Blaise Zabini felt weighed down, as though he was balancing the world on his chest. It was oppressive: some days, he felt like it made breathing difficult. The weight, however, was not the world but merely the pestering feeling of constant indecision.

It appeared to everyone else that his decision was made, that he and Draco and their flat in London meant they were both working for the same side, which was really assuming Blaise was working for someone at all.

Blaise, though, was careful with his loyalties. Other people—other people were hard to trust sometimes. Draco was constantly returning home late at night, bruised and out of hope. Blaise didn’t believe in giving anyone else that sort of power over him. He wasn’t willing to be threatened and rendered regretful.

Time was against him, however, excuses were running out, and expectations were everywhere. He would soon be without choices; the Dark Lord knew he was somewhere, stalling. After all, Blaise came from a prestigious family, a family from whose decisions he’d temporarily escaped.

That had to be the problem, Blaise thought as he made his way to the small, dark kitchen. Everything was temporary, and there was nothing with which he could anchor himself.

He put on water for tea, tapping the kettle with his wand to heat it faster. The whistling that soon began cut through the silence in a desperate screech, almost like something in pain. Did he want to be responsible for making people sound that way? It would depend on what I got out of it, he reasoned as he poured the water onto a teabag. He hadn’t ever been good at taking orders.

With a sigh, he turned away, leaving his tea on the counter to steep.

*~*

Blaise was awakened by the small pop that announced Draco’s return and the rasping breaths that escaped his teeth as he shivered from winter cold. Blaise scrambled out of bed and tapped the hallway light with his wand.

“Hiya. You okay?� he asked groggily. Draco looked terrible, as usual—cuts and bruises lined his skin, some new and some fading like reminders of a servitude that constantly dominated life.

“It’s always a fight,� Draco stated simply. He never really did share much. “It’s always a fight to do everything right. And everything has consequences.� With that, Draco collapsed on the couch and Blaise returned to bed, but he didn’t sleep for a very, very long time.

*~*

The following night was one of those times in his life that Blaise would remember until the day he died. The other time was when he had awakened one morning to find his father sitting by the fire, fatigued and wounded, making a list of names. Muggle names.

This time, though, it began with the visitor to the flat—intruder, really. She had no business being there, but she had a message to convey.

Blaise had seen her around school the previous year. She was famous for her hexes. Most of the upper-year Slytherins knew that Draco had secretly found her alluring, too, but Blaise had always assumed that the attraction had something to do with Potter: Draco wanted everything Harry had.

The intruder was Ginny Weasley.

She stood dripping icy rain onto the tiled floor, shaking with what Blaise assumed had more to do with frustration than fear. Blaise peered at her sceptically, curious as to how she’d found them. He spotted a bit of paper in her hand. The ink had smeared, but it was easy to see a crude map drawn upon it: the rough location of their hideout. Blaise frowned. They had been watched.

Draco stood facing her, even paler than usual, if that was possible. His skin glowed with an eerie pallor in the dim light. Her cheekbones had spots of red, and her eyes were flashing in determination.

“What do you think you’re doing?� she demanded, her voice low and menacing. “Are you having fun? Are you enjoying yourself, Malfoy?�

He began to answer, but she stopped him with a glare.

“This isn’t what you want. I know that. But do you?� She shook her head in incredulity. “This—what you’ve been doing—this is truly evil. “This—� She swept her arm in a gesture encompassing any number of his crimes. “What you’ve been doing—this is truly evil.� You’re hiding from what you are!�

Draco stared at her. Blaise pondered her accusation. Evil? Was that all there was to it? The Weasley girl was a blood traitor like the rest of her family, and that was simply a known fact among purebloods. Some would consider what she was doing evil.

Grey areas: everything was full of grey areas, and Blaise wasn’t one to waver on indecision for longer than absolutely necessary.

“Hiding,� Draco repeated, glaring at her with condescension. “I’m hiding from who I am? And who, then, made you the expert on who I am?� he demanded.

Ginny shook her head at him, disgusted and incredulous at what she saw as his denial.

Blaise, frustrated, decided he should contribute. “I think it doesn’t really matter how we’re looking at our choices. Either they’re wrong, they’re right, or they’re somewhere in between,� he declared, strolling into the kitchen with his hands in his pockets.

Ginny raised her eyebrows, looking amused for what must have been the first time in a while.

“Oh, thank you. How enlightening that is,� she snapped sarcastically.

Blaise shrugged. “It’s true. Whatever we’re hiding from, the only thing we can know is that nothing is certain. Therefore, the only real truth lies in reliance on ourselves and our own choices.�

Draco and Ginny blinked at him. He shrugged. “If it was up to me, I’d probably have demands. And questions. And I’d have to be able to rely on the promises made to me by the side I decided to join,� Blaise admitted, carefully choosing his words.

“Accepting what you’re saying as true, Ginny, would be contradictory for us, no matter how easy it may seem for you. My upbringing dictates that I help to purge the wizarding world of anyone with anything less than pure blood. But that’s just what I’ve learned.�

She glared daggers at him, and he scowled back. “Believe me, Ginny. Why do you think I’m just sitting here, anyway? I wouldn’t be able to do that if it weren’t for a contradiction between what I’ve always known and what’s supposed to be seen as morality.�

Ginny’s expression softened, and she leaned, exhausted, against the chipped, yellowing tile of the counter.

“I know it’s hard, Blaise,� she said softly, shaking her head. “The decision between what’s right and what’s accepted by your peers and even your family has never been contradictory for me.�

Blaise nodded, relieved. She did seem to understand, if only to acknowledge that she didn’t understand.

“The thing about the Or—about ‘our side’ is that there’s acceptance. And I can guarantee that, if nothing else, there will always be someone to welcome you, someone who trusts you. This time—� She drew herself up. “This time it’s me.�

Draco was frowning down at Ginny’s hands, placed decisively on her hips. A lengthwise tear along the arm of her robe just above her wrist exposed a bit of pale, freckled skin. Blaise watched in awe as Draco reached out and tenderly touched the place. Ginny fixed her eyes on his face, riveted to his expression as he laid his fingers on her arm. He looked up to meet her gaze.

“Protection.� His voice cracked as if it had never been used to plead for a favour. “Asylum. I need to escape the Dark Lord for a while.�

Ginny reached up with her free arm and cupped Draco’s cheek in her hand.

“I promise.�

Blaise left them alone and retreated to the bedroom to pack his things, glad to be doing something at last.