Who: Blaise and his father, Antonio Zabini Where: their hotel suite in Bath When: New Year's Eve What: A decision is made. Status: Complete Rating: Mostly G, but there is a bit of blood but no violence
The door to the hotel suite opened well before midnight, depositing Blaise into the room, triumphant with having escaped the party in the ballroom and opening up a few hours of blessed solitude. His day had been spent escorting various of the elderly ladies around the tourist town, as many of them had felt that it would be unseemly of them to be seen shopping on their own without some sort of male companionship. Blaise scoffed at the idea, knowing full-well that at any other time, the idea wouldn't have bothered him, but apparently Bath caused them to hearken back to older times -- more ridiculous times, he thought.
He tossed his dress robes across the bed in his room and picked up his Arithmancy text, intent on reading it in preparation for the certain review that would come once school started once again. Only an half an hour passed beside the fire, though, before the door opened once again, revealing his father at the other side. Blaise rose slightly and nodded, showing due deference and respect.
"Father." He spoke softly, holding his book closed partially, in expectation of an order to not bother with getting up -- mild informality had been the order of the last few days. He was surprised, then, at his father's words.
Antonio Zabini looked at his son for a moment, studying the young man that he regretted not knowing better. He was proud of Blaise, though. He'd turned into a fine young man, respectful to his elders, honourable of his father and mother, and knowledgeable of what was expected of him, as the youngest in the Zabini line. "Sit, Blaise, and put away your book. I wish to speak with you."
Blaise hadn't expected this; there had been, at the back of his mind, a thought that he would be scolded for leaving the party and then allowed to resume his chosen activity. That Antonio wished to have a conversation with him was surprising and a bit sobering. "Of course."
He put aside his book and watched as Antonio shed his own robes and, with a glance at the clock (showing not quite eleven-thirty), poured two glasses of whisky. Blaise took his with a nod and smile, then took a sip. For as long as he could remember, his father had always shared his drink with him -- for many years only a splash within a large glass of water or pumpkin juice, and only recently sharing drinks as if between two men.
Almost as if Antonio had nearly always seen Blaise as a little man, despite his childish nature. A miniature version of Antonio, drink and all.
Blaise took a longer drink, still watching his father as he settled into the other chair next to the fire. The silence between them grew, developing a sound of its own, defined by the popping of logs in the fireplace, the creak of leather as bodies moved, the swish of liquor in glasses, and the soft, nearly silent breathing of father and son. He jerked slightly when Antonio finally spoke.
"You are nearing your eighteenth birthday," Antonio stated, holding his glass up and looking at the flames, refracted through the liquid contained within. "Certain mantles of responsibility will fall upon you, as they have already fallen upon Draco Malfoy. Expectations await you, and promises have been given on your behalf."
Blaise nodded, even though he did not like the tone of this conversation that was really his father giving what felt like a speech. "Yes, Father." He did not meet the glance afforded him now. "What sort of expectations? Promises?"
He was ready for the responsibility of living up to his name, of ensuring that the Zabini family survived into future generations, a respected Pureblood family -- if Blaise did his job.
Antonio sighed roughly. "Don't act with me, boy. You know what expectations I have for you, and they aren't shagging whatever little whore that's been owling you this holiday. The Zabini name is a proud one, one that should have remained Pureblood and which you will reestablish as Pureblood."
Blaise's dark complexion greyed at little at the slight towards Padma. His fingers curled tighter around his glass and he opened his mouth to speak, only to be cut off as his father continued.
"You won't take it now, of course, but the time will come when you will stand before the Dark Lord and proclaim your allegiance to him and to your family. Our family will regain its status, and will stand alongside him in power!"
The grass cracked in Blaise's hand, shattering and cutting his fingers and palm. Hissing, he grabbed wrist and brought it closer to his shirt, as if that would relieve the pain of cuts covered in alcohol. Curses fell from his lips, his voice strangled. "Father -- Father I don't --"
Cut off once again. "I can't guarantee your mother's safety if you do not do as bidden." The words were hollow, seemingly a threat that was given to Antonio and only spoken to cement the bond between father and son, one of protecting Marguerite at all costs.
Blaise stared at his father, ignoring the blood dripping onto the hardwood floor and rug before him. Relieved that his father hadn't entered into this without strong coersion himself, he nodded. "Yes, sir."
Triumph flashed in Antonio's eyes briefly, nearly too quickly to be seen. A ghost of a smile crossed across lips full and expressive, to be replaced with a frown that spoke falsely of nights spent awake in worry. "I'm glad you understand, son. Go have your hand taken care of."
Sick at his stomach at what he'd seen -- the truth revealed -- Blaise nodded dumbly. "Yes, Father. Good night."
Childish respect and near-love was replaced by hatred, hidden more carefully and well than Antonio's own triumph. Blaise nodded respectfully and exited the suite, determining to do as his father wished, if only to protect his mother, and, by extension, Padma. There existed no doubt in his mind that if Antonio would not hesitate to kill his own wife and mother of his child to ensure that his family were loyal to Lord Voldemort, he would not hesitate to kill others that Blaise held dear, and their families.