Troll: 42. Winter Gala I

Chapter 42: Winter Gala I

Blaise Zabini
Zabini Manor, Great Britain

Christmas morning in the Zabini household was always a little different each year. The tone was, as usual, set by mother's beaus. One year, I received fuck-all as her then-boyfriend tried to monopolize her time, as if I was somehow a threat competing for her affections.

Another year, I received a hundred galleons and got told to “Make yourself scarce.” That had been quite nice. I spent the day wandering the magical half of Madrid before ending my tour at the iconic Plaza Mayor Christmas Market. Sure I got lots of questions, but old-Blaise was a seasoned liar.

By far the worst were the ones who thought spending time with me would make my mother like them more. More than once, I received the best broom on the market. I had a Rayo Del Rey and a Benedizione del Vento, a “King’s Bolt” and “Blessing of the Wind,” the best brooms available in Spain and Italy respectively, at least as of a few years ago.

They’d then insist on taking me out flying for some “father-son bonding” to show off how paternal they could be. No, I did not like flying. No, they never asked. It made for some very awkward Christmas mornings.

Mother went along with it all. To this day, I had no idea why. She wasn’t submissive. She sure as shit didn’t believe women should follow their partners’ leads. My best guess was that she was patient. For someone who saw relationships as “hunts,” simply going with the flow must have been the equivalent of stalking her prey then waiting for hours to learn their behaviors.

Father died shortly after I was born, but mother has had six husbands and a smattering of boyfriends since. Lowell, soon-to-be stepdad number seven, husband number eight, was a breath of fresh air in this regard. He was the only one I could think of who’d simply asked me what I wanted. He made himself available, but didn’t impose himself upon me.

That meant that when I asked to spend my day alone, he and mother simply gave me their gifts and went out on a date. No empty platitudes, no bullshit attempts at closeness. Just me, left to open my gifts, write brief thank you letters, and relax for the rest of the day. Maybe this wasn’t the kind of holiday spirit found in Hallmark movies, but it was… nice.

The gifts were also neat additions to my inventory.

Mother personally brewed me a set of six potions she called puzzling philters. I looked it up. The clear liquid was basically a confundus charm in liquid form. Anyone who drank it would find themselves in a suggestible trance for about five minutes, depending on their strength of will and constitution. 

It was of limited use. Like a confundus charm, the effect would soon wear off. If they did anything that they normally wouldn’t do, they would soon figure out that they’d been under a mind-altering substance. I supposed it was good for a prank, or maybe if I could arrange to clear my own name via volunteering to have my wand checked. What exactly she thought I’d use these for, I had no clue.

Lowell’s gift was much more mundane. He got me a first edition copy of Rise of Grindelwald: The definitive chronicle. It was a series of historical biographies collected by a reputable historian. Though it had no magical value, the librarian in me appreciated it. After all, Lowell had lived this time period. If he said the historian knew what he was talking about, he likely did.

X

The next week passed in a blur of fencing and mind arts practice sessions.

I was most definitely more skilled with the latter than the former. I could pretend I was a sword prodigy via the Sight, but the moment I stopped cheating, I got wrecked by most people in the fencing studio. Then again, I’d literally picked up the sport less than a month ago.

In contrast, the mind arts came easily to me, to the point that it was a little uncomfortable. By the end of just two weeks, I wasn’t just discerning what they’d done a few hours before mother dragged them to our manor; I was reconstructing entire weeks of their lives. I knew what they had for breakfast four days ago, why exactly they hated their boss, and even how they really felt about their spouses or children. It was a degree of intimacy that I found unpleasant.

Hell, I was even getting a handle on memory charms. I typically settled for foggy memories of either getting lost on a hiking trip or being at home sick with a fever if they lived alone. Mother could tell my fabrications apart from my subjects’ psyches, but that was largely because she knew what to look for. She often complimented my understanding of muggle nuance, which I couldn't exactly take pride in.

There were two bright sides to this deeply uncomfortable pastime: The first was that because wizards had a certain degree of passive protection against external magic, there wouldn’t be much point in continuing with muggles. I just hoped she wouldn’t see fit to kidnap a random wizard off the street; that’d be a lot harder to hide.

The second benefit was that, having made so many memories for others, I became quite good at disguising my memories from external influences. I was starting to develop a sense for what legilimens looked for while inside other people’s minds. I was now at the stage where I could lie convincingly to my mother unless she knew precisely what she was looking for. How that’d hold up against far greater legilimens like Voldemort, I could not say.

At this rate, I feared I’d turn into Gilderoy Lockhart. 

Regardless, that was not my concern for today. Today was the thirty-first of December, the very last day of the year. It was therefore the day of the customary winter gala.

I stood before our fireplace, as stiff as one of those soldiers in front of Buckingham Palace. I wore a set of slim-fitted dress robes, which were more like overcoats than anything truly robe-like. My outer robe was an eggshell-white while my trousers and shirt were various shades of white or light-gray. I also had a green ribbon tie and a set of silver and emerald cufflinks for that pop of color.

The outfit left me feeling very “2000s prom,” but as I’d told Daphne, I hadn’t been the one to pick it out. Mother insisted that if I wanted a neutral bend to my wardrobe, I should avoid wearing overt color combinations that people might misunderstand. So, white and gray it was, to fit my name.

“You look sharp,” Lowell said as he came through the floo. “Very clean.”

“That’s the idea,” I replied wryly. I began to lean on my cane, but a reproachful look from my mother had me standing straight again. I didn’t need it anymore, but damnit, this was my bonking stick. “Do you ever stop feeling like a dress up doll?”

“No, no you don’t,” he chuckled. He looked every bit the English gentleman. He even had a monocle and an ornate, gold pocketwatch. “Why, I used to detest events such as these when I was younger.”

“And now?”

“I still do. I just got better at hiding it.”

“Oh, stop it,” mother chided. “You both look positively dashing.”

“I think I’m a little old for ‘dashing,’ m’dear.”

“Dignified, then.”

I watched quietly as they devolved into goodnatured bickering. It was unnerving, not because there was anything wrong with a couple chatting away before a party, but because there wasn’t.

The flow of conversation felt so natural that for a moment, I could believe that mother wasn’t a homicidal sociopath, that Lowell hadn’t willingly consigned himself to the most ironic form of “until death do us part.” Then again, maybe it was that acceptance of his impending end that allowed Lowell to enjoy himself. He did say he wanted to leave this world on his terms, after all.

Soon, it was time.

We flooed into Longbottom Manor fashionably late. I’d been amused to find that the concept existed even in Magical Britain, where the floo network rendered most excuses of tardiness hollow. It wasn’t about making a fashion statement, though mother certainly turned heads. As with most things around these parts, it was about politics.

This gala had a very high-minded purpose. It was supposed to bring the leaders of Magical Britain together regardless of factional alignment or profession. For one night a year, even the most upright aurors were expected to shake hands and smile alongside the most corrupt embezzlers and politicians. Together, as one, unified nation of magicals, they were to bid the past year farewell and greet the dawn of the next.

Of course, reality wasn’t nearly so picturesque. To avoid inflaming old grudges, families that were unaligned with the host’s faction, or had not explicitly been invited by name, were expected to arrive later than the declared start time. Hence, we were “fashionably late,” because no one sane would ever mistake Valencia Zabini and Augusta Longbottom for friends.

We emerged to a spacious foyer with large bay windows that made it seem almost as if we were outside. The gardens were expansive from what I could see, covering three sides of the foyer outside the window. It was no wonder Neville was so great at herbology; he practically grew up in a garden. The ceiling was tall, with a steeply tilted roof that probably could have fitted an entire, two-bed, London apartment.

We were greeted by our hosts. I hadn’t been paying attention, but Neville had shot up like a weed this semester. The pudgy boy was about as wide at the shoulders as Gregory or Vincent, but he definitely wore his bulk better than they did. His dress robes were a deep burgundy and charcoal-gray that fit in well anywhere.

He greeted Lowell with all the formal dignity expected of a noble heir but stuttered when he came to my mother. I smirked knowingly, which he took to be judgment and stumbled more. I didn’t blame him too much. A boy was a boy in the end and if mother’s cleavage was any deeper, she’d be showing off her nipples.

By contrast, Dowager Augusta Longbottom was as rigid as a wax statue, almost as if someone had starched her along with her robes. She pulled it off in a way that made her seem stern and intimidating rather than awkward.

The vulture hat probably helped. It was a whole-ass stuffed vulture, perched atop her head like the headdress of some Indian warchief. It was so out of place that its glowering, beady eyes made me wonder if I was the one dressed improperly. Should I ever make it to such an advanced age, I promised myself that I too would strive for this level of “zero fucks given.”

Other than the obvious distaste for my mother’s rather scandalous dress, her attention was largely fixated on me. She studied me like a hawk eyeing an unfamiliar animal, trying to decide if it was prey, foe, or something to be ignored. Her hooked nose sold the image perfectly.

I paid it no mind. I’d received similar looks from Neville earlier in the year. My little bout with the crucio was no secret. And unlike his parents, here I was. Whether I liked it or not, the association was impossible to miss.

The pair led us into the reception hall. The hall was already crowded by the time we’d arrived. There were plenty of names I recognized: Bones, Diggory, Abbot, Bagshot, Runcorn, and Nott among them. Minister Fudge was next to the snack table, already on his second plate. Here, I left mother and Lowell to wander on my own.

The gala program was an unfortunately extensive thing. We arrived at six-thirty. Unless we wanted to be rude, we wouldn’t be permitted to leave at least until ten, quite possibly midnight. There was this cocktail reception, opening remarks by Dowager Longbottom, and dinner, and that was just the pre-program obligations. 

The formal part of the evening would then begin with an award ceremony, hosted by Minister Fudge of course. It was an annual affair, meant for the leaders of Magical Britain to celebrate those who made major contributions to this country. Past honorees included Orders of Merlin recipients, authors of renowned grimoires, and discoverers of new species, potions, or spells. 

Knowing Fudge, he’d find a way to make this about himself somehow. That blowhard could keep talking forever so long as he had an audience. It was just about the only political thing that mother and Lowell agreed on. I only hoped Dowager Longbottom would keep his self-grandizing word vomit brief.

A part of me wondered if anyone had ever suggested dragging Violet here. Once upon a time, the ceremony had included the Potters, in absentia for obvious reasons. Now that the Girl Who Lived had returned, it would be the perfect feather in the minister’s cap to parade her around.

Intrusive thoughts…

Well, if I ever wanted to fuck with Violet, I knew how.

After the award ceremony would come a fundraising auction. The hosting family was free to choose the philanthropic cause that would benefit from the proceeds. The Longbottoms chose Saint Mungo’s, particularly their long-term inpatient ward. 

Then, finally, would come the expected dancing. The hosts were also expected to arrange for other forms of entertainment, whether that be musical performances or exhibition duels. It was only at this stage that people could politely excuse themselves, having endured the dinner, award ceremony, and charity auction.

I sighed as I looked over the program one last time. Disney movies made balls and galas seem so easy: Eat, dance, shank yourself on glass shivs you decided to put on your feet for some fucking reason. In reality, these were long, drawn out affairs that few truly enjoyed.

I headed over to the unofficial kiddie section. There were several bar tables, chest-high, that several of my schoolmates stood around.

Many of them looked like miniatures of their parents, but with a healthy dose of teenage awkwardness. Here, Slytherins were overrepresented. In that sense, my house reminded me of those elitist fraternities.

“Zabini, fancy seeing you here,” Theo greeted. “How was your winter?”

A dozen responses ran through my mind. How did I explain that I’d been mind-raping muggles to practice an obscure magical art that no one my age should be able to do? Finally, I settled, “Tiring. It was tiring. I’ve been keeping myself busy. You, Nott?”

“Not too bad. I visited some family in Essex and caught the winter game between the Harpies and Cannons. No idea why the Cannons are still in the league with how terrible they are. They lost, one ninety to nothing.”

“Probably to fill up the roster. Or maybe they’re just bad compared to the pros. Amateur flyers probably can’t hold a candle to them.”

“True, but they’re in the pro league. They should bloody-well be judged like pros.”

I nodded halfheartedly as the rest of my schoolmates filled me in.

Heath also visited family, but the kind he didn’t like in Dublin. They had a winery there, though his father said it tasted like piss. I wondered if there was a bit of British-Irish rivalry going on. Or maybe it was the muggle vintage that Lord Parkinson detested. Or, the wine really was just that bad. Alas, I wasn’t old enough to find out.

Alice spent her winter studying charms under her father, a spellcrafter of some repute. She looked a bit downcast. I remembered that she wanted to follow in his footsteps but feared that she lacked his talent. Daphne had been teaching her in their free time, but though the lessons had allowed the princess to pull the lanky girl under her banner, they clearly hadn’t helped with her confidence.

Then there was Adrian Pucey. The older boy had shown up halfway through Heath’s story. He’d been at a flight camp, which was advertised as something similar to an auror’s boot camp, but for quidditch hopefuls. Apparently, it was an elite program that only accepted the best and was taught by a retired coach of the Falmouth Falcons, Adrian’s favorite team.

We shot the breeze as more people trickled in. I recognized the Malfoys, a pink Furby-lookalike that could only be Dolores Umbridge, and a few dignitaries and department heads. Tellingly, Arthur Weasley was not here despite both being one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and a department head. I doubted anyone remembered the last time “Mr.” Weasley took up his lordly duties.

Finally, I heard the clinking of glass for attention. Everyone that mattered must have arrived. Augusta Longbottom stood with a champagne flute in hand. Next to her on either side were the rest of House Longbottom. There weren’t many, but more than I’d expected. Neville looked especially uncomfortable standing there to his grandmother’s right.

If I remembered right, the man on her left was “Uncle Algie,” Augusta Longbottom’s younger brother. Back when Neville was young, they thought he’d be a squib and Algernon Longbottom tossed the young boy out of a window to forcibly trigger an accidental magic response. Rowling passed it off as a minor anecdote, but it was really fucked up now that I thought about it.

Voice magically amplified, the hostess began to speak, “I will keep this brief. Thank you all for coming to the annual ministry gala. It is my privilege, and the privilege of House Longbottom, to host you this year. Please, enjoy our hospitality and make merry. May Magical Britain greet the new year as one people.”

That was the start of dinner. Then, she clapped her hands and the high bar tables vanished, replaced by a set of circular dining tables all around the hall and a stage at the far end. The hall descended into controlled chaos as we all searched for our assigned seats.

Eventually, I ambled my way to one of the rear tables. This was where the non-noble, non-influential families sat. This included the Runcorns, Puceys, and of course, us. That was expected. Not only was House Zabini not a noble house, we weren’t even British. My problem with our seating arrangement was not where we were seated, but with whom.

Each circular table seated two to three families, depending on family size. And, since mother was marrying Lowell Spencer-Moon, it only made sense to seat us next to the Spencers and Moons.

Dinner was… tense.

I was one of two people under the age of thirty at this table. The other was Lily Moon, Lowell’s great-grandniece, or something like that. I still had no idea what their relationship was exactly, or where in the family tree they lost the “Spencer” part of their surname.

That didn’t matter. What really mattered was that she absolutely loathed us. And, to be fair, for good reasons. The adults danced awkwardly around the topic of their new “aunt,” doing their best not to make a scene. Lily glared and gripped her steak knife like she wanted to leap across the table and shank my mother here and now.

The award ceremony and charity auction came around, but not one person made a single bid. Besides some polite applause and an offhand comment about how Lowell used to be on the board of Saint Mungo’s, we all remained stonily silent.

But time marched implacably forward and eventually, this bit of awkwardness came to an end. The main business of the gala was finished, and so we were finally permitted to leave our seats. It was finally time to see to my own agenda.

Author’s Note

You know, writing this reminded me of some of the events I went to in DC back in my grad student days. They were super boring and made me reconsider that poli-sci degree.

Kinda wish I followed through on ditching school because I don’t use any of it for work. All I got out of it was a shitload of student loan debt. Then again, I guess you could say all that writing was good for something, eh?

I made up a bunch of shit about House Longbottom because I couldn’t find anything online.

Animal Fact: Orangutans are smart enough to be called the “men of the forest.” In case you think that’s just a neat-sounding epithet, orangutans are also smart enough to have a concept of medicine.

In 2002, in Gunung Leuser National Park, Indonesia, scientists observed a wild, male orangutan with a facial injury. The male, named Rakus, chewed the stems and leaves of Akar Kuning, a type of liana (climbing vine). Rakus then repeatedly applied the pulped mess to his own face.

The plant is known for analgesic (pain-relieving) and antipyretic (fever-relieving) effects. In traditional medicine, it is used to treat a wide variety of conditions ranging from dysentery to malaria. Chemical analysis identified anti-inflammatory and anti-bacterial chemicals as well.

Researchers later found no signs of infection. The wound closed five days later (eight since the wound was sustained), and had fully healed in one month.

Given that Rakus never applied the Akar Kuning to any other body part, it was highly likely that he did this specifically to treat his injury. Orangutans pass on generational knowledge so it is likely that the entire troupe knows how to do this.