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slytherincoffeeHope is the thing with feathers
The war was over. Potter had won and Voldemort was gone. He didn't have to worry any more, no more threats, no more death. The dark shadow had been lifted from him, from all of them.
He shook with the relief of it. Deep sobs making his entire body shake with their force.
Over. Done with. No more nightmares, no more hiding, no more being forced to deny his nature in order to live one more hour...day.
He lifted his face to the sun peeking out over the clouds and smiled. Time to begin to live again.
And sore must be the storm
The blissful happiness had lasted all too short a while. Voldemort's regime had left the country scarred, the population terrified and the government in ruins. The rebuilding process was slow. The Ministry’s main problem though was that they didn’t know what to do with all of the children that had trained and fought during the war. The fighters and the strategists, the researchers and the spies, the orphans and the prisoners; all of them under the age of twenty, all of them survivors of the Second War, all of them children that had been forced to grow up before their time. There wasn’t a single one of them that hadn’t been adversely affected by the war. Theo, Morag, and Adrian were all dead; he visited their graves every now and then. Pansy was not long for the grave herself, interned at St. Mungo’s, the stress of being a double agent finally having got to her, her mind had just snapped and it was if the girl he’d known for all those years was simply no longer there. She wasn’t the only one either; there was a whole floor of the psychiatric ward completely filled with veterans of the war. Still others were unaccounted for, having disappeared or been captured and never rescued. Like with that McMillan boy and others, they’d gone out on a raid and never returned or been taken during one of the battles and incarcerated at one of the Death Eater prisons. No one who went into one of those places ever came out, rather he should say ever came out sane.
The war was over; life went on much like it always had, except for them.
The children.
And never stops at all
So he tried the best he could to piece together the fragments of his life. He'd left England for a while, going to study abroad with his Zabini relatives. Papa Zabini had wanted him to take over the family business when he was old enough. First he needed to know how to run it and then he could work on how to make it better.
After a couple of very tense months, he had cemented his hold on the company. Moving slowly, he started implementing his plans for expansion into previously unexplored markets and upgrading the business traditions.
It had been mostly welcomed.
Some people had opposed the change, but did nothing about it until Massimo had died leaving the entire corporation in his hands.
Reading Massimo's will had been a shock. He knew the man had tolerated him for the sake of his brother, but he'd never known why.
Papa Zabini had known that he, Blaise couldn't have been his, not biologically, and he'd still loved him...them. And Massimo had known and still left him the company, though as the man had noted, "Because you are the most capable and have proved to be more Guiliano's son than the son of that woman despite the bad blood you inherited from her."
The fourth and fifth assassination attempts had almost succeeded and it had started him off on a downspiral that had really only stopped when he had stopped in a pub one day. He'd wanted one more Guinness before he decided whether or not to let the next attempt succeed.
Then she had walked in, red headed and glorious with a sad sad smile he would have loved to wipe off her face. Someone had started up some music and he had on a whim asked her to dance with him. She'd accepted and he'd managed to make her laugh, there was hope in that laugh and joy and he'd wanted to do it again.
Six months later they had been married. Three months after that, Alana Grace had been born.
His girls had given him the hope he'd been missing before.
Blaise Zabini
Harry Potter
The war was over. Potter had won and Voldemort was gone. He didn't have to worry any more, no more threats, no more death. The dark shadow had been lifted from him, from all of them.
He shook with the relief of it. Deep sobs making his entire body shake with their force.
Over. Done with. No more nightmares, no more hiding, no more being forced to deny his nature in order to live one more hour...day.
He lifted his face to the sun peeking out over the clouds and smiled. Time to begin to live again.
And sore must be the storm
The blissful happiness had lasted all too short a while. Voldemort's regime had left the country scarred, the population terrified and the government in ruins. The rebuilding process was slow. The Ministry’s main problem though was that they didn’t know what to do with all of the children that had trained and fought during the war. The fighters and the strategists, the researchers and the spies, the orphans and the prisoners; all of them under the age of twenty, all of them survivors of the Second War, all of them children that had been forced to grow up before their time. There wasn’t a single one of them that hadn’t been adversely affected by the war. Theo, Morag, and Adrian were all dead; he visited their graves every now and then. Pansy was not long for the grave herself, interned at St. Mungo’s, the stress of being a double agent finally having got to her, her mind had just snapped and it was if the girl he’d known for all those years was simply no longer there. She wasn’t the only one either; there was a whole floor of the psychiatric ward completely filled with veterans of the war. Still others were unaccounted for, having disappeared or been captured and never rescued. Like with that McMillan boy and others, they’d gone out on a raid and never returned or been taken during one of the battles and incarcerated at one of the Death Eater prisons. No one who went into one of those places ever came out, rather he should say ever came out sane.
The war was over; life went on much like it always had, except for them.
The children.
And never stops at all
So he tried the best he could to piece together the fragments of his life. He'd left England for a while, going to study abroad with his Zabini relatives. Papa Zabini had wanted him to take over the family business when he was old enough. First he needed to know how to run it and then he could work on how to make it better.
After a couple of very tense months, he had cemented his hold on the company. Moving slowly, he started implementing his plans for expansion into previously unexplored markets and upgrading the business traditions.
It had been mostly welcomed.
Some people had opposed the change, but did nothing about it until Massimo had died leaving the entire corporation in his hands.
Reading Massimo's will had been a shock. He knew the man had tolerated him for the sake of his brother, but he'd never known why.
Papa Zabini had known that he, Blaise couldn't have been his, not biologically, and he'd still loved him...them. And Massimo had known and still left him the company, though as the man had noted, "Because you are the most capable and have proved to be more Guiliano's son than the son of that woman despite the bad blood you inherited from her."
The fourth and fifth assassination attempts had almost succeeded and it had started him off on a downspiral that had really only stopped when he had stopped in a pub one day. He'd wanted one more Guinness before he decided whether or not to let the next attempt succeed.
Then she had walked in, red headed and glorious with a sad sad smile he would have loved to wipe off her face. Someone had started up some music and he had on a whim asked her to dance with him. She'd accepted and he'd managed to make her laugh, there was hope in that laugh and joy and he'd wanted to do it again.
Six months later they had been married. Three months after that, Alana Grace had been born.
His girls had given him the hope he'd been missing before.
Blaise Zabini
Harry Potter
