The Covetous One

Warning: Although this story contains no explicit material, concepts may be triggering to some individuals.

There was one thing Blaise coveted more than anything else. And he would get it—oh yes, he would get it. He'd get it, he'd polish it like a gem, he'd turn it into a prize to be envied, and then he'd add it to his collection. It would make him look good, you see. It—all porcelain and emerald—would compliment his ebony and amber perfectly. Side by side, they'd be unforgettable. Side by side, they'd cast a glamour over himself, his home, his family, his children—well, the children he would have, someday.

Every person has a special talent, and Blaise Zabini's was getting what he wanted. Yes, he always came out on top, just like his mother. They knew how to toe the line—how to balance on the treacherous tightrope of politics and respectability. If Ms. Zabini—oh, she'd stopped changing her name long, long ago—hadn't been so crafty, she'd have been in Azkaban for two decades already.

After all, how many fortunes had she absorbed? How many husbands had died after falling into her arms? Seven? Or was it eight now? Yes, eight. She'd married again after the war. Saved her neck. An actual Muggle this time. Genus: Russian oligarch. Disgusting, but old—too old to touch her, Blaise hoped. He'd only lasted a few weeks, but it had been worth it. The headlines in the papers (both magical and Muggle, alas) had proved beyond any doubt that the Zabinis had been neutral. No Death Eater would marry a Muggle, after all. She had to be innocent—a mere bystander, oh so horrified by the hatred around her!

Blaise shuddered. Thank Merlin he'd only had to meet that grotty Russian fool, with his filthy hands and his thick accent, at the wedding. And, of course, the funeral—but that doesn't really count, does it? Plus, he had been rich. Gringotts had barely managed to convert his billions of pounds into decent, normal currency. The Goblins even had to mine and press more gold and platinum. If the Zabinis had cared to spend the money right away, they could have crashed the economy. Inflation. Chaos. Rampant poverty. And all this, right after the destruction of half of the wizarding world.

Quite amusing, really, the devastation that one greasy foreigner shuffling—or tumbling—off this mortal coil could accomplish.

But the Zabinis wouldn't do that. It wasn't their style. That would be unsubtle. No, no one ever really knew what Blaise and his mother were doing. No one suspected that handsome, elegant Blaise was playing out an elaborate drama, a puppet-master hovering over his tiny toy theatre. Everyone else was a mere marionette. Useful. Pliable. Puppets to be taken out and put away whenever he pleased. And now, he wanted a new toy.

Its name was Daphne Greengrass.

She was perfect—a gem to lock in his safe, a butterfly to pin inside a frame—and he would catch her. He'd have her for his wife—and soon. Very soon. He didn't want to wait any longer. There were beginning to be whispers again. About his mother. About his step-fathers. About their ever-growing fortune. About the cool detachment in his eyes. Others were growing suspicious of him. They were beginning to see beyond his high cheekbones and refined air. They were beginning to feel the shadow that he cast.

But getting what he wanted wasn't going to be easy. Not this time. Most of his little toys were easy to play with. Daphne Greengrass was another matter. If he was cool, she was cooler. If he was tall, she stood taller. If he was smart—maybe, just maybe, she was smarter.

No, not smarter. That wan't possible. And even if she was, she wouldn't outsmart him. He'd see to that. He had his ways. What Slughorn no longer taught after he returned to Hogwarts, Eleanor Zabini remembered. She had other tricks too, and she revealed all her secrets to her son. That's why he knew how to make things happen.

Now, all he had to do was find a way to trap his query. And how do you catch a woman? A woman who had never deigned to glance your way? Why, with breadcrumbs and sugarplums, carrots and sticks. Oh yes, the sticks. Terrible blows work well on young women. Especially when they strike . . . close to home.

Of course, he wouldn't hurt Daphne. Not really. Blaise wasn't an evil man, after all. He just liked to get his way. Plus, he knew better than most people how to manage things. He understood how the world ought to work, so why shouldn't he push things in the right direction? And, for him, the right direction included the lovely Miss Greengrass. Blaise couldn't risk his little games being exposed, and the Greengrasses had enough power to protect him. Money, after all, could only go so far before it started to make a stir—to cause whispers. Look at the Malfoys. Fools.

A reputation for being an upstanding citizen—now that was a currency that people would trust. And who was more upstanding than Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass? Who, among all the Slytherins, had distanced herself from the worst—the most indiscreet—of the lot? Even Blaise had stumbled, but Daphne had not. She'd kept her eyes open and her hands clean the whole time. She'd gone so far as to befriend the errant Mudblood in their ranks—that bottle-eyed bitch, Sally-Anne Perks.

Her little sister had even been in Ravenclaw. An excellent accident. If Astoria hadn't been so plain, he might have picked her instead . . .

But that was something Blaise couldn't bear considering. Daphne outshone Astoria—far outshone her—so far that Blaise had to have the Slytherin one, even if the Ravenclaw would be better. He had his children to consider, after all. When he had them. Someday.

Blaise drummed his fingers against the armrest. What was the best way to pull Daphne into his web? Mum would not scruple to use a few potions. She'd been one of Slughorn's little prodigies. But something about that—ensorcelling his bride—made Blaise sneer. He didn't intend to kill her for her money, after all. He planned to keep her by his side for a long, long time. Better to secure her in a more permanent way.

Of course, Blaise could use Daphne's family against her instead: One little sister. Two beloved parents. Grandparents. Did Daphne have any? Perhaps something happened to them during the war. Blaise wasn't sure. He hadn't been paying attention.

Nevermind. She still had two parents. He could manipulate them. He just had to decide which one would be most useful. Fortunately, Blaise and his mother had never actually been Death Eaters. They'd just been sympathetic to their cause. Thank Merlin for her foresight. That would help—the Greengrasses wouldn't like it if their darling little girl married a Death Eater's son. Otherwise, Blaise's plan might have been doomed to fail from the start.

Mrs. Greengrass didn't travel in the same circles as Ms. Zabini, so he couldn't say how he could use her best. Maybe he could arrange a little tragedy for the family? But only if it was strictly necessary. If an accident was traced back to him, it might alienate Daphne and the rest. Besides, there were other ways. If he remembered right, Greengrass was a deeply conservative man. No, not what was now being called "bigoted"—he had no problem with Mudbloods and Muggles. But he was a white-wedding kind of guy—if you wanted to borrow that archaic Muggle tradition. Yes, he was the sort of old-fashioned man who liked his little darlings to be pure. Unsullied. Intact. Virginal.

Hm. As far as Blaise knew, the Greengrass girls were still that. But maybe not for long.

What else did Blaise have going for him? He was charismatic. He knew that. Even if—after a while—people started to get uneasy around him, he was able to smile and joke and impress them. Whenever he saw someone get that look—the one that showed they were beginning to doubt him—he could swoop in with his charm and a few handy lies, and soon enough he'd managed to smooth things over.

Plus, he had a handsome face. Daphne couldn't be immune to his looks. There weren't many Purebloods their age to choose from, so why not marry the handsomest? Draco—his only serious rival—had gone to pot. Five years and a guilty conscience could do that to a man. Blaise smirked. At least he wasn't troubled by that. Not like other people. Weaker people. Didn't they understand how that foolish little thing—a conscience—held them back? In the end, what people call a "conscience" is nothing more than their own fear of making things happen.

Enough of that. Now, where were we? Oh yes. Carrots and sticks.

Blaise had charm. A handsome face. He had the two senior Greengrasses to play against their daughter. Conservatism—such a useful tool!—would be enough to push Daphne over the edge. Her father would hate to be humiliated in public. Daphne had to remain unsullied—or get married. If she were to get pregnant . . . Blaise would make sure that everyone in the wizarding world knew who the happy father was. That is, if they weren't able to guess just by looking.

So all Blaise had to do was get Daphne alone. It wouldn't be hard. After all, there was always Astoria. So tiny. So sweet. So far away from her family's cozy little home. Well, not so little, Blaise chuckled. They had quite a big house, in fact. But the point was, the younger one was on her own. All alone. Blaise could find her, set his sights on her first, and when Big Sis learned of it, she'd come running. She was protective that way. Yes, Daphne Greengrass would rush to the rescue if she thought her darling, plain, bookish mite of a sister was in danger.

She'd come wherever his little breadcrumbs led her. She'd fall right into Blaise's waiting arms. Then, they'd spend a little time alone together. Porcelain and emerald. Ebony and amber. Laying side by side in his snug little safe.

After that, he'd have his perfect children—not just someday.

Someday soon.

DISCLAIMER: The Harry Potter universe and all canon characters belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Hat tip to The Sociopath Next Door by Martha Stout. Reviews—and especially constructive criticism—are warmly welcomed.

COMPULSORY PROMPT FOR 52 WEEKS OF WRITING: Dangerous.

OTHER CHALLENGES: Submitted for the Seven Fics Challenge (Word Limit: 5000). Conceived and written for the Shakespeare Challenge: Richard III.