’Mr. Zabini. Didn’t I read in Witch Weekly that you’re turning thirty today?’ the blond secretary, whose name Blaise never could remember, asked in a chirrupy voice. Was it Mallory? Melody? Never mind – she wasn’t important.
’I can assure you, you’re wrong,’ Blaise said coldly. Sometimes being rich and influential had a downside. Could people honestly be naïve enough to assume he wanted a reminder that he was now turning thirty? At thirty he had imagined himself having accomplished a great deal more than he had. A wife, for one, would have been nice. Sure, he had achieved a good position, increased his fortune by a fair amount and made a name for himself, but that hardly represented much of a challenge. He had expected to have fathered an heir, by now. But his mother probably was right – he was too picky. Always had been.
The silly girl looked uncertain. Blaise nearly snorted - his birthday had been the topic of gossip for weeks, with all the society magazines reminding their female readers that Mr. Zabini was still, at thirty, an eligible bachelor. Her being uncertain just because he lied to her face only proved how easily manipulated people where.
He ignored her, and walked on out of the building. On the coffee table in the lobby lay a copy of Witch Weekly, the cover boldly sporting: ‘Blaise Zabini – a portrait of his life at thirty.’ The sight turned his already foul mood sour. He didn’t want to be reminded at every turn, yet there seemed little chance of avoiding this birthday. To top it all off Pansy had decided to throw ‘dear Blaise’ a surprise-party. After her husband divorced her to marry their nanny, she had been very… attentive. Of course, she would have preferred Draco Malfoy, but he was happily married. Blaise briefly checked his reflection in the glass door before venturing outside. As usual it was immaculate.
But Diagon Alley provided little solace. Blaise had not passed four buildings before he had to lie again, this time haughtily declaring that he had no time for trifles like birthdays. Too irked to continue his round of surprise visits to the businesses he had invested money in, he Apparated back home. He would check his accounts, instead. These visits could wait until another day.
But no sooner had he seated himself behind his desk, than the butler came bustling with a tray of letters. Blaise closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. ‘I will attend to my correspondence later,’ he said sharply.
‘Yes, sir,’ the butler replied, too used to Blaise’s temper to even lift an eyebrow. ‘There is also one… singing telegram, sir. From Ms. Parkinson.’ The tone of the man’s voice revealed that he knew this would be a very unwelcome telegram.
‘Great.’ Blaise groaned. A singing telegram? Did the silly woman believe he turned three? ‘I’ll be out for the rest of the day,’ he added, getting up again. If the butler found it odd that Blaise left the house again five minutes after his arrival, the man had more sense than to mention it.
Without any thought Blaise Apparated to the first place he could imagine. It hardly mattered where he went, as long as it was a place he could not be found by troublesome souls wishing to congratulate him upon turning yet another year older and still not succeeding at finding what he wanted in life.
But once he was actually at King’s Cross, he had no idea what he was doing there. He looked around at random, and saw the express to Hogsmeade was about to leave. That would do, surely. He knew no one in the habit of taking the train, so he would not risk spending the journey being reminded he was steadily turning older. Next thing he knew, he would have to buy a hair-re-growth-potion to prevent going bald. The mere idea made him subconsciously pat his hair. Still thick.
Walking onto the train Blaise was approached by a conductor telling him he could have the next compartment.
‘Thank you,’ Blaise replied shortly, expecting to walk on, but the man tilted his head and nodded morosely.
‘Indeed, sire,’ he replied solemnly. ‘Things were much better before.’
Blaise had no idea what had prompted that reply.
‘I told my wife the other day -’ The conductor rambled on with a tale involving six children and at least fifteen grandchildren - all mentioned by name - and completely ignored any attempt Blaise made to get away. When the train rattled out of the station, he was still trapped, listening to how the conductor’s wife had tried to convince him that he might be deaf. ‘But I am not deaf,’ the man persisted. ‘I might hear just a little poorly on one ear, and not at all on the other, but I am not deaf.’
Exasperated Blaise dug into his pocket, pressing a Galleon into the man’s fist, and received a bow in return. The one language you could always rely on anyone to understand – money.
Pleased at being able to get away from the conductor, he entered the compartment, only to notice it already had an occupant. A young girl, barely out of Hogwarts by the look of her, with a baby in a bassinet beside her. Thankfully, the child seemed to be asleep – if the thing started wailing, this ride would be hell.
‘Hello,’ the girl said brightly, smiling at him.
Blaise gave her a curt nod - one of those he used to avoid getting entangled into polite conversations with strangers, and sat down as far away from them as possible.
‘It’s terribly warm today,’ the girl continued, undaunted. ‘Valerian would not stop wailing on the way here. Thank Merlin he fell asleep at last.’
Valerian, he presumed, would have to be the child.
‘You’re Blaise Zabini, are you not?’ the girl asked, as if she already knew the answer to be ‘yes.’ She would, of course. He was a fairly public person.
‘That’s my name,’ he replied. Had she been older, and actually pretty, he might have flirted. Well, without the child, he might have.
‘I read in a magazine it’s your birthday,’ she said happily, making him scowl.
‘You’re mistaken,’ he replied coldly.
‘Not much of a birthday-person, eh?’ she asked teasingly, completely unperturbed by his bad mood. ‘Can you mind the baby for a minute?’ she continued, unceremoniously putting the basket down beside Blaise who had no idea what to do with it. Maybe Pansy’s party wouldn’t have been so bad, after all, he thought. First a chatty conductor and now this girl, who was the first person he’d met in years that couldn’t be intimidated.
‘Wait,’ he protested, to no avail. The girl slipped out the compartment door, and was gone without a backwards glance. Several long minutes passed, and Blaise started fearing the girl had dumped the baby with him and disappeared entirely. Who would leave their child with a complete stranger?
When a piercing wail erupted from the basket he cringed, cursing. Just my luck, he thought. Stuck with a wailing infant on my birthday. The only infant he planned on taking any interest in would be his own child. But a torturing minute later, the girl was still gone. He sighed, and reached for the blanket hiding the child from his view. It would, supposedly, stop wailing if he lifted it up and anything was better than this racket.
Folding the thin material aside he saw a lock of black hair on top of a little face scrunched up in rage at being left alone for so long. Somehow, Blaise felt a little more compassionate, and clumsily lifted the boy up, cradling him in the corner of his arm.
To his astonishment the boy actually stopped crying, and looked up at him instead, his little fists attempting to grab the fabric of Blaise’s robes. He’s cute, Blaise mused, at once wondering where such a notion came from. He clearly must be getting old, if he started thinking of babies as ‘cute’. He carefully pried a surprisingly strong fist loose to prevent his robes from creasing, and the boy happily grabbed onto his finger instead. Struck by a strange feeling of familiarity, Blaise let the boy keep the grip, only narrowly restraining himself from making faces at the boy to amuse him. Clearly, getting older was not at all good for his sanity.
He could hear an angry voice outside in the corridor. A woman’s voice, sounding ominously familiar. He couldn’t yet place it, but he knew he didn’t want to meet her. But then, the list of women he didn’t want to meet was getting alarmingly long. He could hardly be expected to recognise them all by the voice.
As the words, muffled by the compartment door, became distinguishable, he realised the baby in his arms was the topic of discussion.
‘How could you, Lettice?’ the woman yelled. ‘Are you a complete idiot? You do not leave my son in the hands of a stranger to come looking for me!’ Blaise had to agree on that one.
‘But he’s hardly a -’ the girl replied, the sentence ending in something he could not make out, and then the compartment door was ripped open, and he stared up into an all-too-familiar face. He should have been able to recognise her voice. Vallerie Currie was, after all, the only woman he’d ever been engaged to. Her strong, slightly hard, but stunningly beautiful face showed no surprise at seeing him. Plenty of anger, but no surprise.
He had no trouble remembering when he’d last seen her, of course. It was ten months ago, almost to the day, and he had accused her of cheating on him. The next morning all her belongings had been gone from their apartment at forty Terrance Place and he’d not heard a word from her since. Not that he really blamed her. He knew he could be a little… demanding.
But she might well have told him she was pregnant at the time.
‘I see you’ve met your son,’ she said angrily, those dark eyes carrying a murderous glare he knew only too well.
A Birthday Surprise by Blue Phoenix
Story Notes:
Thanks to Marry-ann3112 and Brooksie for betaing this.