Disclaimer/A/N: Oh, wow, was the song for this chapter really hard to choose, especially because the outline I'd made for this strayed sooooo off-course during the last chapter. Of course, most of the rules generally apply; things belong to J.K., blah, blah, blah. I doubt she would use the word fuck as many times as I do, nor do I think she'd care to go into this much depth for a character who has thus far appeared once in her series, and barely. I've seriously cut down the chunks of the lyrics I've used, as to not scare people away when they have to go through them to get to the fic…songfics are scary most of the time. But shout-out to Skyway (she's got this interesting G/D and some Bella fics I've used as inspiration for my Bella)…she turned me back onto my obscure music. The following is Mirah's We're Both So Sorry.
How can I ever apologize? I meant you no such harm
I never knew I could possess that fatal kind of charm
I just wanted to be good to you but I found I was disarmed
By a lifetime of disillusionment and the distraction of the stars
I abdicated now I'm just a prince without a land
My subjects all adore me but for this I have been banned
Now could I trade my guilt for a good flogging by your hand?
And hey I'm sorry 'bout so much baby but I know you'll understand
I'm sorry 'bout so much baby but I know you'll understand
Overcompensating
Five
"I intend to ravish you the second the ink is dry." Marcus's voice was dry and hot upon her ears, and arms crossed under her bust, she turned to him blankly.
"Oh?" Blaise asked simply, shrugging. "I suppose then, that all of this is merely for show?"
With a dismissive wave of her hand, she gestured towards the grandiose gathering straight out of some sort of royal fantasy that sprawled out before them in the Malfoy manor, a far cry from the Wiltshire mansion equivalent amongst the Muggles, where the steps to the ballroom were open and long. They were lost, somewhere, none too far from a port, and that was frankly all Blaise knew. She knew that should she try to run across the dark grounds into the endless blue horizon, she'd end up toppling down a hell and onto a none too pleasant beach, with ominous rocky cliffs in the distance.
It was quite the fantasy home, she'd heard.
"Red currant rum, disguised as only the finest wine." Marcus answered silkily, whisking a champagne flute into her clutches, sweeping back her long hair and kissing the dip in her shoulder delicately. "I've heard you've been quite the bitch lately."
"And that turns you on?" Blaise replied levelly, tossing the red currant rum over her shoulder and splashing Marcus. He tried not to scowl, drawing his wand and cleaning up the mess. "I've grown up from red currant rum, Marcus."
"So I've heard." Bellatrix was wrong; Marcus hadn't grown up. He was still going for the pleasure of the chase and since Blaise seemed like new again, he was enjoying it. And if only she were in the mood to fight with him, she'd seal the deal. Unfortunately for Bellatrix and Marcus, Blaise was so tired of all of this elitist bullshit that she wasn't quite in the mood to fight. "Apparently, you and I make quite good bedfellows."
"Really?" Blaise's tone edged on bored, and she was sounding a bit like a Malfoy hybrid. She frowned at the thought.
"Are you kidding me? Blaise, you were born a sexual being. Those train station days were nothing compared to your vengeful phase and now…you're a sophisticate." Funny how these were the words were Marcus's lyrics to the songs of his praises, and funny how Blaise didn't quite care for the genre.
She tuned him out, no pun intended. Really, no intentions at all.
"Don't you have a wife?" Blaise suddenly demanded, finally handing him the champagne flute and gathering her skirts to make her entrance into the party supposedly held in her honor but none really anticipated her arrival—none that she'd want to be anticipating it, anyhow. Press agents and Draco. How thrilling.
"Divorced." Marcus was too eager—what had he been told, she wondered?
"Well, I knew you considered me a trophy, Marcus, but I'm afraid I'm no trophy wife. I'm rather shit with children, especially ones I don't feel drawn to. And I'm afraid the children of Mrs. Millicent Flint don't entirely appeal to me." Blaise absentmindedly posed for a picture for some random gossip magazine and marched up towards the platform where Bellatrix sat idly, on one of the four thrones up there. Blaise rolled her eyes at the borderline personality disorder pertaining to the delusions of grandeur of it all.
"Unhappy, precious?" Bellatrix cooed, but Blaise could tell that she too was bored. Bella always filed her nails at these events, as if rounding them out perfectly could replace her beloved kill.
"I think that answer is best kept to myself." Blaise snapped, sitting down in one of the thrones idly and slouching. "I've shot down Marcus Flint." She said flatly. "Sorry."
"No worries, precious, I'm sure someone else will step up." Bellatrix answered absently, looking at her nails. "Oh, I wish I were torturing someone. This is dreadfully boring."
Blaise silently agreed. There was nothing she'd rather be doing than apologizing to Oliver right now, and unfortunately, that didn't seem like an option.
"What about Miles Bletchey?" Bella suggested idly. Blaise was quiet. Bella scowled. "Oh, come on, throw me a bone here. I'm bored to tears and I could use some intelligent conversation, even if the subject's rather petty."
"He's sleeping with my sister." Blaise said flatly, and the way she said it wasn't as to squash the suggestion, but to state fact.
"So?"
"He's divorced."
"Again…"
"Baggage. Not my style, thanks." Bellatrix shrugged.
"Don't blame you, honey." Bellatrix created a shade over her impenetrable stare, and squinted in the direction of an unrobed young man who was moving with ease through the crowds. "Who is that?"
Blaise shrugged. The adopted daughter of a German millionaire and the half-blood daughter of a famous Muggle writer and his American model wife ran to catch up with the tan brunette, and suddenly, Blaise recognized the three of them—and the fourth, another girl, one of the eight pureblooded American Barton children. They'd all attended the World Cup so long ago; Blaise had probably partied with them. The writer's daughter had a brother on the losing team, ironically another Oliver.
"And who are his friends?" Bellatrix demanded, rising slowly. "I recognize the boy and I recognize one of the girls—"
"Half-bloods." Daphne Greengrass spat. Bellatrix nearly jumped, not expecting Blaise's contemporary to sneak up on them. "Socialites, both of them."
Bellatrix tensed. "How did they—who—what half-blood in their right mind would want to crash a—"
"I hear he brought them with him to look more desirable." Daphne snipped. It was obviously working on Daphne.
"Who is he?" Bellatrix asked again and Daphne's posture stiffened.
"Royal Tiberius. Known by RC in the business world." Daphne answered robotically, and Bellatrix smiled.
"Oh, Blaise, the Tiberius family is one of only eight pureblooded clans in the States."
Daphne got defensive nearly immediately. "He's not just that! He's a racer for the East Coast Eagles broom racing team, and he's an investor in the Sweetwater All-Stars."
"Puddlemere won against them in the Cup a few years ago." Blaise explained to Bellatrix, who was looking dangerously bored.
"And he's the youngest investor and primary stockholder of the Firebolt Company and the only American on the board!" Daphne exclaimed excitedly. Blaise turned her eyes to the dapper American scion, as he led a conversation, seemingly about Quidditch.
"Huh." Bellatrix appeared to still be unimpressed, but Blaise knew better. They studied the boy's face. He appeared to be about 23, and was well groomed but nonetheless, seemed every bit the rugged man's man he was described as.
"He's in Europe looking for a wife." A Spanish drawl purred and Blaise, Bellatrix and Daphne turned to see the two scions to the Torres fortunes, Selma Guerin-Donavon and her cousin, Margarita Li. Selma had been raised in America and was now the wife of the owner of a wizarding accounting firm, Brit Tate Donavon, but Margarita had gone to Hogwarts for a short time. It was Margarita who continued. "Wealthiest, youngest, most charismatic, but still lacking in pedigree."
"He is America's most eligible bachelor." Selma added with a simper. "He is heavily involved in the development department at Firebolt, and even tested the prototypes while he was still in school."
Blaise rolled her eyes. The last thing she needed was another Quidditch boy.
Bellatrix smiled. Obviously, this young man was interested in Blaise or he wouldn't be at the Manor. Bellatrix turned to share her smirk with Blaise, and then scowled. "I've lost her again. MORGANA!"
"See anybody you like?" Draco's voice taunted, and Blaise spun, sneering. Unfortunately, Draco had back up. "Like a kid in a broom shop, she is."
His companion didn't look quite liked he believed Draco. "Really?"
His accent was American. Ah, this was the man everyone had been talking about. Sufficiently awkward enough.
Obviously, Draco thought so as well, as he smugly clapped his hands together. "Well, then, I'll leave you kids to it."
The two shared an awkward laugh. "Royal C. Tiberius." The young brunette man introduced himself with raised, groomed eyebrows. Blaise studied his tan nose. It was long, but button-shaped. His skin was even and his eyes twinkled blue. His eyelashes were brown and they curled, and Blaise had to shake herself awake.
"Blaise Zabini." She put forth her hand and something about him made her smile. Their hands touched briefly and dropped.
"What's so funny?" Royal—his name was funny, but she wasn't going to say that.
"I think we've met before, actually." Blaise said before she could stop herself; it was the first excuse she could think up. "I mean…at the World Cup…maybe 2 years ago?"
"Really?" Royal set down his glass and rose his chin a little in interest. "I hardly remember anything of that Cup. My team lost to Puddlemere so I partied the misery away."
He smiled fondly on the memories and for a second there, Blaise shared that smile. Ah, those innocent days.
"My ex…" She began tentatively. "Was their Keeper."
She instantly regretted bringing him up.
"Ah, then a Quidditch fan or a Quidditch groupie?" His question made Blaise laugh and she was a little more at ease.
"Fan, I'm afraid." Blaise exaggerated a sigh and, upon Royal's confused look, continued. "Had I been a groupie, you see, I would've been the type to try to marry him solely for the Quidditch glory…before he tired of my ignorance of the game, I mean."
Royal nodded and let out a half-hearted laugh. She knew she shouldn't have brought up Oliver.
"Wood is intense." Blaise resisted raising her eyebrows in agreement. "In a good way, I mean." Blaise nodded. "How long did the two of you date?"
Blaise hesitated and winced. "Maybe a year…nearly a year, anyway." She brushed it off uncomfortably with a wave of her hand. "So do you live permanently in the States?"
"Well, currently I am the head of Firebolt's American Distribution Department, but I'm over here for development so often I might as well be a Londoner." He smiled as if to encourage a laugh and Blaise laughed faintly. "The family; however, lives in New York City."
"What part?" Blaise's mother, an Egyptian-French pureblooded witch, had grown up in New York City, and they'd been together with her sister several times, mostly to shop.
"I live in this lovely house on Archer Ave?" Royal offered. "Do you know New York well?"
Blaise shook her head. "There are houses in New York?" She asked, her tone edging on bored. "I thought there were only penthouses and lofts and hotel suites."
"My parents and sisters live in penthouses and hotels but I like houses." Royal explained, and both of their sets of eyes began to wander.
Blaise nodded, wishing for a cigarette. "Where did you go to school?"
"The Magnus MacDonald Magnet. It specialized in the physical elements of magic: how it worked, what it was and why it worked." Royal began to drum his hands against his thigh.
Blaise nodded. She wished she hadn't brought up Oliver, because before then, Royal had been interesting.
"Um, excuse me, I need a cigarette." She spat suddenly, turning to go.
"Do I distress you that much?" Draco would have grinned cheekily but when Blaise turned to reply, Royal looked sincerely concerned.
"Oh, no, I'm just shit at this sort of thing." Blaise confessed, twisting a ring on her right hand. "I'm…I'm sorry but I'm not really interested."
This thought seemed to genuinely baffle Royal. But Blaise didn't wait for the awkwardness to continue. She made fists into her skirt and maneuvered her way expertly through the crowd, heading for her guest room on the Manor, with Royal hot on her heels.
"I swear, I have less than ten questions to ask you." Royal's shoes increased tempo to keep up with her, which would have been more difficult if the Manor didn't confuse her so.
"Less than ten?" Blaise laughed, rolling her eyes. "Ambitious."
Royal stopped and soon thereafter, so did Blaise. She turned and squinted at him, her arms crossed over her chest. What was his game? Now he was interested in…sparking her interest?
He seemed complimented when she'd called him ambitious, but his facial features did not twist into a self-satisfied expression. Rather, they softened. "Money doesn't impress you."
Blaise noticed his tone was more narrative than interrogative.
"No," She began, but he interrupted.
"Would it matter if you were poor?" Blaise's eyebrows rose. He was direct, but his question made sense. She could be one of those girls who was only unimpressed by money because she had it.
"Would I even be eligible if I were poor?…No, don't answer that. I know the answer." Blaise sighed and chuckled. "No, it would not matter to me then, either." Blaise inhaled sharply. "However, whatever the monetary matter may be, my guardians prioritize wealth." Blaise paused, uncrossing her arms.
"And looks, do they matter?" Royal's tone was breathy, and he took a step forward tentatively, as thought to respect her space.
"I want beautiful children." Blaise answered diplomatically, but flatly. Royal began to smile, and although she detected that he acknowledged their children would be beautiful, there was not a new swagger in his movement.
"Are you social?" Blaise began to smile too. His hair, she noticed, was soft, and his questions, she could tell, were scripted.
"I know what is required of me," Blaise began, grinning. "And then I have my indulgences." Like lunches with ex-boyfriends. Blaise's brain moved to have that statement stricken from the record.
The word "indulgences" made Royal's smile expand. He had very white, very straight and very evenly-shaped teeth. "And I know the answer to this one, but do you like Quidditch? My mother told me to ask these questions, and she knew how important Quidditch was to me."
Blaise laughed, and she nodded.
"Well, goodnight then." Royal turned to go and Blaise's face fell and she felt herself jolt forward, eyes wide like an abandoned boarhound. As though he could hear it, Royal instantly turned round again, took a few long strides to her, raised her palm to his lips and winked.
"No worries, principessa. I'll be back." And with that, Blaise's brief moments with the elusive American millionaire Royal C. Tiberius were over.