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Blaise looked back as his mother hurried him past the hordes of weeping muggles. “Hurry love, we must get to the Ministry.”
He couldn’t help the shiver as one of the destitute grabbed at his robes. Filth. As if the masks were going to stop the radiation. As if he could do anything for them, even if he wanted to stop.
Neither he nor his mother had bothered with muggle attire. Nobody cared about fitting in–not any more, not with the Statute blown all to hell, along with the rest of the world.
They’d started it. Muggles and their bombs. He sneered and pulled the acromantula silk closer around his body.
Word had got out. The Ministry, being underground, blocked the radiation, the fallout, and the destruction from the bombs. They’d turned conference rooms and offices into emergency housing, but space was limited.
The phone booth was crowded. Muggleborns, Halfbloods, even a few Muggles who knew about the Wizarding World all trying to get into the halls of power. He elbowed his way to the front, feeling like a fishmonger, trying to shelter his mother from the horrors that surrounded them.
“Zabini!”
He glanced over his shoulder at the call. Potter was waving at him, several Weasleys in tow.
He pushed his mother toward the booth and stood in the gap, preventing anyone else from entering. “Potter?”
“Can we join you?” came the breathless question. The Boy-Who-Lived looked desperate, his red-haired brigade pushing him forward.
He rolled his eyes. “The Weasleys should get in due to blood status and their father’s job. You’re a halfblood, Potter. There’s no way you’ll get past the welcome witch, but come on–we can try.”
They stood, waiting for their turn at the wand check. People were being turned away in droves, only the elite, the purest of wizarding blood were given admittance. Potter shifted, next to him.
The Weasleys were admitted, The twin, George he thought, looked back over his shoulder once, before herding his brother and sister to the lifts. “We’ve got to find dad,” he called out. Potter nodded, but didn’t say anything. He was biting his lip.
The worry was ridiculous. Potter was the golden boy, the saviour, the Man Who Conquered. He’d have to get in.
But no.
“Sorry, Potter.” Zacharias Smith was looking smug rather than sorry. “Purebloods only. Space is at a premium, you understand.”
“But–”
Blaise made sure his mother moved through the gate, but stood in front of the Hufflepuff disaster, looking down his nose. “You can’t mean to keep out the Boy Who Lived.”
“I’ve got my orders,” answered the prat. “Only Purebloods and their families.”
“Families?”
Smith rolled his eyes. “A few Purebloods are married to halfbloods, and are using their privilege and money to gain access for their spouses and children.” He snorted. “Wasteful idiots.”
Potter looked back at the atrium. Several groups had set up temporary camps in the corners. “I could–” he began, but as they watched, Aurors began clearing out the squatters. “Oh.”
Blaise grabbed Harry’s elbow. “Don’t be an idiot. Bond with me, and I’ll get you through.”
“B-Bond?”
“Yes, Potter. Once you’re my husband, we can get you a place in the shelter.”
“Why would you?”
“Call it a debt, or gratitude, or the fact that I’ve had a crush on you since fourth year, and the tournament–whatever. If you survive, that’s what counts, right?”
Blaise watched as his words hit home. “You–”
He sighed, pulled Potter close. “We don’t have time for romance, Potter.”
But he crashed their lips together all the same.