Blaise pretended not to recognize Harry, keeping his face neutral, but it was Blaise's mother who really unsettled Harry. The way she looked at him, it was as though she could see right through him, like she was reading his every thought and emotion. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. Before Harry could figure out what was happening, Vernon's voice cut through the air, dripping with hostility.
"Boy, get to your room," he barked, his face twisted in anger, clearly not happy about the him with see by his guests.But before Harry could move, Blaise's mother, with her commanding presence, intervened.
"I would appreciate it if everyone stayed," she said calmly, her voice soft yet undeniably powerful. "For this dinner."
Her words changed Vernon's tone instantly. His anger vanished, replaced by a false, sugary politeness that made Harry's stomach churn. Vernon's sudden change in demeanor was disgusting, but Harry knew better than to make a scene.
Reluctantly, he took a seat at the table, feeling out of place and on edge. As the dinner was prepared, Petunia couldn't stop gushing over his son and his family, particularly showering praise on dusley himself. He was acting the part of a spoiled child, indulged and catered to, and Harry couldn't help but notice the look on Mrs. Zabini's face—Blaise's mother didn't seem all that impressed with pétunia son's behavior. The flicker of disapproval in her eyes was subtle but telling.
She introduced herself as Aranea Zabini, and Harry, trying to make some polite conversation, complimented her name. "That's a really unique name," he said, genuinely intrigued. For the first time that evening, Mrs. Zabini smiled—a real smile, not the cold, haunting expression she had worn when they first met.
"Thank you, Harry," she replied, her voice softer now, and for a brief moment, the room didn't feel so stifling. Harry found himself relieved to see a side of her that wasn't so intimidating. Vernon wasn't the only one who seemed uncomfortable with the idea of Aranea Zabini managing such important business matters.
Petunia, who usually prided herself on being the perfect hostess, seemed slightly off-balance. She kept stealing glances at Aranea, as if unsure how to behave around her. Throughout the meal, Petunia, in her usual simpering tone, tried to compliment their guest.
"Oh, Mrs. Zabini, how… unusual for a woman to be involved in this kind of business," she said, clearly struggling to phrase her thoughts in a way that didn't sound outright condescending.
"It must be very challenging for you." There was a slight, but noticeable tension in the room. Aranea's calm, poised demeanor didn't falter, though there was a flicker in her eyes that suggested she was well aware of Petunia's underlying doubt. Harry caught it immediately.
She doesn't think a woman should be in charge either,he thought bitterly. Vernon, meanwhile, was far less subtle.
"Yes, yes," he added with a forced laugh. "It's just a bit… unexpected, isn't it? I always imagined a man would be handling these kinds of negotiations. You know, someone with a strong presence, who really knows how to manage these things." He leaned back, satisfied with his comment, not noticing the slight tightening of Aranea's smile. Harry, watching the exchange, felt a wave of disgust.
I can't believe them,he thought, glancing between his aunt and uncle. How can they be so ignorant? But beyond his irritation with his relatives, a more pressing thought weighed on Harry's mind.
Why is a witch like her even bothering with the Muggle world? Why invest in it? He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to this. Aranea, however, remained unfazed. She answered Petunia's comments with grace, making it clear she was perfectly comfortable in her role, despite their assumptions.
"Business is about intellect, Mrs. Dursley, not about gender. I've found that a sharp mind and a clear strategy will always win the day, no matter who's in charge." Her tone was polite but firm, making it obvious she wasn't here to play into their outdated views.
Petunia's smile wavered, unsure how to respond, and she quickly turned the conversation toward more superficial topics, like how charming their house was or how Vernon had done so well at his job. Harry, watching it all unfold, could hardly keep from rolling his eyes.
Vernon, for his part, looked uncomfortable at having been subtly rebuffed, but he wasn't quite done.
"Yes, well, of course, it's just that—don't you think the business world is a bit… harsh for a lady?" He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I mean, surely it must be difficult to keep up with all the pressure. Must be tough on the nerves."
Harry could barely stand to listen anymore. He wanted to ask how Vernon thought a witch—someone who could probably hex him into next week without breaking a sweat—could possibly be out of her depth in a Muggle business world. Instead, he just sat there, silently fuming.
Aranea didn't miss a beat. She gave Vernon a calm, measured look before replying, "Mr. Dursley, I assure you, I've faced challenges far greater than any the business world could throw at me." Her voice was smooth, her smile returning. "I find that intelligence and experience are what count most in my line of work."
Petunia, sensing Vernon's unease, quickly jumped in with another attempt to steer the conversation elsewhere, praising Blaise's appearance and manners, though her constant gushing made Harry want to gag. Blaise, ever the image of calm, let the compliments wash over him without much response, though Harry could tell he wasn't exactly enjoying the attention.
Harry quickly grew bored of the conversation, unable to stand the back-and-forth between Vernon's clumsy attempts at conversation and Petunia's excessive compliments toward the Zabinis. He could feel the tension simmering under the surface, especially from Aranea, though she hid it well. Blaise, for his part, remained passive, barely engaging despite the attention thrown his way.
I can't sit here anymore, Harry thought, glancing toward the clock. Pretending to shift in his seat, he cleared his throat.
"Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom," he said, his tone neutral. Without waiting for much of a response, he stood up and quietly slipped out of the room. Instead of heading to the bathroom, however, he made his way toward the stairs. He was done with this dinner. He had better things to do than listen to Vernon's poorly disguised misogyny or Petunia's desperate attempts to impress. As he crept upstairs, Harry felt a sense of relief wash over him.
"Finally," he thought, reaching his room and gently closing the door behind him. Just as he was about to relax, he froze. A voice cut through the silence.
"So, this is where you live?" Harry turned sharply, recognizing the voice immediately. It was Blaise, standing casually in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a smug expression on his face. His arms were crossed as he surveyed Harry's small, cramped room, his eyes taking in the peeling wallpaper and sparse furniture.
"I would've expected something a bit more... fitting for the Potter heir," Blaise added, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Harry narrowed his eyes at him, feeling a mix of irritation and embarrassment.
"What are you doing up here?" he asked, keeping his voice low. "You're supposed to be downstairs with your mother." Blaise shrugged, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
"I got bored," he said simply, his eyes still wandering around the room. "And I was curious." He turned his gaze to Harry, raising an eyebrow.
"This is hardly what I imagined when I thought of how the famous Harry Potter lived." Harry crossed his arms defensively. "It's not like I had a choice," he muttered, glancing around the room himself. "This is where they stuck me." Blaise didn't seem surprised. "Still, for someone with your legacy, I would've thought you'd have more... I don't know, influence over where you live." Harry gave a small, bitter laugh. "Yeah, well, tell that to Dumbledore and the ministry." He shook his head, leaning against the edge of his bed.
"They don't care who I am. To them, I'm just a burden." Blaise's expression softened for a moment, though he quickly masked it. "That's unfortunate," he said, though there was a hint of sincerity in his voice.
"Still, I'm sure that'll change soon enough. You're not going to be stuck here forever." Harry wasn't sure how to respond. Blaise was right, but that didn't make it any easier to deal with.
"What are you really doing here?" he asked, narrowing his eyes again. "Your mother's doing business with Vernon. Why are you suddenly interested in my room?" Blaise gave him a small, knowing smile.
"Maybe I just wanted to see how the other half lives," he said, though Harry could tell there was more to it than that.
"Right," Harry muttered, unconvinced. "Well, now you've seen it. Are you satisfied?" Blaise's smile widened slightly. "Not quite," he said, his tone playful. "But I think I'll let you off the hook for now. I'll see you downstairs." He gave Harry one last glance before turning and heading toward the door. Just as Blaise turned to leave, Harry couldn't shake the question that had been on his mind since the dinner started.
"Wait," Harry called out, making Blaise pause at the door. "Why is your mother working with the Dursleys? With Muggles? It doesn't make sense." Blaise glanced back at him, his lips curving into a slight smirk.
"I'm Italian," he said simply, as if that answered everything. Harry blinked, confusion written all over his face.
"What does that have to do with anything?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. Blaise chuckled softly, shaking his head.
"You're really something, Potter," he said, amusement twinkling in his eyes. "You're actually quite adorable when you're confused." Harry scowled at the comment, but before he could retort, Blaise continued. "What I mean," Blaise explained, his tone more serious now, "is that in Italy, wizards don't have the same obsession with blood purity as they do here. We're not as... rigid about who we work with. Muggles, wizards, half-bloods—it's all just business."
Harry's frown deepened as he processed this. "So, your mother doesn't care about... you know, blood status?" Blaise shrugged. "She's practical. She'll work with anyone if it benefits her. And trust me, dealing with Muggles like your uncle is... let's just say, it has its uses."
Harry couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy at that, but he didn't press further. Instead, he glanced at Blaise, who was still watching him with that same amused expression. "Anything else you want to know, Potter?" Blaise asked, raising an eyebrow.
Harry shook his head. "No, that's all," he muttered.
"Good," Blaise said with a small smirk. "I'll see you downstairs." And with that, Blaise turned and left, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.
He couldn't help but feel like he'd learned more about Blaise and his family in those few moments than he had from the entire dinner. But one thing was certain—there was more to Blaise Zabini than met the eye. As Blaise left, Harry sat down on his bed, feeling the weight of the day starting to catch up with him. He leaned back against the pillows, trying to push the conversation with Blaise out of his mind, but one thought stuck with him—the idea that other places might be less prejudiced. The idea intrigued him. He had always known the wizarding world here in Britain had its issues with blood status and racism, but could it really be different in other countries? Especially places like India, which he'd been curious about ever since he found out that part of his father's heritage was Indian.
The more he thought about it, the more the idea grew in his mind. What was it like there? Were wizards in India less obsessed with blood purity? Did they treat Muggles differently? Maybe they had their own problems, but the thought of being in a place where people didn't automatically look down on others because of their heritage was... intriguing. He had always wanted to visit India ever since learning about his father's roots. The idea of seeing the places where his ancestors came from, of exploring a magical world that wasn't steeped in the same kind of prejudice he had grown up with, felt like a welcome escape. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, imagining what it would be like. Maybe someday, when all this nonsense with the Dursleys and the wizarding world was behind him, he could go there. See it for himself. Learn about the magic they practiced, and maybe even find a place where he didn't feel so out of place. For now, though, he was too tired to do much more than let his mind wander. The day had been exhausting, and he needed rest. Still, the thought of India and what might be waiting for him there lingered in his mind as he drifted off to sleep.
When Harry woke up, Kavi, Asha, and Hedwig had all returned from their hunting and were fast asleep. He blinked groggily, still in his clothes from earlier, and glanced at the clock. It was 8 p.m. He hadn't meant to, but he'd accidentally slept for three hours. Curious about whether the Zabinis were still around, Harry sat up and strained to hear any sounds from downstairs. The house was oddly quiet. He slipped out of bed and headed downstairs, careful not to make too much noise.
As he descended, Harry froze at the sound of Vernon's voice, booming through the kitchen. Vernon was red-faced, angrily shouting at the air as if Mrs. Zabini were still there.
"Incompetent woman! Couldn't even see the potential in my project, too busy fussing about with whatever nonsense she had in her head!" The table was empty of plates, and it was clear the Zabinis had left some time ago. But Vernon's anger hadn't faded.
"And to think," Vernon continued, "a woman trying to decide what's a good business idea! Ridiculous. Should've left the thinking to the men! What does she know about finances? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" Petunia, looking flustered as usual, muttered in agreement.
"A woman has no place questioning a man's plans, especially not in business. That's why this dinner was a waste! I knew it from the start. No wonder your project didn't get any backing, Vernon. Women shouldn't be involved in important decisions."
Dudley was sulking in the corner, clearly disappointed. "So, no extra presents for me? No holiday? All because some woman didn't agree to Daddy's business plans?" Vernon slammed his fist down on the table, causing the dishes to rattle.
"No bonus, no promotion, no nothing! All because Zabini refused to work with us. I should've known better than to trust a woman in a man's world!".
Harry, standing in the shadows near the stairs, felt a mix of disgust and relief. He didn't feel bad that Mrs. Zabini had turned down whatever nonsense Vernon had proposed. In fact, the whole situation was a bit amusing—watching Vernon and Petunia fall apart over not getting what they wanted. But the misogyny in their words made his stomach churn. He quietly turned back, deciding that it was best to avoid them for the rest of the evening. The last thing he needed was to get dragged into Vernon's foul mood. Luckily, Harry had thought ahead and bought some provisions when he went out that morning.
He had placed a preservation charm on them to keep them from spoiling and stored them neatly in his trunk, which was much more than an ordinary suitcase. The trunk had been expensive, but it was worth every Galleon. It had multiple compartments, each perfectly organized. One section was like a small library, filled with books on various magical subjects—some of which he had gathered over the years, or found in obscure shops.
Another compartment served as a mini-lounge, with a cozy chair and a table where he could sit and study or just relax. Then there was the storage area, where Harry kept his provisions. He had stocked up on non-perishable foods—bread, some fruit, packaged biscuits, and canned goods.
There were also some magical foods he had bought from Diagon Alley: enchanted crackers that never lost their freshness, chocolate frogs, and a few bottles of pumpkin juice. He had also tucked away some cooking supplies, like a small cauldron for brewing simple potions, a bag of magical spices, and even a self-warming kettle for making tea. In the closet section of his trunk, he had stored his extra robes, shoes, and a few other personal items like photos, a small broomstick repair kit, and a toolset for keeping his owl, Hedwig, in good health.
The trunk was truly a marvel of magical engineering, and Harry was always glad to have it, especially in moments like this when he needed to retreat from the Dursleys. He sighed in relief as he opened the storage compartment, knowing he wouldn't have to rely on Petunia's miserable cooking tonight. It felt good to have a little control over his life, even in small ways like this.
He sat down, took out a sandwich, and began reading a book he had acquired from Gringotts about the Peverell family, one of the heirloom texts entrusted to him due to his lineage. The cover was worn yet elegant, embossed with intricate silver designs that shimmered in the dim light of his room.
The spine was cracked, suggesting it had been opened many times, and the pages emitted a faint musty smell, reminiscent of ancient libraries. As he munched on his sandwich, he flipped through the pages, each one filled with tales of ancient magic, particularly focused on the Deathly Hallows and the creatures associated with them.
The book started with a detailed introduction to the Peverell brothers—Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus—each with their own ambitions and ideals regarding the Hallows. It painted a vivid picture of their lives against the backdrop of medieval wizarding society.
"The Peverell Brothers: A Legacy of Magic" detailed how the three brothers, each powerful wizards in their own right, sought to master death in different ways. Antioch was obsessed with power, seeking the Elder Wand to become the most formidable wizard. Cadmus, yearning for lost love, was drawn to the Resurrection Stone, hoping to bring back the deceased. Ignotus, however, valued humility and wisdom, choosing the Invisibility Cloak to evade death rather than confront it directly.
One chapter, "The Deathly Hallows and Their Guardians," explored the myth of the Hallows and the creatures of death believed to guard them. It described how these creatures emerged from the shadows to protect the artifacts, serving as a bridge between the living and the dead. The narrative emphasized the Hallows: the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak, each adorned with stunning illustrations.
The Elder Wand was depicted as a formidable weapon, its intricate carvings representing the power it held. The Resurrection Stone was illustrated as a smooth, dark gem that glimmered with an ethereal light, while the Invisibility Cloak was shown draped elegantly over a figure, hinting at its remarkable ability to render the wearer unseen.
"Myths and Realities: The Grim" detailed the Grim, a spectral hound said to herald death. The illustrations featured glowing red eyes that pierced through darkness, and the text explained how the Grim was often misunderstood as an omen of doom. The descriptions resonated with Harry, who often felt like an outsider due to the weight of his own experiences.
Another section discussed "Thestrals: The Horses of Death," showcasing the winged horses that could only be seen by those who had witnessed death. The images depicted their skeletal frames and leathery wings flying gracefully through a misty moonlit sky. The accompanying text explained their tragic beauty and deep connection with those who could see them—an understanding that resonated with Harry, who had also experienced the loss of loved ones.
As Harry closed the book, he couldn't shake off the swirling thoughts in his mind.
Did the Deathly Hallows truly exist? If they did, what were their connections to death? He pondered over the potential benefits of such powerful artifacts. Would the Elder Wand make him unbeatable? Could the Resurrection Stone actually bring back the people he had lost? And what of the Invisibility Cloak—was it merely a tool for escape, or did it hold deeper significance?
These questions lingered like shadows, tugging at his curiosity and unease. With a heavy sigh, he decided to set the book aside. He knew he needed to clear his mind and prepare for sleep. After all, the weight of the world could wait until morning.
He stood up and moved about his room, changing out of his clothes and into his comfortable pajamas. The soft fabric felt soothing against his skin, a welcome relief from the day's earlier tensions. After slipping into bed, he cast one last glance at the book, its cover glinting softly in the dim light, before turning off the lamp.
As he settled into the familiar embrace of his blankets, his thoughts began to drift. The day had been long and filled with strange encounters and thoughts that stretched far beyond the ordinary. As he relaxed, the weight of exhaustion settled upon him, his eyelids growing heavier.
Soon, he found himself slipping into a deep slumber, thoughts of the Deathly Hallows and the mysteries they held slowly fading away, replaced by dreams filled with adventures, friends, and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.