what a waste of a fiery heart
Jake Zabini. 26. Blood Traitor.

In love with one Rose Weasley.


Epilogue x Next to Normal

Jake + Rose: Light

anywhere with you || jose


The air around her hummed with anticipation as she strutted through the halls. Her shoes made soft clicks that echoed off the walls like canon blasts. At the end of the hall was a door to a room where she had gone before to hide. This time she wasn’t hiding, just waiting to be found. She glanced around her quickly before stepping through, quietly closing the door behind her. This room was one of the empty ones, furnished only with cobwebs. Rose tugged on her charm bracelet, trying to decide which one to use. The couch? Too friendly. The bed? No, not the bed. That left the armchair. Her favourite armchair- the one that she transfigured from her favourite purple pillow. She crouched down and set the chair upright before returning it to normal size with a flick of her wand. 

Rose settled herself in the chair and crossed her legs with a sigh. Her head pounded- the migraine she’d had for a week hadn’t gone away- and she really needed a drink. Or a smoke. Or both. But she was being good, being clean. Her hands were shaking enough to make her rethink it. After a few clicks of her watch she pulled out her cigarettes from the bag laying limp in her lap. Willpower was never one of her strong points despite being the product of two very upstanding parents. Her mother and father could resist frivolity far better than she could. 

Her eyes slid shut as the smoke curled from her lips. She allowed herself a moment of peace, which she completely deserved. The thought of going back to her studies, from doing more work, made her nauseous. The amount of work she was putting into her schoolwork was ungodly. She needed a rest, a time where she could completely be herself and relaxJake could help her with that, he was the only one that could. 

It had been too long since Jake had last seen Rose. She was preparing for exams and he had been working practically non-stop in the meantime. He hadn’t heard from her for the better part of a week, even, and when he’d gotten her owl this afternoon he’d left his flat within seconds.

He was desperate, sue him.

He was also concerned that Rose didn’t seem exactly, well, well. She was always going to push herself and while he’d learned to live with that fact—mostly, at least—it didn’t make him happy to see her running herself into the ground. He worried and she was damn well going to let him. 

So here he was, strolling disillusioned through the corridors en route to where Rose had said she’d be. While not technically barred from the Hogwarts grounds, complications would arise if he was found in the halls with no good explanation of why he was there. So he came in secret. 

Jake entered the room quietly, latching the door gently behind him. He paused; her back was to him and she hadn’t noticed his entrance yet. Smoke curled above the glint of red hair he could see above the back of her armchair. The smoke hadn’t yet dissipated into a haze that filled the room—she was only on her first, maybe second cigarette. He crossed the room slowly, kissing her temple while wrapping his arms around her from the side.

"Mmm, I missed you," he murmured into her hair.

Jake doesn’t remember not knowing.
Jake doesn’t remember the first time he noticed. He knows it was around when he was six or so, because that was when Zela had been born and that was the first time he’d seen a baby. His parents didn’t associate with people much outside of the old guard—the Notts, the Flints, the Malfoys. Jake was by far the oldest, born in the midst of the last war. So he knows that when he was six and Zela was born, he noticed she looked like her parents. The dark hair, the pale skin, the bright eyes—pure Flint. And Jake, to say the least, was not pure Zabini. He doesn’t remember studying his father while he sat in his wingback chair, drinking a Scotch, though he knows he must have. Blaise Zabini made an easy study, for he rarely moved from his position by the fire. 
Jake doesn’t remember watching his father for hours, though he did. Watching for any indication that maybe he was wrong, that maybe, somehow, the universe worked differently within the walls of Zabini manor. That maybe, somehow, Jake and Blaise Zabini were indeed father and son. That Jake’s eyes were simply lying to him when he looked from his father’s dark skin to his own freckled forearms, that there was just some simple fact that would explain everything. Some fact that wasn’t that Jake wasn’t a Zabini but a bastard.
Jake doesn’t remember not hating. As Jake’s disbelief and denial shifted to acceptance, Jake needed someone to blame. Blame for the lies, for the hurt, for the betrayal. For being told something that was not true and would never be true. For his name, a cruel reminder every time he signed a page that his life was a sham, a lie. That he wasn’t, and would never, be a Zabini. That he shared no more blood with the man he’d called father for his whole life than with Merlin himself.
Jake does not remember a life without resentment. He already hated his mother, whose blows and curses had left permanent marks, even in the days before Lily’s disappointment. He could not hate his mother more than he already did. Perhaps his life would have been easier if he could, if he could have not hated Blaise as well. But that was not to be. Instead, he turned his anger and hurt on the man in the corner in the chair. The man who failed in every aspect. Failed as a husband, to keep his wife from bearing another man’s son. Failed that child, failed the next one as well. Failed to do anything except drink himself to death to escape the hell his life had become. Jake does not have room for sympathy, there is too much rage in his young body, not enough space for generosity. But there are too many things to fight, too many things to be angry at. He blames the world for being a place where his existence is allowed.
Jake doesn’t remember not knowing. 

Jake doesn’t remember not knowing.

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My due date is in four days. Let’s hope for punctuality at least. 


Four days, wow. That’s not very many.


Oh no, I don’t resent Jocelyn at all. I love this baby more than I’ve loved anything really and I can’t wait to properly meet, but being so pregnant is making me slightly miserable. 


No, damn, I didn’t— well no matter, I hope this week flies by.


Thanks for the encouragement. I don’t think I have a choice. I’ve made it this far though. What’s one more week?


Well I suppose not, but resenting it never helped anyone. One fortieth of the pregnancy, I believe.


I am so ready to have this baby out. Less than a week to go. 


You can do it, professor!

Bleeding hell, they’re actually trying to kill me


Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince


Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

You can’t stay on the road forever Patrick. Gotta let it take you someplace.