Title: Will You Remember

Rating: PG-13….

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or an of the characters so sue me not for I have little except for this mind in my head.

Other things: This…came out rather morbid.. with slash nestled in it..

Pairings: Blaise Zabini….

Author's Note: And this would be my second one shot… Unlike the rest of my writing this came out extremely morbid, for me anyway. I wrote it from 3:20 in the morning..to… well, the sky was getting light when I finished. So..u.u; bear with me if this fic doesn't make sense at points.. I tried..

He was unlike the rest. His parents weren't among the Dark Lord's followers yet he had placed in that 'doomed' house among their children. He's too quiet and somber…and nothing like the Slytherin he should be. Unremarkable, unrememberable, and mostly unknown by anyone. Nothing distinguishes him. He never stands out. For the first five years at Hogwarts he remains a nameless no one. A body that takes up space, occupies a chair during class and steals precious air, water, food and time from everyone else.

And finally he figures something out.

There is exactly one this he does not want. Something that he fears and detests. It twists his gut, encloses his ribcages pushing with unmeasurable amounts of pressure, and is, must be pushed back to the furthest recesses of his mind.

Blaise Zabini does not want to be alone.

He doesn't want to be forgotten. He doesn't want to be the only one who cares about what befalls him. There's a devouring hunger for warm thoughtful faces. People must think about him, must acknowledge his existence.

Eventually it comes to the point that he no longer cares what it takes. It no longer matter precisely what it takes to make them think about him so along as they do. As long as he is worth a moment's thought.

And that was when he began to change from that silent Slytherin boy whose name was never brought up, barely even known into what he had not been before.

The first to change was his attire. That after all would be the easiest metamorphosis. He'd always had had a keen fashion sense but he had yet to bother using it before. It was obvious what he had to do.

The other Slytherin boys in his year were Nott, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle.

Malfoy's style was elegant and refines as was expected of the little aristocrat but the others' apparels were nothing out of the ordinary. And he had just been one of them numbers.

Gradually the alternations took place. Pants became tighter, waistlines lower, the shirts seemed to occasionally have a few too many unnecessary buttons undone. The shoes gleamed and the hair grew out. The tie was loose, begging and pleading to be undone.

No one really noticed. It was too minor a transformation. Though the Patil twins did exchange glances and eyed that rear end one day when they had been going up a stairwell which the Slytherin had been headed up as well.

Maybe Blaise Zabini was a pretty face. But so were other pathetic and uncared for students.

The next step had to be broken down into leaps and bounds.

Once Blaise was satisfied with his looks he delved into it.

That evening Malfoy found that someone had had the nerve to charm his bed, the mattress to be precise so that it spent the entire evening vibrating under his very much displeased frame.

The next morning the prefect awoke to dreadful bags under his eyes and an mood that was incomparably foul.

And all through breakfasts promises and threats were made that the culprit would pay dearly. That awful Gryffindor, for only those fools would be bold enough to create this prank.

Then, smack dab in the middle of these declarations Zabini with a barely nibbled strawberry pastry casually interrupted the vengeful rant.

"Why Draco, you might appreciate the charm. I was only trying to give your night life some action. Merlin knows you're quite old for a virgin."

A clear, slightly teasing and all together light-hearted voice.

The silence that fell over the table and its occupants was thick and play the cat with all their tongues.

Pansy's jaw hung opened and gaping, a bite of partially chewed biscuit boldly greeting the world. Crabbe was a blank faced as ever though he had an air of disbelief and Goyle was still in the process of methodically trying to absorb what had been said. Nott held his glass of pumpkin juice as if to must have been heavily drugged by some rebellious kitchen elf and set it down with a harsh clink. And Draco, ah, his expression was priceless. Eyes wide and blinking in such an unMalfoy manner, his lips parted fractionally while his earlier heated words died helplessly on the tip of his tongue. Pale brows raised incredulously showing that he was still grasping onto his true character.

He had made his mark.

With a delightfully easy smile the dark haired boy learned over and pecked the color drained Malfoy on the cheek before getting to his feet and gracefully ambling off. Pastry still in hand.

From there everything else flowed with ease.

All he had to do was be cunning and clever, traits, which he knew he must, possessed. After all, he was in Slytherin.

Just be creative and plot and think. Tower above those infamed Weasley twins.

The list of his triumphants went on and on.

Craftily deployed underwear (usually pink and of the scandalous sort), the disappearance of Creevy's camera and the pasted photographs of the students that were worthwhile as no one had ever seen them all over the corridors, the 'accidental' spiking of the teacher's tea and coffee (which had lead to a very, very interesting day of classes that ranged from McGonagall slurring out her lessons to Lupin acting like a rowdy and affectionate puppy to Snape giving an extremely terrified Neville Longbottom a lapdance to Filch's declaration of upmost adoration for Mrs. Norris), alcoholic chocolates (terribly potent), the leather pants spell (use your imagination), and quite convincing illusions of various individuals doing what some might have considered fantasies come to life and for others unbearable nightmares in public view.

Yes, Blaise Zabini was definitely making his mark.

All students knew his name. They recognized his work, his feats, and has seen his trademarked Zabini hip swaying strut.

Finally it became time for Blaise Zabini to put some bite into his bark.

His first target was Terry Boot. Easy but not too easy. He had his standards, there had to be some challenge. And Merlin there had to be plenty of reward.

He never did it with Terry Boot though. It was all show, constant flirting and winking and well placed hints.

Terry Boot had Blaise Zabini's first kiss.

Then Blaise moved on. He didn't need to win, he just had to make it feel like a victory. To make everyone else believe he was successful.

And the names of all who came after Terry began to blur together. A miserable swirl of promises, plush lips and pressed bodies.

Blaise Zabini, that slut that teased and nibbled. That drove the boys and girls insane. You couldn't ever have him.

Many escaped his charm though. Draco Malfoy was never ensnared though he endured as much humiliation as Blaise could adoringly drown him in. He never had Gryffindors except for the few who weren't worth his while. The strongest couldn't be netted. The ones who weren't going to be forgotten.

He was known to all but not really.

No one knew that he liked burnt marshmallows or that he preferred ears unpierced, since in his opinion that peach warm earlobe was the best stretch of skin, he like licking his fingers clean and having shoes loose enough for him to be able to wiggle his toes inside of. Cold weather was better than warm, umbrellas were tiresome especially since rain was refreshing and people were unnerved much to easily just by the meeting of eyes. No one ever seemed to care that Blaise never slept on his back or his stomach that he must be on one side or the other, curled up just slightly. That when he ate French toast he would always save the crustless centers for last.

The plan wasn't necessarily working.

There were some benefits to it however.

Nott seemed to have decided to tolerate him even if he was one of the few who failed to be persuaded to 'want' him.

In classroom activities where partners were required, whenever Blaise didn't have someone else to play around with and irritate he saddled up complacently with the taller boy. All sweet smiles as they worked together.

When Blaise wasn't running rampant during mealtimes it was beside Nott he would sit, occasionally innocently plucking tidbits from the other's plate.

During the nights that he wasn't in another student's bed and his own seemed too vast, chilling and agonizingly deserted it was Nott's bed he would crawl into. And he would curl up against the other's form and receive the rolled eyes and the grumble of annoyance without care or worry. He knew eventually there would a grudging acceptance.

And then the air of familiarity and closeness he had worked so hard to achieve and form between himself and the other Slytherins was severed.

After one particular long stretch of Christmas break they had returned and abruptly he was no longer one of them. They had shared something that he was not a member of. He was an outsider and a threat. And worst of all, unwelcomed.

The reason was crystal clear, as clear at the marks he knew would find upon the flesh of their arms if they bared them and removed the illusion charms cast to hide them. It tainted them. Allied them.

How fiercely he wanted to be one of them.

All he had was weary rejection. And it grew and spread to the other houses. The rest simply assumed he must be with his Slytherin comrades. And he was alone.

When the war broke out everything only deteriorated.

The Order locked him up, questioned him and ignored his scar free body.

Blaise Zabini is a flawless actor. His lies are smooth, clinging and as tempting as a child's pleas.

So they never ceased demanding for the answers he could not possibly give.

The war brought with it the expected deaths and betrayals and chaos.

There was Draco Malfoy who was apparently a spy for the Order. Who was also of course never informed of the incarcerated Zabini. People never trusted what the relentless blonde might do with such information. Who cared if he placed himself in the very nest of the viper for them? That he risked himself more than nearly anyone else.

It dragged on and on until it was feared and felt like it would never end. Three years passed before it did. The tragic tale spun and woven until the completed tapestry could be hung upon the wall with Harry Potter living up to all the expectations that had been poured onto the Boy Who Had Lived.

Lives had to be rebuilt and mourned.

Blaise Zabini was released stumbling into the light with rushed and empty apologies.

Freedom…and how fast the world had forgotten him, how quickly it had been before no one cared. What few fragments for him to gather together before he held what was the entirety of his in life in the palm of his hand.

It was just as bad as he had feared.

This tormented loneliness, this emptiness. This silence. Everywhere he went there were strangers. Sometimes they possessed familiar faces, sometimes they were utterly unknown and new. None recognized him or cared to. This man had played no role in the war. Who now played no role in this new deliriously happy world.

The good side was rewarded, as victors must be.

The loser punished and marked down as the evil beings they had to be.

The neutral had no place whatsoever.

Blaise Zabini had no place.

His chest felt oh so empty and twisted and bottomless, and his mind overwhelmingly numb. The struggle against his apparently innate unknownness proven futile. And there was no reason, no reason at all for him to try beginning again. To attempt once more to rage against the tearing, solemn emptiness that clung and latched so bitterly to his pale and defeated form, that glazed over soft blue eyes and eventually allowed him to fade away.

Why bother? The effort is too great, the strain and it's plain and clear that they didn't want him. Nobody did. How could anyone ever want him?

Except they couldn't, wouldn't let him alone. Just give him what peace he pieced together.

They found him as he tried to slip away to that final alluring nothingness.

They stripped him of everything and forced him into white and walled him up from where he couldn't escape until he was what they dubbed well.

St. Mungos.

There he was fed and clothed and his existence forced to continue. His name lingering on in the scribbles of doctors and nurses and in the records hung upon the sign beside his bed and in the papers taped above it on the wall.

Blaise Zabini never received any visitors or cards or attention from the outside world.

And he ate his meals and listlessly did as he was told. Answered their questions, played like a good little boy with the other patients, slept when it was bedtime, always on one side or the other.

Of course the bed occasionally felt as if it stretched on forever. With noting to anchor him to himself except for a thin blanket and worn, used sheets.

One night he rose to his feet and on those bare feet he treaded silently on the tiled floors that no one had ever considered that maybe carpeting would have been better, much more comforting and homey.

He wandered and he wandered through places he knew by the day and others that shouldn't have existed until he was well past the places he should have been.

That was when he found what he had been locking for. What he hadn't even known he had been searching for.

And he crawled into the bed that was identical to his own and pressed himself fiercely and needily into the faintly breathing frame that was on the bed. And found no complaint, just a half there groan and then a too thin arm with a dark blotch against the fair skin encircled him and pulled him close and breathed out his name.