘No, we don’t,’ he protested. ‘My family’s place isn’t even the same town as-’

‘Listen, Finchley,’ Blaise interrupted. ‘This is all right, you know? Diggory’s kicking arse for Hogwarts.’

‘Surprised, are you?’ Finchley challenged. ‘Surprised that a lowly Hufflepuff is winning?’

‘Yeah, well…’ Blaise offered as apologetically as possible without needing to apologise outright, ‘clearly, he’s the best one out there.’

‘You think so?’

‘If anyone asks, I’ll totally deny it, but there’s nobody from Slytherin that could do it.’

‘I know!’ Susan whispered conspiratorially. ‘Ced’s going to win. I can just feel it.’ She dropped her voice a little lower. ‘If only we didn’t have all that weird food in the Dining Hall these days.’

Justin snorted. ‘No-one’s forcing you to eat cabbage, Susan.’

She sighed dramatically. ‘Smelling it’s bad enough, don’t you think?’

‘It’s worth it to put up with beet stews and whatever else it is Krum likes,’ Justin said, grinning. ‘For French cuisine? I’d put up with almost anything sitting on the table.’

‘Oh, Merlin, yes,’ Blaise affirmed. ‘Those croissants at breakfast? The brioche?’

‘And that duck cassoulet we had last week,’ Finchley replied with a faraway look in his eye as Blaise nodded in agreement. ‘Divine.’

‘Was that the brown stew you were raving about?’ Susan questioned.

‘Brown stew? Brown stew?’ Justin asked in disbelief.

‘It was pretty good,’ she stated. ‘It’s no Sunday roast, but it wasn’t bad.’

Justin simply shook his head. ‘Plebian.’

‘What did you call me?’

‘Ah, it’s nothing, Susan,’ he said with a smile. ‘To each their own, yeah? I’ll keep the cassoulet, and you keep your Sunday roast.’

‘Whatever, Justin. Sometimes you’re a bit of a snob, though.’ She rolled her eyes and wandered off, leaving the boys there together.

‘It’s not snobbery if you’re right,’ Blaise stated plainly.

‘You think I’m right?’

‘I know you’re right.’ Blaise shrugged. ‘What I don’t know is why we had to wait three years to get better menus in this place.’

‘Where were you last year?’

‘Why do you care?’

‘Call it curiosity.’

‘Budapest.’

‘Why?’

‘Mother wanted…’ Blaise scanned the other boy’s face for any sign of judgement. It was open, clear. ‘Mother wanted us to live with the latest step-father.’

‘And you’re already back?’

‘Yes, well…’ He coughed awkwardly, avoiding Justin’s steady gaze, ready to move on from this line of questioning. ‘Mum never manages to stay married for long.’

Finchley clearly picked up on the cue to change topics. ‘The cassoulet, other than just being delicious, reminds me of this restaurant in Zurich near our house - Brasserie Orangerie. It might as well be the same chef, for all I know.’

‘Somehow, I doubt it,’ Blaise replied, thinking of just who was managing the kitchens at Hogwarts.

‘Yeah, I doubt it, too.’ Justin grinned. ‘But maybe there’s more to Zurich than meets the eye.’

A moment of silence passed between them.

‘I’ve never been there.’

‘It’s very orderly,’ Justin replied. ‘Probably the most organised city in all of Europe.’

‘Sounds like a lot of… fun.’

Justin laughed. ‘It’s brilliant, surrounded by mountains to hike. Great food. I’m rubbish with German, but nobody minds if you use English or French instead. We’re there because both my parents work in finance, and it’s a banking city.’

‘Banks.... run by people, sure.’ Blaise shook his head, trying to wrap his brain around such a foreign concept. He glanced around the room. None of his housemates were watching him.

‘Actually… Everyone in town calls the bankers the Gnomes of Zurich.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Nope. My dad died laughing when we walked into Gringotts for the first time and saw who was working behind the counters.’

Blaise smirked. ‘I’ll bet.’

‘The laughter may have stopped when he called one of the goblins a “gnome” and had his fingers threatened.’

‘They didn’t!’

‘Didn’t they?’ Justin plopped into one of the chairs a few seats away. ‘Now they have an uneasy sort of truce. Mum tells them bits and pieces of how banking works in the Muggle world, and she doesn’t ask any questions about how they run their operation. The goblins put up with my dad as long as he’s quiet, but I think a few of them are sweet on my mum.’

Blaise sat himself down across from Finchley. ‘Maybe I should convince Mother to visit Zurich next summer. We usually stay in Geneva.’

‘What’s it like there?’ Justin asked.

‘French, not German, for starters. But I don’t even know what Geneva’s like. We stay on the estate. Up on the lake.’

They stayed there chatting about everything and nothing until Daphne came back to pull Blaise back to their common room. He leaped out of his chair when he saw her heading towards him, and Finchley winked at him as the pretty girl dragged him off by the hand.

The rest of the year ran as expected, everyone madly finishing lessons and missing interhouse Quidditch play. Gearing up for the final task of the Triwizard Tournament during which time total Hogwarts supremacy would be handed down from on high.

That last afternoon, everyone lined up in the stadium around the Quidditch pitch. There honestly wasn’t much to see above all the mazes and whatnot - a puff of smoke here, a warning sign there - but half the fun was in guessing which of the four champions was ahead. It was a kind of boring afternoon, all things considered.

Which was why it was so strange when everything came crashing down.

It all happened so fast - Potter, on the field with Diggory’s body.

A chase through the castle while the student body was held on the field, then told to wait in their common rooms.

Rumours that Diggory hadn’t made it out.

Rumours that Diggory had… had died.

But that was impossible, wasn’t it? It was a game. Just a stupid game. A game presided over by a wizards as powerful as Dumbledore and Karkaroff and Madame Maxime and they wouldn’t just let a fellow student - wouldn’t let Cedric die.

Students didn’t die.

Then Diggory’s parents showed up.

And everyone said Potter was hidden away in the Infirmary while they were all supposed to act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened and sit their exams.

Be normal.

Be fine.

And then they come to find out that a lunatic had taken over their DADA professor’s body for the entire school year and nobody had noticed. There were rumblings that You-Know-Who was back, and there was the way that Crabbe and Goyle and Malfoy and all the children of Death Eaters were pointedly ignoring him.

Blaise vaguely knew he had taken his exams, but there was no recalling a single essay he had written or a single potion he had brewed. He ate in the Dining Hall and slept in his dormitory and walked through the halls, but everything in that last week was hazy.

When the time came, everyone sat there in silence as the headmaster spoke final words over Cedric, who really wasn’t coming back. Words about the right choices not being easy.

Well.

Well.

And suddenly, everyone was standing on the Hogsmeade platform, waiting for the train to return them home. Standing as quietly as they ever had, since nobody was much for idle talking.

‘So…’ Justin said, looking over at him somberly. ‘Budapest?’

‘No. Switzerland.’

‘Same. All summer long?’

Blaise nodded. ‘I’ll be glad to leave. This isn’t… Isn’t…’

Real? Isn’t right?

Justin looked him square in the eyes. ‘No. No, it’s not.’

*

And then it was summer.

And he was back with his mum in their perfect house with their perfect life.

He could almost forget everything that had happened at the end of the year, but everything slowly dredged itself to surface as he brought his mum up to speed on his life. She wasn’t good with owls, but was wonderful to talk to, face to face. So the first thing she did after he settled back in at every holiday was to talk him through everything that had happened since she had seen him last.

If not everything, well, then, at least the important things. How was Daphne? Had anything happened since the Yule Ball? Had he tried to befriend Krum? Madame Lefèvre had a daughter, she thought, a student at Beauxbatons. Had he met her? Was he getting along with his housemates? His head of house? The headmaster?

She never asked if anyone he knew had died, so he didn’t mention Cedric.

She never asked if he was happy.

But he was, most of the time, and he was happiest when he was with her. Always had been. He’d been raised on the best of everything, and that went a long way in keeping anyone happy. They had travelled the world together between all the Husbands she’d kept. Dined at the finest restaurants, stayed in the most luxurious hotels.

There were questions he never asked.

What was his father like? He’d wondered since he was a little boy. But he was curious about more mundane things, too.

Why was a pure-blood Slytherin like Crabbe, gormless fool that he was, preferable to… hypothetically, a sensible half-blood Ravenclaw? Or a Muggle-born Hufflepuff with money and taste?

For that matter, why Hogwarts at all, when he could have been at Beauxbatons?

But he never asked.

And then he was back there again.

Back to wondering what really had happened last year. Everyone seemed to think Potter was off his nut, that Dumbledore was inciting fear in the public over nothing.

The Ministry had things under control.

Not made prefect. Then again, neither was Potter. Or Finchley. Dumbledore clearly was off his rocker, leaving the school in the hands of Weasley and Malfoy.

Umbridge. Ugh. This should have been the year in Budapest. Or anywhere else. If only he could have convinced Mother Zabini to go find Number Eight and take him with her.

And at one point, Finchley (and MacMillan, grumbling all the way) cornered him after lessons, asking him rather obliquely if he was worried about missing out on basic defence information, what with Umbridge’s restrictions and all. He had no clue what they were really asking him about, because after a few rounds of questions and his strongly voiced desire to stay out of it, the Hufflepuffs dropped it and left him alone.

Article in the Quibbler. Hmm.

Revision for O.W.L.s. He’d had plenty of time to study, since all his housemates kept busy, running around as flunkies for the Cardigan Nightmare.

And he headed home again to wait for exam results when Mother Zabini introduced him to her latest suitor. It’s almost as if they don’t know her track record, he thought, the way they keep flocking to her side. This one lasted forty minutes into dinner before mentioning his younger sister’s marriage to a Muggle-born, and was summarily dismissed in two sentences: ‘You’ll be leaving now, Charles. As if I would ever touch a filthy blood traitor.’

Right.

A helpful reminder of what was acceptable, and what wasn’t.

Four Outstandings, Two Exceeds Expectations, One Acceptable.

*

Sixth year. Slug Club. Malfoy, an evil little git.

It was obvious that trouble was coming, but Blaise wanted nothing to do with it. Head down, mouth shut.

It was also an open secret in Slytherin that You-Know-Who was back (and Potter was right, damnit), and the fathers of everyone he knew were back at His beck and call.

And then Dumbledore was dead.

*

There was no point in going back. This was his argument, at least, when he spoke to his mum about it. The world was going spare and he wanted no part of it. But no, she wouldn’t hear it, and back on the train he went.

Back to a school run by a Death Eater, with an inbred pair of new “Professors” to teach them nothing.

Back to a school with roughly three-quarters of its students, all Muggle-borns conspicuously absent. And Potty and Granger and the Weasel along with them. At the end of September, Blaise noticed that the Great Hall was even emptier than usual. By the time the winter holidays rolled around, only half of the students remained.

When he joined Mother Zabini in Greece for Christmas, he returned to the same argument.

And necessity led him to start asking some of the questions he’d avoided for such a long time.

‘Why are you pretending You-Know-Who isn’t back?’

‘Why do N.E.W.T.s even matter now?’

‘What do I do if something… if something… when something explodes?’

She countered with a few of her own.

‘Are you in any immediate danger?’

‘Are you drawing any attention to yourself?’

‘Do you have a reason to believe things go pear-shaped before the end of the year?’

And with the hope that he would finish his school years out unnoticed, Blaise returned in January. With the promise that he would flee the country if he had reason to, and the reassurance of a Portkey to each of their homes tucked away in his trunk.

Back to even fewer students. Dozens failed to return after the holiday break, like Lovegood and Corner. The delectable Weaslette and Malfoy were gone at the Easter holidays. Longbottom, who seemed to possess hitherto unsuspected bollocks in spades, was gone soon afterwards.

Each time they disappeared, Blaise wondered. Where were they now? Thomas and Finchley and the other Muggle-borns probably just stayed at home, wherever that was. But Longbottom seemed determined to stay and fight, so he couldn’t have run away, could he? MacMillan and Brown and Finnegan and the Patils and Boot and nearly everyong else in his year went missing then, too. Since Malfoy had made it quite clear that he was called by You-Know-Who for a special assignment, so he was probably with him now.

Just a few more months, and Blaise would be free of it all.

A few more months.

But one late spring night, it was evident that wasn’t going to happen.

He first heard a commotion in the halls, but he stayed in his common room and waited. A few minutes later, a student ran in, telling stories of the professors gathering to fight and… and… Harry Potter, back as well.

Blaise bolted down the hallway to his dormitory, flinging open the trunk to grab one of his Portkeys. By the time he made it back to the common room, the other Slytherin students were being led out the door by Slughorn. Blaise joined the tail of the queue as they all headed up to the Great Hall.

As he took his usual place at the Slytherin table, he saw a number of people he only vaguely knew, like the Weasley twins and some Aurors he’d seen before. All the people who’d been missing for so long: MacMillan. Brown. Longbottom.

And Potter.

A high, clear voice rang out over the crowds, and all listened as Voldemort demanded Potter’s blood.

Well.

The House of Slytherin made a fairly terrible showing, with Parkinson offering to send him up as a sacrifice, and all the students volunteering to evacuate first.

And he would join them. No doubt in his mind. He was leaving, and he had to make it to this evacuation point the masses were being herded towards.

But before he left, he needed to know what was happening. Needed to see it himself.

He Disillusioned himself while he was walking out with his fellow housemates, stepped out of the queue, and watched. Watched as battle plans were drawn out, fighters sent to their places atop the highest towers of Hogwarts in defence.

The odd thing was Potter.

Potter, who wasn’t fighting at all, but looking for something.

Potter, who followed the crowds up the stairs, but sought out conversation with a ghost.

Blaise stayed to listen to as much of their talk as he could, but as the last of the students marched away, he rejoined the students leaving. No amount of curiosity could make him stay.

Not than anyone would let him… Even if he wanted to.

To the evacuation.

Free on the other side, he grabbed the Portkey, unsure of which house he was rapidly hurtling towards. A few moments later, he landed with a soft thump in a grand hall.

In Geneva, then.

He called around for his mum, but she wasn’t there. He sent an owl to her, wherever she was, and began the process of Flooing from house to house in order to find her. London? That’s where he’d usually find her this time of year, but no. Greece? No again. He returned to the Geneva home.

Alone.

She would receive his owl and come sooner or later, but until then, he was alone.

Every nerve in his body was singing with anticipation and anxiety, contemplating what he’d left behind.

And on a whim, he sent one more owl. This one, with explicit instructions not to deliver his letter unless the recipient was in Zurich.

It was just before midnight, and he tried to go to bed. Sleep proved impossible. He lay in bed for seven hours before the tapping of an owl on glass alerted him to his first response.

I mentioned a restaurant to you once during our fourth year. Do you remember? Meet me there for breakfast.

So he left a note on the hall table for his mum in case she returned in his absence. He didn’t want her to worry. Not now.

And he left. Apparated once to Bern, then once again. With a bit of help from someone on the street, he found the tall oak doors below a swinging metal sign: Brasserie Orangerie. And saw, at a small table in the corner, seated next to a well-dressed older woman and the face of someone he hadn’t seen in almost a year.

‘Er… Hello, Finchley.’

‘Zabini.’ He gestured to the open chair across from him.

Blaise dropped into it wordlessly. He looked at the boy across from him, stern and collected and quiet, and a waiter came by to take his order. He rifled through the menu, ordered a light pastry and some tea, and finally looked at the unknown entity at the table with him.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Blaise said, turning the woman beside Finchley. ‘I’m Blaise Zabini. A classmate of your…’

‘Son’s,’ she finished. ‘I’m Anne Finch-Fletchley. My son has told me quite a bit about you, Mr Zabini.’

‘Blaise, please.’

‘All right.’ A taut smile came to her lips, all politeness and reserve. ‘Blaise.’

Justin’s curiosity finally snapped. ‘What the hell is happening, Zabini? You left Hogwarts?’

Blaise proceeded to fill him on all he’d heard, all he’d seen, and all he didn’t know. And Finchley pressed him for more, asking for names of who had stayed, who had left, who had disappeared.

After twenty minutes, Mrs Finch-Fletchley growing paler by the minute, Blaise finally asked. ‘How have you been? Where have you been all this time?’

Justin laughed bitterly. ‘I didn’t have much of a choice, you know. When word went out that no Muggle-borns were allowed back, I convinced my family to move here. Just until things… sorted themselves out.’

‘Any word on how we get news here?’ Blaise asked.

‘It’s been spotty.’ Justin’s voice dropped low, his fingers running idly along the rim of his cup. ‘Truthfully, it’s been maddening, not knowing what’s going on or if everyone’s all right.’

‘Longbottom would shock the hell out of you, that’s for sure,’ Zabini countered. ‘I don’t think anyone can touch him now.’

‘Well,’ Justin drawled slowly, ‘as someone who’s seem him training, I’ll simply say that I don’t find that particularly surprising.’

Blaise didn’t respond, knowing a chastisement when he heard one.

‘And you say Harry was talking to the ghosts?’

He nodded.

‘Strange, that.’

The waiter came by to replenish their hot water, and the table’s awkward silence threatened to overtake them again.

‘Did you consider staying?’

No. Yes. No, he thought in rapid succession. He looked at Justin for a moment, considering his response. ‘Do you think anyone would have trusted me if I did?’

He merely nodded. ‘No.’

‘I didn’t think so, either.’

The three odd companions ate and drank, and Mrs Finch-Fletchley gradually warmed to Blaise as she asked about his family and his interests.

Suddenly, his own mother burst into the restaurant and ran to their table.

‘Darling!’ she exclaimed, drawing him into a hug before holding him out at arm’s length, checking him for injuries. ‘You made it out unharmed?’

‘Yes,’ he muttered quietly. ‘I’m fine, Mother.’

‘Do join us,’ Mrs Finch-Fletchley replied, signaling the waiter to pull up another chair.

Blaise made the round of introductions at the table quickly, and found that his mother clearly approved of the Finchley and his mum. She eyed their custom-fitted clothing, the diamond necklace sitting above her clavicle, and she responded with all friendliness. He saw that his mother was still confused as to his connection with Finchley. Not shocking, really, since he’d never mentioned him before.

‘Justin and I are in the same year at Hogwarts, Mum.’

‘Are you in Slytherin House?’

‘Hufflepuff.’ Justin stared Mrs Zabini down and pointedly replied, ‘My blood’s a bit muddy for Slytherin, you see.’

Her gaze snapped to her son, visibly upset.

And Mrs Finch-Fletchley, clearly missing out on the subtext of the conversation, tried to explain what she knew to the woman across from her.

‘Our sons are friends at Hogwarts, Mrs Zabini,’ she stated. ‘Although it’s been a year since my son was allowed in.’

‘Zabinis don’t have friends,’ she snapped, standing abruptly and hauling Blaise up beside her. ‘Not with your kind.’

Mrs Finch-Fletchley looked to her son, confused. He merely leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes in defeat.

Mother Zabini turned on her heel and walked to the door. ‘Blaise!’ she called sharply. ‘We’re leaving.’

With a nod and a sad smile to the older woman, and one last glance at the boy who was firmly ignoring him, Blaise followed her out to the street.

That was the last he had seen of him. Of anyone from Hogwarts, really, until he was called back.

* * *

‘Mister Zabini?’ the clerk asks politely. ‘Are you quite all right?’

Blaise looks over at the woman speaking to him. Cheap dress robes, tacky necklace. But he needs to play nice. He opens his mouth to respond.

Then Sprout pipes up. ‘What is this about your opposition to... to friendship, is it, Mister Zabini?’

He grimaces at the absurd direction this conversation has taken. Rolls his eyes.

‘I have no opposition to friendship,’ he states calmly.

‘Then what did Mr Finch-Fletchley mean?’ the clerk asks.

Blaise turns to him and glowers. ‘He’s never heard me use those words. Have you, Justin?’

Finchley shakes his head. ‘Does that make them less true?’

Blaise starts to grow angry. ‘It’s so easy for you to sit there and judge me. You have no idea what it’s like to have certain expectations placed on your shoulders before you even know what they mean.’

‘Don’t I?’ Justin snorts sarcastic laughter. ‘No, I wouldn’t know a thing about that. You wouldn’t believe the work McGonagall had to do to convince my family to drop all expectations of their son’s proper place at a proper institution to let me attend Hogwarts. Or the thinly veiled disappointment voiced each time they told me what my younger brother was up to at Eton that term.’

‘Pure-blood expectations are different,’ he replies. ‘Even if you don’t buy all the rubbish about purity of blood and magical lines, you of all people can acknowledge that old, established families seek out their same kind. Isn’t that what your family was doing for you?’

Justin fidgets in his seat.

‘And it’s easier when you don’t have to deal with the Muggle-born problem. No need for the Headmistress to plead your case when you already have magic in your family.’

‘But you have no control over who you are and who your family is,’ Hermione argues. ‘This is something I’ve never understood about you, Blaise-’

‘I’d say you understand next to nothing about me, Granger, since we’ve exchanged words, what, twice in six years of school?’

‘What I’ve never understood,’ she plows ahead, arms in the air, ‘was your firm stance on bloodlines. From you, I mean. I would think that you would understand, what with your race, that people-‘

‘I’ll stop you right there, Granger,’ he says, furious at her presumption. ‘It has nothing to do with race. If anything, it has more to do with class. With taste. Being established. You wouldn’t get it.’

The rest of the panel is silent as Blaise speaks up to the floor as a whole. ‘This is a joke. You say you want to build bridges, mend fences. But you can’t. Not while every other house looks at the students of Slytherin as Death Eaters in training.’ He stares determinedly at the table as he trudges on. ‘Everyone says how shocked they were that no one from Slytherin stayed to fight in the Battle.’

Slughorn coughs loudly from his seat.

‘Except for you, sir. I know - we know - you stayed.’ He looks up at Granger. ‘Can you honestly say that anyone would have let me join you?’

‘Would you have really wanted to?’ she asks plaintively.

He doesn’t answer.

She looks around the room nervously. ‘I wasn’t there, Blaise. Not when they were figuring all of that out. I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘How could we trust you? You were never a member of Dumbledore’s Army, you-‘

‘How big was this group everyone talks about?’ Blaise asks. ‘Was every student fighting for Hogwarts in this DA?’

She gulps slowly. ‘No.’

‘It’s not like you could be defiant in Slytherin, you know. It wasn’t safe. Not after the start of our fifth year, at least. What were you supposed to do in a house whose students openly talked about their families’ connections to You-Know-Who? It’s not Snape could have-’

‘Don’t you dare say anything against Professor Snape.’ Granger’s voice was grim. ‘He was a great man.’

‘I won’t deny it. But there was enough talk that he was a Death Eater at the time, so it’s not like he was a confidante. There were a lot of us, you know. People who wanted nothing to do with You-Know-Who. But you couldn’t fight back without putting your family in danger. The most you could hope for was neutral.’

The room is silent.

And Justin speaks up. ‘Switzerland.’

Blaise catches himself almost grinning. ‘So to speak.’

Professor McGonagall then addresses him thoughtfully. ‘Thank you for your thoughts, Mister Zabini. They are most enlightening.’

Blaise looks down at his hands. ‘I don’t think I was supposed to say any of that, was I?’

No-one replies.

‘I know what the panel says they’re discussing is house politics and the future of the house system,’ he continues, ‘but what we’re really talking about is what to do with Slytherin, aren’t we? Whether or not to disband houses altogether while people forget what Slytherin stood for in this war?’

Silence.

‘I don’t know what the answer is. Not while house politics are so entrenched in family lines, and family lines continue whether or not the house system is in place.’

After a few moments, the clerk redirects the panel to the next docket on the discussion list, almost as though Blaise had never said a word. And although they continue to talk for another two and a half hours, he is not called upon for his opinion again. He doesn’t even listen to what they say. Doesn’t know what they’ve decided, or if the Board has decided anything at all. After all, nothing will come of this, will it?

Be healed?

Be excellent?

Maybe someday.

He packs up his things quietly after they are dismissed. Walks out of the ugliest room in all of England and down the stairs to the street below. As he rounds the corner, he hears a voice calling his name.

‘Zabini? Zabini!’

He stops. Turns.

‘Where are you now?’

‘Mostly Geneva. Sometimes Greece.’ He shrugs. ‘Never London. Not anymore.’

‘Well… I’m back in Zurich full time now. Finally picked up enough German during that last year to become a passably functional person there.’

‘Took you long enough. I thought you were supposed to be passably clever. Eton, right?’

‘Right.’ He laughs. ‘I take lunch every Monday at a little restaurant there.’

Blaise nods.

‘Do you remember?’

‘I do.’

Justin claps him on the shoulder and walks away, waving over his shoulder.

‘Next week, then?’

* * *

finis

* * *