her face dared him to do his worst, but there was a flicker of fear there as well.
He was glad to see it. He'd let her get too brazen.
"I realise you are the most irritating thing to ever exist in three dimensions, but do you really have to prove that so often? You are not privy to my innermost thoughts, Granger! Ask your questions but don' t expect me to get all deep and meaningful with you because I've had you. You are not the keeper of my heart. My heart, such as it is, and my cock are two very different things. I am here not because I want to be here, but because I have to be here. This is a means to an end, do you understand? You may forget yourself, but don't forget who I am," he seethed, and for a moment, she was pinned by the ferocity in his eyes.
He released her and she slumped against him. He must have been a bit out of sorts himself, because he permitted this before he took a step away from her and ran a hand through his hair.
"Now, I'm going back, with or without you."
It would have to be with, because he had taken her hand and pulled her along with him.
Chapter Thirty-One
Blaise Zabini was eight years old when he discovered he was a Metamorphmagus.
Of course, at the time, he hadn't known that there was a name for his peculiar ability. As is often the case with young children of magical stock, the appearance of Blaise's magical traits happened quite by accident.
It occurred not long after the day his mother had taken him aside for a home hair cut. He had been partial to his long hair, but it wasn' t seemly for a boy, or so this mother had said. Off it came and Blaise had been exceedingly cross about it for weeks.
And then, one day, while his parents were downstairs entertaining his mother's visiting relatives, Blaise had climbed up onto a chair and stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom and willed his hair to grow back.
It did. All at once and in about ten seconds flat. He hadn't been expecting this and nearly toppled off the chair in shock.
Afraid of what his mother would say (or ask), he took pains to cut it all off again and did not walk pass any mirrors for a month. Later, he realised he could control the skill, and indeed, he recognised it to be a skill.
There were books written about it. It was a rare and important enough ability that he would have to submit his name to the Ministry, if he told.
He didn't tell.
By the age of ten, he could be anyone he wanted, provided he had been in their presence for long enough to note what they looked like from all angles.
Being a Metamorphmagus was just one of many things nobody knew about Blaise Zabini. As an only child, his parents gave him a wide berth and were duly pleased with his sterling performance in his studies and with his standing as a pupil of high regard at Hogwarts. He came from a wealthy and privileged background, though certainly not as wealthy and privileged as say, the Malfoys or the Parkinsons before Pansy's father had squandered the family fortune away.
If he was a bit too aloof, a bit too calculating for their liking, his parents dismissed this as the product of a very proper upbringing.
Presently, Blaise Zabini was standing inside the doorway of a seamstress shop, closed for the day, some four buildings away from the Cobblestone Inn. Despite being what he was, Blaise did not feel the need to wear a different skin. The sun had set and the dark would provide more than adequate cover.
Also, he never could maintain a morphed state for very long, when he was feeling particularly drained. It was a lot like trying to mould a block of clay using only your elbows. The end result was less than finished. It had been an intensely trying week for him and he had had a lot on his plate.
Earlier in the day, he had made a quick trip to look in on the Auror he had captured. Inadvertently captured, he reminded himself, with a grimace. He was very good at what he did, but had to admit that he was becoming cocky.
He had made a rare mistake in allowing himself to be spotted on his way out