WHO: Dexter Cadwallader and Blaise Zabini WHEN: 27 August 1997, afternoon WHERE: WELL, the yard of Dexter's residence, Upper Flagley SUMMARY: Blaise and Dexter bump into each other. Dexter attempts to clarify his mother's current situation. Blaise calls him a crappy guitarist. RATING: PG-13 STATUS: Log, complete
Carrying a bag of green beans, Blaise was checking his watch as he took his time making his way down the main exterior stairs of the house. One of the occupants sent Blaise's mother biscuits every Christmas, so Blaise had agreed to drop off a gift for the old woman. That turned into an attempt to get him to have tea, and then standing around after being convinced to at least take some vegetables she had grown. The temperature had risen from when he had entered the house; it was cooler indoors, and the humidity didn't feel as awful indoors either. Blaise was dressed for slightly cooler weather. But if he was displeased, it was difficult to tell, since he had his usual haughty, bored expression on his face.
The building had been a large family home, though it had been divided post-war into smaller units. Situated in a Muggle village, it had wards deterring Muggles from getting too close or paying too much attention to it. Newspapers, stray balls, and other unsolicited items were swallowed by the large hedge that blocked it from the street, and from neighbours's views. In the backyard, a tiny gazebo acted as a shelter for Apparating on and off the property, and Blaise was headed there.
Dexter, sitting on a small backyard bench near the gazebo, was trying to wrap his fingers around the neck of his new (used) guitar to play a chord he couldn't quite get right. He hoped to bring the gift to school with him, but wanted to teach himself at least a few basics before heading back to Hogwarts. Besides, playing even badly gave him something he could concentrate on, instead of letting his mind wander with worry about Liam, his mother, the other Muggleborns, the world in general. He glanced down at the parchment he'd gotten detailing chords and tabs, then readjusted slightly and strummed a couple of times. It sounded … better, probably?
He didn't notice the Slytherin immediately, but when he did look up to see him he was a little startled and stopped playing. It was hardly unheard of to see Zabini at the property: his family did, after all, own it. Still, Dexter couldn't help but wonder if something was wrong in one of the flats anytime Blaise did appear. "Zabini," he greeted with a nod. "So uh, you're here. Everything alright?" he asked, glancing toward the building.
Upon hearing the sound better, Blaise had sped up. While the playing wasn't awful, he didn't want to hear any of it longer than he had to. He meant to just say hi quickly as he was walking by, but then Dexter looked up. Instead, Blaise just nodded in return to the greeting. While he knew the other boy's House, year, and that he was on the Quidditch team, Blaise could only vaguely visualise Dexter's surname without remembering exactly how to pronounce it.
"As far as I know." He was talking more than usual out of politeness, but his tone and posture weren't any more welcoming or friendly. For a second, he eyed Dexter warily, like he wasn't entirely sure if he wanted to ask the question lest he get an answer he didn't want. School was starting soon, and he didn't want to go back and forth with the caretaker or his mother over building maintenance. After letting out a breath, he asked, "Is there anything wrong? Anything I should know about?"
Is there anything wrong. What a loaded question that could turn out to be. Dexter knew Blaise meant with with the maintenance and such, but for as weighed down as he'd felt for the last week--the last several weeks, really--he couldn't bring himself to answer that particular question with 'no'. "That stretch of the common corridor on the second floor still squeaks something wicked and the window in Dawn's room gets stuck open sometimes, but besides that…"
Dexter hesitated with the next part, but decided that something did need to be said, just in case. "Look…" He pulled the strap of his guitar off his shoulder, and put the instrument down on the bench beside him and rose. Blaise still towered over him by several inches. "I don't know if you saw in the Prophet but it isn't true. About my mum. She isn't … I mean, her family tree's just kind of complicated but she's getting it worked out. She's going to prove it at her hearing. So. You don't have to worry about that."
Although Blaise was mentally noting the maintenance issues, he didn't acknowledge them beyond letting his face relax, like they weren't that bad. He remained in his spot as Dexter stood. His brow began furrowing as the younger boy kept talking, and his lips parted before he caught himself and closed his mouth. He was more mystified as to why he was getting this information than over what it meant.
Especially when "I didn't pay much attention to the Prophet while I was away." He didn't sound like he had a high opinion of the paper. While he was vaguely aware of the basics, and that it was problematic, he hadn't been arsed to read the details. He was aware enough to not extend an offer to help. His expression and voice didn't change as he added, "I'll let my mother know. I'm sure it'll work out. I'll get the window fixed before it gets cold." Instead of asking if there was anything else, he looked over at the gazebo before regarding Dexter again.
Dexter nodded. "Yeah, alright." He stood there awkwardly for just a moment, before picking up on Blaise's not so subtle look. He didn't have any reason to impede Blaise's apparation any further. "Right, and thanks. I'll see you around at school, I guess."
Blaise was already walking again before he echoed, "See you." Before he Disapparated, he politely said, "I think you're better off sticking with Quidditch," with a nod to Dexter's guitar, while looking like he was telling him this for his own good.
Dexter made a face as the older boy disappeared. Once he was sure Blaise was gone, he aimed a rather inappropriate hand gesture at the empty space left behind and sat back down to start playing again, though he had difficulty concentrating with that critical face on his mind. Get over it, Dexter. Why should he care what some posh snob like Zabini thought, anyway?