Lover of the Light

Chapter Thirteen: Change of Heart

Being a boy was never easy. No, scratch that. Being Harry Potter was never easy. That title always came with the expectation to do something for the greater good, to always have the intention of fighting evils so others could be at peace and in harmony. Sure, that was great and all, not to mention he was a dire advocate for it, fought a damn war for it, but sometimes Harry Potter just wanted to be a complete shameless, destructive, selfish bastard.

The problem was he didn't know how to fully act on those self-centered desires.

It was all because of the Weasleys, really.

Harry had been in the Burrow two weeks after the war came to a concluding end. He had been staying at Grimmauld Place, no one but Kreacher as company for almost fourteen days as they both lived in the dark and silence. The windows had not been allowed to be opened so no owl could bring any word from the outside world. One day, however, the patriarch of the Weasley family had come into the ancient and dusty Noble House of Black in his usual quiet, soft demeanor, but with determination in his kind eyes. He didn't bother with small talk, not even when Harry had clung to it; Mister Weasley just demanded to know when he was going to pack his belongings and head to the Burrow.

'I can't,' he had said to the man in a blank tone. He remembered feeling tired, not physically anymore, just mentally. He couldn't do it, couldn't face them all. That's why he hid. He told Mister Weasley exactly that. 'You need space to grieve. I'd just be intruding even more.'

'Nonsense,' Mister Weasley had retorted with a scolding look. He never wore one; Harry never remembered the man taking on the role of hard parent. But then again, nothing was the same since the end of war. People were different. 'Molly prepared Percy's old room for you. She's expecting you tonight by dinner, Harry. Your belongings and all. There will be no further discussion about this.'

He wanted to stay in Grimmuald Place until the world outside wasn't destroyed or until it didn't hurt to be alive anymore. He wanted to stay there, locked in Sirius' old bedroom, looking through old photographs of those he'd lost. He wanted to stay in Grimmauld Place alone, secluded, with no one as company but an old house-elf and the always alluring bottle of Firewhiskey. He wanted to stay there and never interact with the people he tore apart.

Seven minutes to eight—that's the time he remembers seeing on the clock the night he entered through the backdoor of the Weasley home. The first person he saw had been George; it had nearly made him want to turn on his heels and walk away with the intention of staying gone forever. Looking at George had been excruciating. The redhead had stared back, first a little surprised and then neutral as he nodded.

'We've been waiting for you,' he had said in a voice that was not amused, not teasing, not George at all. 'Good thing you're here, Mum was about to go looking for you.'

He had wanted to turn, look away from George, run far away. He had wanted to go back and hide in Grimmuald Place, hide underneath a rock, disappear forever, but George had marched over and taken his trunk from his grasp. Harry hadn't missed the half-dead glint to his brown eyes as he led him to the living room. It had intensified his guilt by a hundred.

That night he returned to the Burrow he politely declined Percy's room and asked to bunk with Ron instead. His best friend had not minded, 'just like the good ol' days' he had said in a natural manner, and Harry had been a fool to believe that being around Ron might make everything feel better. Ron thrashed about his sheets that night, crying and screaming and calling for help, calling for Fred.

Three days later, Harry had discovered that Ron wasn't the only one that had nightmares. The walls of the Burrow shook with screams and cries. He didn't know who they came from, but it tore him apart even more. He had almost died the night Mrs. Weasley was the first to enter the realm of nightmares; crying for Fred with hysterics of an anguished mother. All of it his fault.

Despite his shame, he stuck through it. He went on and lived with the Weasleys despite his everyday urge to escape while they all slept through the agonizing nights. (Even planning to stay in Australia the four days he was there with Hermione in search for her parents.) Something forbade him to do so, though. It was Mister Weasley's sigh of relief when he came back from the Ministry and sat beside him, just reading the newspaper and sipping on a cup of tea while discussing mindless things; it was Mrs. Weasley's gentle pat to the cheek when she served him breakfast, the random hug throughout the day, and the calmness she had in her eyes when she made sure Ron and he were tucked in at night; it was his best friend trying to pretend like he was the same when it was clear to him that he wasn't, but he obliged in keeping normalcy; and it was Ginny's entire being that made him stay.

Ginny.

He was always split into two whenever it came to her. It was always him wanting—needing—to be with her, yet obeying the voice in his head that demanded he protect her from everything he was and everything that came from that. She had been in danger before, before the fight against Voldemort escalated to the bloody massacre the final battle had been, and then it had been the danger he posed himself for all the grief and guilt in his heart.

It was like she was close enough to reach, but she was being kept behind a glass wall.

"—Oi, Potter! The celebration is out there, you know?"

Dropping the pitcher of Pumpkin Juice Mrs. Weasley had asked him to retrieve, Harry cringed for a moment when the object cracked against the floor and the juice had splashed around his feet; wetting his ankles.

"Where's your head, Harry?" With an amused eye-roll, Ginny Weasley approached the bespectacled boy with a small smirk stretching one corner of her mouth. She pulled out her wand as he just continued to stare at the mess in silence. "Reparo."

One, two blinks and then his green eyes were staring into her bottomless brown ones. He swallowed. Merlin, he really did need her.

The redhead raised a brow. "Harry?" She waved her wand back and forth in front of his face. "What are you thinking about?"

How? How can he listen to that voice that told him that he needed to stay far away from her, that voice that told him that her life would be better away from everything the Chosen One was, when she was that perfect? Her essence, every particle of her being was enthralling. Life was not going to see a rainbow over the storm if he let her go.

He was waiting all this time, keeping away from any topic of their relationship because he wanted to give her a chance to find something better than him. He had wasted weeks in keeping her at a distance because he told himself that it was better way.

To hell with that. Harry Potter was going to be selfish.

"You." Sincerity and determination took over his features as he stared the redhead right in the eye. "I was thinking about you."

She swallowed and kept her brow up. She was challenging him. She was unmoved by the butterflies in her stomach. Sad, but she knew that sometimes with Harry simplicity of words did not cut it. "Meaning?"

He smiled. Her fight was what he admired the most. It was one of the many things about her that made her glow like the moon in a stormy night. "I love you."

Her face went expressionless for a moment. "Do you now?"

"Of course," he replied instantly. "I love you so much. And I don't know what I've been doing trying to stay away from you, Ginny. Every day that passes...I fought for you, to get back to you because I missed you more than anything during my time on the run. I was an idiot for pushing you away after I could have you again."

"A downright imbecile, I agree." Tears sparkled her eyes, glazing them, but her lips were pulled into a large grin. "But I love you too, Harry." And frankly, she was used to waiting for him.

With identical smiles on their faces, both took a step towards one another at the same time. There was an empty pitcher of Pumpkin Juice between them, but they still closed the distance and connected their mouths.

The kiss was heavenly. The kiss was lightness fighting off the darkness. The kiss was hope seeping into his chest. The kiss was a new chapter for their old book of love for her. The kiss held promises that they both needed; that tied them. The kiss was just a symbol of the love between Harry and Ginny.

"Good thing there's a backup." Pulling away from Harry, Ginny swiftly picked up the pitcher from the ground, placed it on the kitchen counter, and grabbed the other pitcher full with Pumpkin Juice. She smiled at him and she stretched out her hand to him. "Come, the guest has arrived."

Harry happily took her hand. It was cliche, but he knew that his spot was meant to be next to her. If there was anyone in the planet that could be in love with him as just Harry it was her.

As both walked into the living room, Ginny released his hand when he found another pair of amazing brown eyes looking at him. "Hermione!"

With a loud squeal, Hermione rose from her seat on the Weasleys' comfy, old couch and launched herself to her best friend.

As usual, her arms wrapped around him tightly, squeezing him. His face hid inside her massive curls but he didn't mind—they smelled like family. He picked her up from her feet, unaware that the pressure he was putting on her bones was somewhat painful.

"Happy Christmas!" She said to him, pulling on a gigantic grin after he released her. It masked her grimace of pain perfectly.

Harry returned the merry greeting and sat beside her; right in the middle of her and Ron. It was like old times, and he missed those terribly. "Where have you been, 'Mione?" He asked immediately. "You stopped writing a few days into the holiday. I had a right mind to head over to the Zabinis to scout for you."

Silence simmered among the throng of people in the living room. For a moment, Hermione's eyes scanned the faces of the two elder Weasleys in the room. She hadn't informed them in person about her newfound heritage, but she was sure the news had traveled to them from their two youngest children or Harry.

"It's perfectly alright, dear," Mrs. Weasley replied as she lowered the sweater she was knitting. "Don't feel ashamed in front of us. You know that we love you no matter what. You're still our Hermione."

Mister Weasley nodded, agreeing. "Come, Molly," he said to his wife. "We'll go set up the dining room for breakfast. George should be back with Bill and Fleur soon."

Smiling gratefully at her friend's parents, Hermione turned back to Harry when they exited the room. "It's...It's a little complicated."

"How so?" Ginny asked before Harry could. "Unless you were taken hostage by them, you should've really wrote back, Hermione. You know how terrifying it was missing two of you for days?"

Putting a momentary pause to her story, the brunette looked at the redheaded girl with confusion. "Two? Don't tell me Percy's secluded himself to the Ministry again."

"Dearest Ronald was gone for almost a week," Ginny informed, her eyes traveling to her silent brother. She was frowning at him, a parental sort of look that reminded the others of Mrs. Weasley's famous one. "Nearly gave Mum a heart attack."

Hermione's eyes went wide. "A week?!"

"At first we thought he ended up going to that visit to New York you invited us to, but he never showed up," Ginny explained. "He didn't say where he was, just that he needed to be out. He hasn't even begun to give us a hint and flat out ignores our questions."

Ignoring his sister and her begrudging tone, because he had already heard it all the day he came back to the Burrow, Ron instead looked at the brunette. "I'm alive, alright. That's all that matters." Hermione frowned at him, too. And right as she was going to open her mouth, no doubt lecturing him as well, Ron interjected with, "what's been with you, then? You've been the one gone longer than I've been."

This didn't happen often, but Hermione's disapproving retort was instantly sidetracked. She swallowed, letting a moment of silence pass before she spoke. She didn't know how she was going to break this to her best friends, but like with everything else, she owed it to them to be honest. She couldn't hide this from them forever, after all. Especially not by the rate time was speeding and the way things were developing.

"I'm getting married."

The thing was, that's all they needed to know for the moment. She knew that she should tell them about her attack, about being on a sickbed for three weeks, about someone apparently trying to kill her, but she couldn't do that to them. They were at peace—or attempting to get it. And it was the holidays, for Merlin sakes. Who was she to drop a bomb on them and expect them to live with worry or fear? She could take care of herself, she's always had. And if that didn't work out as she expected, Mister Zabini had hired bodyguards to station themselves around her premises at all times. Like right at that very moment. Unbeknown to Harry or the Weasleys, there currently was a few undetected guards just over the hill; surveilling and waiting.

Ginny dropped the glass of Pumpkin Juice she had just served herself. Her eyes opened wide in bewilderment, gaping, all while Harry and Ron mirrored that same expression.

"What?" However, Harry was the first to break the shocking silence.

She sighed, fiddling with the black, wooly scarf hanging from around her neck that Button the house-elf had chosen for her to wear that morning. "I'm not getting married with consent, so you might as well stop looking at me like I'm off my rocker." They didn't. "It's a daft marriage contract the Zabinis made before my birth. It was not only a Pureblood thing to do then, but apparently the Zabinis thought they could protect me from any impending doom if they tied me to another sole pureblood heir."

"—That's mental!"

"—Who's the bloke?"

Looking across at each other, Harry and Ginny narrowed their gazes for a moment. He had a frown because of her ridiculous question, and she rolled her eyes in a carefree attitude. So she was curious to know who it was, big deal. She'll get around to freaking out with him after that little bit of information was relieved.

Hermione blinked up at the girl for a quick second. "Theodore Nott."

"—Nott?!"

"—It could've been worse."

This time with completely different reactions, Harry and Ginny looked at each other with frowns again.

"What do you mean it could've been worse? She's betrothed to Nott!"

Hermione cringed, but no one but Ron saw her do it. Harry was just shrugging and looking at Ginny. "She could've been betrothed to the likes of Goyle or Flint. Pureblood parents must not realize how troll-looking their kids might end up looking after birth or their toddler years. I'm just saying she could've gotten a thickhead like that."

Ginny gave the dark-haired wizard an odd look. "Honestly, Hermione," she turned back to the brunette, "I would've assumed, if they were throwing marriage contracts around, that you'd get Malfoy. His parents are your Godparents, are they not? It would've made more sense."

Hermione knitted her brows in vague concentration for a moment. She hadn't thought of that before, but the redhead had a point. Why Theo? Why not Malfoy?

"Please tell me there's a way to get out of it." Interrupting her thoughts about the Slytherin Prince, thank goodness for that, Hermione found that Harry was looking warily at her. "You can't marry Nott, Hermione. The Zabinis can't do that to you."

She gave him a sad smile. "When have things ever been that easy, Harry?"

"Mental, this is!" Harry threw his arms in the air, aggravated. "Not more than four months in and they already mucked it up! What else can possibly happen to you, Hermione?"

Tears began brewing in her orbs. "I'm scared, Harry," she confessed, but there was so much more to it than just an unwanted engagement to Nott, "and so tired. I don't want to keep fighting for my life, for my rights...You know me better than that, I'm not going to give up. I'm not going to walk down an aisle because a ridiculous contract forces me to do so. But...But I just ask that you stand beside me, please. Just stand there so I'll know I'm not alone."

"Of course you're not alone, 'Mione." Surprising, maybe up to par with the brunette's revelation, Ron stood from the opposite end of the couch and headed right for Hermione. He took a seat on the armrest, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and reeling her into him. There wasn't an easy going smile on his face that used to make her heart melt, but his eyes glowed with loyalty of a friend that he'd never lost.

She stared into his blue eyes and found another silent revelation. She used to think that his gaze had to be the most charming thing she'd ever set her eyes on, but somehow that diminished. It wasn't like his particular shade of blue wasn't appealing, it had just suddenly gone from magical and alluring to calm and familiar. She used to look into his eyes and see her future—a future full of love, romance, and happy endings. Now she just saw memories, comfort, and family.

She had stopped being in love with Ron.

How it happened, she didn't know. It sort of hurt her, if she could be honest with herself. She thought that loving Ron was eternal, like the sun and the moon, but it wasn't. It hadn't been. She was sure that at a point she and Ron would have the relationship that was sprouting since Second Year, but it hadn't come. It never did nor it will. And maybe, just maybe, it hurt her because life's not always the way you want it to be.

And by a certain gleam in his eyes, something that wasn't adoring or enchanted anymore, Hermione knew that Ron was no longer in love with her either. And maybe, just maybe, he hadn't for a while now.

The past few months had been filled with distance, small talk, and avoidance of eye-contact—they had been mourning that love. But Parvati Patil had once told her, surprisingly accurate, that just because they had lost that didn't mean the friendship had died with it. And, if she was to be honest with herself again, friendship was the best thing for Ronald and her.

They were going to be forever loyal to one another, no matter what. Best friends to the end, and even after that.

"Is there anything we can do?" Ron asked.

Harry and Ginny exchanged a glance with each other, a little confused themselves about how friendly the redhead was being, especially since he wanted nothing to do with Hermione for months. They said nothing, however; just smiled at one another and turned back to the other two to know if there was anything they could do for the brunette.

Hermione gave Ron a dim smile for a moment before turning to the others. "Actually," her voice came out low and soft, "there is something you can do for me."

She pulled out a fancy-looking invitation from the left pocket of her coat.

                                                                            XXXXXXXXXXXXX

For a moment, it was silent and he looked at the surroundings with blank eyes. He was there to get a moment of air, to breathe, to calm his nerves, but everything around him was making him nauseous.

The ballroom at the bottom level of the Zabini Estate was one of the largest rooms in the entire location. It extended for several miles, almost impossibly so. It was schemed beige and deep gold from top to bottom, breathtaking and ancient. Everything about it was exquisite: every gold line, every arch, every post, every flare, every tile, every mirror, every door, and source of light. On its own, the ballroom was something constructed to be worshipped, to be admired, and it was.

But that was before, when it was lonesome and nothing obscured its beauty.

The ballroom was currently filled with things suggesting a festivity or celebration. There were fifty circled, beige tables forming a large and wide rectangle along the edges of the room; leaving enough space at the center of the ballroom for entertainment. Each table had eight ruby-red chairs with gold borders perfectly tucked in. On the surface of every table were eight individual sets of silverware: two white plates with golden rims stacked on each other, stainless silver eating utensils, a ruby goblet with a detailed base, a spotless Champagne glass, and a red napkin-cloth scrolled and tied with a sparkly, golden ribbon. And every one of those fifty circled tables held a decorative wreath as a centerpiece; emerald, silver, gold and ruby ornaments tangled with sparkling leaves to make a ring around a golden candle that melted its particular color.

On a regular basis, the ceiling of the majestic room had three massive chandeliers glittering in a straight line from the light of the sun when the windows were opened or by conjured light. This particular night, however, the finely detailed crystals of each chandelier was plagued with the company of hundreds of string lights taking over the empty spaces between them. They fell three, four and five feet from the enchanting ceiling, looking like strings of falling little stars. And on top of that, individual snowflakes fell along with them, but they never touched the floor.

Everything was set up and ready to go.

He would've found that specific scene around him as something to be proud of, something to boast over his riches and tastes, but the need to do so was far gone that night. He didn't want his home to be the talk of the night, the impressive ballroom to be admired by anyone who entered it, and he didn't want anyone lusting over his wealth when the conversation revealed that every line of gold on the walls of the ballroom was solid and real.

He didn't want this night to be happening at all.

Sighing, Blaise uncrossed his arms from his chest. He boredly smoothed the wrinkles he might've caused the white tuxedo jacket he was wearing. It had silky black lapels that led down to white buttons that he left open. Underneath that, he wore a simple black button-up that matched his black trousers and dress shoes. He didn't wear a tie—he was protesting the night by refusing to be up to par with the refined manners and appearance he was supposed to withhold by being a Zabini.

Narrowing his green eyes at his usually-beloved ballroom, Blaise turned on his heels and headed to the two closed beige doors. He reached for the golden handle of one, turned it, and once it was open his vision took up the crowded entrance hall of the Zabini Estate.

Weaving around the very sizeable group of invited guests, Blaise headed to where he knew he needed to be several minutes before. And as he approached, he looked up for a moment and saw a peek from a hidden girl on top of the balcony.

"I don't know if I can do this, Button." Quickly hiding behind the marbled wall when Blaise's unamused eyes looked into hers for the briefest of seconds, Hermione looked down at the small creature keeping her company. "There's thousands of people down there."

Dressed in her best attire, a doll-like purple dress custom made for her, Button the house-elf took it upon herself to ease her Mistress' nervousness. "Mathematically speaking, Miss, Jovi tolds Button there be four-hundred guests."

Hermione gave the house-elf a grimace. "Why does this have to happen like this, Button? Why do I need...Why does..."

"Tradition, Miss," Button replied when the girl trailed off.

"Rubbish traditions," Hermione muttered as she shook her hands. She was starting to go numb, and she was sure it was due to the fast-brewing panic in her chest and not the chilly air in the hall where she was hiding.

Button said nothing in response to that. She might be a house-elf, but she agreed with the Miss that pureblood families had some unlikeable customs. "Master Zabini says to you, Miss, that you can choose not to go through with this."

"Deon said so, but he knows that it's not that simple," replied Hermione to the little creature as she pressed her back to the cold marble wall. She inched closer to the edge, centimeter by centimeter, and once she was close enough, she peeked around the corner of it again.

Both impeccably dressed and put-together—he in a satin silver tuxedo and she in a satin, two-tone, floor-length dress—Mister and Mrs. Zabini stood together in an open space left in the middle of the two staircases that arched upwards and connected to form a balcony above. The couple stood behind a massive, eleven foot Christmas tree that was decorated in ruby-reds, golds and silvers.

"Welcome—" Mister Zabini's deep voice sounded off in the large entrance hall of his mansion, settling the conversations among the guests. "Welcome, Friends, to our home. My wife and I are very honored that all of you have chosen to attend our celebration during a time of family and to be in your very own home."

The arm around her husband's waist tightened, and that's how Mrs. Zabini silenced him. He was trying to sound pleasant and inviting, but Allegra heard the bitter and judging tone underlying every word he spoke.

Deon was not pleased, nor did he want any single person in the crowd to be here tonight.

"We invited you here this evening to rejoice with us a wound that has finally healed amongst my family." Looking at her guests head-on, Mrs. Zabini summoned all her pride to stay calm, collected, and firm. "Eighteen years ago, when Deon and I moved here from our motherland, we were expecting our first-born. As some of you may know, the delivery of our daughter was broadcasted among our society as tragic. Aria Sienna Zabini was pronounced dead due to labor complications."

The room felt ten times smaller for Mister Zabini. It was like the people, all the bloody people, grew larger and were suddenly pressing up against each other like there was no room for them. He felt sick looking at them, sensing them. Their eyes looked eager and curious with every word that Allegra let out—hungry for the accounts of that dreadful day.

This was not easy for him, possibly more than it was for the girl who hid in the level above. He had to stand there under the pressing gazes of his acquaintances, friends, some relatives, business partners, and members of the same circles. He had to stand there and let them listen in on what a failure as a man, father and husband he had been. He had to stand there and endure their learning of the pain he had caused his wife, the hole he had created in their family tree, and the life he had destroyed by condemning it a lie.

He stood there by his wife, loyally like he intended to for all eternity, but felt like the scum of the earth. He had to re-listen to the tragedy he had created; memories he could never forget; a reality that could never be forgiven.

"...due to that, we hid her." Deon was right on time to witness the bewildered expressions and to hear the next part of their tale. "We gave our daughter away to two muggles—to two of my friends. They raised her, kept her safe, gave her all they could while we continued mourning the death of Aria to the public. Our daughter was meant to stay hidden, from the world, from us under the Glamour Charm, but life's tricky sometimes. She became a warrior, the most famous witch of her generation and known throughout our world."

Not only had he given his daughter up to muggles, made her be raised as a muggle-born, a shame to the generations of purely bred Zabinis, but he had placed her in more danger than if they would've kept her. It was too late by the end of her First Year at Hogwarts to make things right, to pull her away from the harm of associating with Harry Potter; active Death Eaters knew of her. Eleven, a child, and the most abhorred Mudblood in decades.

He failed her as a father even then.

He had to look at his wife from that year on with shame and constant pleads of forgiveness. He had led their daughter down a path of prejudice and definite attempts of slaughter—and he had to let it. He had to allow her to continue on with that road because he had to think about Allegra, he had to think about Blaise. If any Death Eaters, if the Dark Lord knew of her true identity, of the betrayal, they'd kill them all; one by one.

And he had to live with that. He had to live with the fact that not only did he give her up, but he chose his wife and son over her and left her well-being to a divine miracle.

"...but like it is accustomed within our ancient traditions, our daughter was betrothed to a pureblood heir to continue with our legacy before her birth." Sure, that explanation was the sugar-coated version of the many plans Allegra and he had to make for their daughter's safety. "And for that reason as well, we gathered all of you here today to celebrate the engagement of our daughter."

In a way, his daughter taught him the value of a life; pureblood or not. He didn't leave Italy a reaper of pureblood mania, but he had been brought up the same bigoted way like all the others. He was above all, his blood was superior, and all others weren't worth a second glance. His pride had been shattered when he gave her up to the Grangers, karma to his beliefs. And because of that, he was cured and taught a lesson. And if there was an upside to this disaster, it was his daughter's life as Hermione Granger that he was grateful for.

She was much more Allegra than could've been expected if she was raised a Zabini, and that was beautiful. Both were compassionate, both saw the humanity and good within a person, and both were lovers of the light.

His thoughts were interrupted when the crowd before him started shifting about, getting closer, looking up. He copied the action when he saw Allegra and Blaise doing the same—she was now on the balcony. His emerald eyes locked in with the brown ones of his daughter.

She'd been pushed!

She had been freaking out when she heard Mrs. Zabini call out for her, her back pressed against the marble wall, staying hidden, heaving for air, muttering that she couldn't go through with this, when Button had pushed her from around the corner. She had stumbled, but the crowd had not seen it past their gaping and their dropped jaws.

All the attention was on her, every single person there solely focused on her, but she had only locked eyes with Mister Zabini first. He looked tormented and apologetic, and she sadly found that that wasn't a strange thing for him. She blinked away from him and looked at the crowd: she spotted Kingsley Shacklebolt, the new Minister of Magic; Aurors who had been with the Order; Mcgonagall; Flitwick, Slughorn; Daphne Greengrass and her parents; Goyle and his mother; the Flints, by the look of them; Parkinson; the Abbotts; Neville and his grandmother; Zacharias Smith and his family; the Grangers, who had been surprisingly invited by Mrs. Zabini, Harry, Ron and Ginny next to them, causing her eyes to burn with the threat of tears; and then the Malfoys.

Being the ones taking up the front row of the surrounding crowd, along with her muggle-parents and her beloved friends, Hermione easily locked eyes with Draco Malfoy. But for a moment, for the tiniest one, he didn't look at her with a masked stare. He had looked up at her like he was seeing something truly extraordinary. She was tempted to look behind her, to see if Merlin himself was there, but that urge had been subsided when Mrs. Zabini called for her to descend from the staircase on the left.

With her hand on the black, eccentric rail that had gold and ruby ribbons swirling around it in decoration, Hermione took her first public step as a member of the Zabini family.

She looks beautiful, Allegra thought as she watched her daughter silently climb down the staircase, like a queen. There was no doubt that the dress Hermione was wearing, the dress that she and Narcissa had assisted her in choosing, was perfect and fit like a glove.

The top half of the dress bore a sweetheart neckline, very feminine and tasteful. It exposed the smooth and creamy skin of her chest and shoulders. That top half was drenched in golden sparkles, sequined that looked like gems every time she moved. And giving the appearance that they were slowly melting off, some sequins touched the flowing, gold skirt of the floor-long dress. Her brown curls were parted at the middle and they fell into beautiful, glamorous waves down her back. Her face was kept as natural as possible, upon her very request. Her eyes were rimmed with brown eyeliner, just enhancing their shape, and mascara elongating her eyelashes. A flush of peach tainted the apples of her cheeks, and her lips were glossed with a tasteful pink shade.

She really was a heavenly sight.

Hermione's focus shifted between her muggle-parents, between Ron and Harry, between Blaise, between Malfoy. She was trying to summon courage from them; she looked deep into their eyes to get reassurance that she was going to be okay.

But before she could feel absolutely sure whether or not she made the right choice in not running away the previous night, she was now standing among the three Zabinis and staring at all the astounded guests.

"Our daughter, Hermione Granger."

Hermione shook, her palms quivering, and Blaise was fast to clasp one of her hands with his. She smiled dimly at Mrs. Zabini, grateful that the woman had not changed her identity fully to Aria Zabini. She knew it was the woman's greatest wish, but she also knew progress came slowly from Hermione's part.

"And her fiancée, Theodore Nott Jr."

Ironic, but Hermione had forgotten all about the real reason why this Christmas ball was being held. It hadn't been for the introduction as a Zabini to their world, but over a resurrected marriage contract that Mrs. Nott was practically blackmailing the heads of the Zabini family with. She stood there because the woman wanted everyone to know about her forced engagement to her son.

Stepping away from the crowd, Hermione surprisingly found that Nott had been a lot closer to her loved ones than she assumed. She hadn't sought after him when she was up in the balcony or as she descended down the staircase, but there he was. Dressed in a slick, classic and elegant black tuxedo, his usual tousled locks smoothed back, he approached her. And the closer he got, the more she noticed that he was equally as nervous and unstable as she was.

That somehow comforted her.

They stared at one another for a moment: afraid, appalled, nervous, embarrassed, friendly, and, for the moment, resigned. He gave her a small version of his usual charming smile and she returned an attempt of one.

Blaise frowned in distaste, not caring that the world was there to see his disapproval. And like an analogy of Nott's betrothal to his sister, his hand slipped away from Hermione's and he watched as Nott took her from him.

As Theo clasped her hand with his, their fingers lacing, their palms shaking together, a slow clap started among the crowd when Hermione willed herself to look at the guests as the future Mrs. Nott.

                                                                       XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Everything was going unpredictably well.

There were people, old and too refined, people with looks of rancor and bigotry, that narrowed their eyes as she passed, like they didn't agree with the Brightest Witch of Her Age sharing the same clean blood as them. She met them directly in the eye when they appeared to be smelling something foul, making sure that she was unmoved, that she was just as disapproving of them as they were of her. She was always going to be the famous Mudblood to them, despite her true genetics, and she didn't mind it one bit.

On the other hand, there were several pureblood families eager to meet her. When Deon and Allegra made her walk with them, introducing her to their business associates or powerful acquaintances, they were all very polite and curious. When their eyes fell upon her it was like they were seeing a hidden treasure, like something terrific had fallen on their laps that could change the way things worked.

It was depressing to know that a change of blood status made them enthusiastic in meeting her.

She couldn't be so judging of every member of pureblood society that she met, however. When the Zabinis had dragged her over to formally meet the Goyles, she had been thoroughly surprised and momentarily frightened when Katherine Goyle embraced her. The woman had pulled her into a hug, kissing both her cheeks, and smiled like the sun was shining down on her. A bit startled still, Hermione had then been told that Mrs. Goyle was a business associate of Allegra's and that both excellent friends. The ten minutes they spent chatting with the woman, all while Goyle just looked down in embarrassment, unable to meet his classmate's eyes, she found that the Slytherin's mother was sincerely friendly. The same happened when she met the Bulstrodes—much to Millicent's apparent annoyance that her parents found the Gryffindor Princess alluring—and even the Greengrasses.

In the time spent allowing the Zabinis to proudly introduce her to their circle, Hermione had also met relatives of theirs. The first she came across with was a woman named Abri Vivaldi, Allegra's cousin. The woman was tall, beautiful, and shared some of the many charming features that Mrs. Zabini had. They had the same high cheekbones, same full lips, distinctive nose, and the glittering golden eyes. Aside from that, unlike Allegra black locks, Abri's were blonde with undertones of brown and she was much paler. The woman was quite friendly, happy to hug Hermione, putting herself out there for bonding time if she ever wanted it, and very chatty. In the short time with her, Hermione learned that Abri was the only Vivaldi that associated with Allegra after her 'shameful' escape from Italy; that she and Mrs. Zabini were the same age and inseparable growing up; that she was in charge of the Vivaldi fortune, though her passion was painting; and that their Great-Grandfather had passed away a month prior.

Hermione had looked up at Mrs. Zabini after the latter's cousin carelessly revealed such information, but Allegra remained her collected self. What Hermione was aware of, Allegra's great-grandfather was responsible for her sister's death, and she didn't know how the woman would react to his passing.

The reaction was uneventful. Mrs. Zabini had just bid her cousin a short goodbye for a moment, and then she and Deon led their daughter to a group of seven; one of those being Blaise.

'Hermione,' Mister Zabini had spoken firmly, eyes guarded, 'this is my family.'

The first person to kiss her cheeks and smile at her was a young woman named Bianca Zabini, Deon's only sister and youngest sibling. The woman was of average height and had smooth, tanned skin that complimented her intense emerald eyes and chestnut curls. Everything about her aura was light and enthralling, but Hermione had noticed that she fought to keep herself rigid and still.

'Mia nipote!' Among the throng, a man had stepped forward with a delighted call that startled her for a moment and that made Blaise grin. 'E 'un piacere incontrarti, finalmente!' That man had been Jenoah Zabini, Deon's youngest brother. At first glance at him, he was intimidating. He was massive, rippling with muscles that threatened to explode out of his fine dressing-robes. He was equally as dark-skinned as Deon, and both bore the same trimmed and proper goatee. Despite Jenoah's booming appearance, the man had a kind face with soft features; emerald eyes like Deon and Bianca. And when he smiled, it was like a teddy bear was smiling.

The next person Hermione met was an older woman named Roma Zabini, the matriarch of the clan. She was of average height as well, deep brown curls that fluffed around her shoulders, and her eyes had to be the ones passed down the line. They were wide, almond-shaped, rimmed with thick lashes, and green like the brightest emeralds. She greeted Hermione with a smile, a gentle kiss to her cheeks, but stayed composed. But even as she did so, the girl caught the gleam of tears in the woman's eyes.

If the introduction to Deon's family had ended there, Hermione would've sincerely said that she could see herself associating with them. Of course, nothing could be that simple. The two members left to greet her in the group of gathered Zabinis were two men, one around his early forties and the other reaching his late sixties. Father and older brother of Deon's.

Stefano Zabini was fearful at first and continuous glance. He was tall, broad-shouldered, built like a bodybuilder, and had a dark, black gaze of animosity. He was a definite contrast among his siblings and mother. And Hermione hadn't miss the glare he kept on Deon the entire time of interaction.

The last Zabini that she'd been introduced to was Domenico Zabini, the patriarch of the ancient family. He was a man of no expression, cold and blank. His black eyes, alike his oldest son's, bore no interest but occasionally narrowed at Deon. He was a white-haired man that stood as if he was exhausted, but tried with all his might to remain whole and commanding.

"I don't think the Zabinis liked me." At the first chance of freedom she got from meeting guests, Hermione found the closest group of familiars to vent to. "Honestly, I don't think they even like Allegra."

Refilling his glass with sparkling Champagne, Blaise snorted at his sister as Potter, Weasel, She-Weasel, Greengrass and Parkinson looked at her awkwardly. "Nonsense, Zia Bianca and Zio Jenoah adored you. As did Nona Zabini. Just don't expect her to be cuddly and affectionate, she can't work that way. But she does send amazing packages for Christmas, Birthdays, and Easters."

Hermione frowned disapprovingly at her half-brother. "I don't care about gifts, Blaise," she sounded scolding, "what I care about is being a part of a family that loathes one another. There's hate among Allegra's own family, and an apparent one from the Zabinis to Deon. It's depressing."

"It's life," replied Blaise nonchalantly. "I won't say it's not horrible, but Father and Allegra knew what they were getting into when they decided to run away from Italy like two lovesick fools. She shamed her family, and Father disappointed his father and older brother. There's resentment everywhere for what they did, and, sadly, it can't be fixed."

She huffed, crossing her arms over the sequined top of her dress. "I refuse to believe that."

"You know I refuse to believe—" Cutting across the Gryffindor's rant, Daphne Greengrass made herself noticed. "That you and Granger are related." She turned to her ex-boyfriend who sipped from his glass like there was no care in the world. "You could've told me that when I accused you and her of being together. I look like a damn fool now, Blaise!"

Zabini took another sip of his Champagne. "You look like a fool regularly, Greengrass; don't blame me for that. Besides, I don't owe you explanations of anything. Take a look at Parkinson, she doesn't care."

All eyes turned to the dark-haired witch in the table. She was sitting silently beside Daphne, almost undetected. She had been shocked learning Granger's true identity, but she had things of her own to worry about. Besides, she was also busy deciphering the code gleaming in Ron Weasley's eyes every time he stared at her without reserve.

"Here," Blaise handed his sister a flute of Champagne. "You better start drinking up, Hermione, because in a few minutes Mrs. Nott is going to start arranging for you and her git-faced son to start taking pictures like the lovely betrothed couple you are."

Harry frowned at Zabini, taking the glass from his extended hand and downing it himself. Loyally next to him, Ginny patted his shoulder. "I still can't believe there's no way out of this," he retorted angrily. "There has to be a loophole out of this contract other than death."

For the first time in history, Blaise didn't glare at Harry. Instead, he snatched back the glass, refilled it, and handed it back to him with a mischievous sneer. "I've suggested gutting Nott like an animal, but Hermione refuses to sacrifice him. As such, there might actually be a way out of this."

Silence and brows knitted.

"What are you on about?" Hermione snapped. "Do you know something I don't?"

"Doubt it," Ron muttered with a scoff.

Zabini ignored the redheaded Weasel. "Let's just say Father's missing the marriage contract from his archives and its currently sitting as copies in the offices of a Curse Breaker, Historian, member of the Magical Law Enforcement department, and even with the new Minister."

Confusion was still among the group.

"They're studying it, trying to find a way to break the magic within it," Blaise told them as if the reason had been obvious. "I was all up for bribing them to create a loophole, but Malfoy said Hermione wouldn't appreciate the matter turning illegal because she's—"

"Malfoy?" Hermione's eyes were wide now. "Why's Malfoy involved with this?"

The Slytherin smirked at his sister, teasing and secretive. "It was his idea, of course. You see, while Father is trying to fight off the contract with lawyers, Malfoy suggested we needed someone to break apart the magical binds in the contract."

She swallowed, blinking away from Blaise to look at the tabletop. She didn't know why or how, but a swarm of butterflies had suddenly appeared inside of her. They fluttered their wings, tickling her insides, creating astounding tingles of gratitude, of surprise, of relief, of joy.

Malfoy was searching for a way out of her betrothal to Nott. Malfoy was trying to give her her liberty back; her choice to marry when and to whom she decided. Malfoy was doing something purely for her happiness.

Why?

"Ah, here he comes."

At the pointed finger Blaise gave, Hermione turned around to look at the north end of the ballroom. Surely enough, Draco Malfoy was approaching them. And he wasn't alone. He was talking to a man and a woman, looking thoroughly enthralled with the conversation. His silver eyes were concentrated, and when his mouth wasn't forming words, it was stretched into a breathtaking smile at whatever his company said.

"So that's where you parents went," Harry commented from the background.

The butterflies, the joy, the surprise multiplied inside of her as she kept her eyes focused on Malfoy strutting his way across the ballroom floor, getting closer.

Her heart almost leaped out of her chest when he blinked away from the older couple and found her eyes.

He was bringing the Grangers to her.