A/N: Yo people! You see I was not actually lying in the long run-I was just being slow! And actually I don't know how fast I'll be updating but here's something to get you started with and I'll try!

So this is a sequel to Don't You, Blaise, for all those lovely people who reviewed DYB, especially those who asked for more! (Oh, pardon all the exclamation marks. I don't know what's up with that.)

Blaise tried to make a life for himself. But how does one go about making a life? His classmates all had jobs, were abroad, or dead. Or, at least it had been so four years ago. Blaise knew a lot could happen in four years, but no matter what his classmates happened to be doing, he still had to do something. He supposed getting a job would probably be a good way to start a life…but what sort of job did Blaise Zabini want? He remembered in his fifth year at Hogwarts this question had been asked time and again and he had never really given a satisfactory answer. But now, after some deliberation, he decided on his career.

Blaise Zabini was going to become an Unspeakable.

But becoming an Unspeakable is not what one would call easy and it certainly does not happen overnight. Blaise's training was demanding and it took a while to complete. Also, he was made to understand that once he started training, he would have no option but to be an Unspeakable. He was sworn to secrecy. In fact, he was asked to make an Unbreakable Vow. But honestly, he didn't care that much. Blaise had never been talkative, especially when he had really no one to talk to.

This changed one afternoon when Blaise was in Diagon Alley.

It was on one of his very few days off, and he had been obliged to do some shopping. Mostly groceries, which Blaise did not particularly enjoy, since it meant he had to deal with Muggles. After this had been done he had gone to Diagon Alley for no reason other than he had wanted a bit of the wizarding world. Despite the late November cold, he chose to eat lunch outside at one of the small cafes, under a brightly coloured umbrella that he hated on sight. It was, however, the least offensive of the lot.

He ate in no particular hurry, watching the people around him without appearing to take any notice of anyone at all. Blaise was quite good at this.

Nevertheless, he did not notice her until she landed in the seat across from him.

"Excuse me," she gasped. "I didn't-" She broke off as she met the eyes of the man sitting across from her.

Blaise was looking at her very oddly. The young woman who had joined him so suddenly was taller than the average, though still shorter than him, and had thick blonde hair which was pulled back from her face and fell past her shoulders. Her eyes were a dark blue almost bordering on purple when shaded by her long eyelashes. Dressed in white jeans and a pink and white jacket, she was, in fact, very pretty.

"Tracey Davies," he realized.

"Blaise Zabini," she replied, one hand flying to her throat. As quickly as she had sat down she stood up again. "I didn't mean to interrupt," she said, though what she could possibly have been interrupting was not clear to Blaise. "I'll…go now." And she did, walking quickly.

But Blaise, for some reason he didn't quite understand, jumped up and hurried after her.

"Tracey," he said, catching up with her and grabbing her arm.

She stopped, having really no other choice, and turned to face him.

"Yes?"

She had changed, Blaise realized. Not so much physically-she was the same height, her hair the same colour and perhaps a bit longer, she probably weighed about the same amount-no, it was more in the way she held herself and her expressions. Blaise both disliked it and found it attractive. He wasn't sure why.

"Hello?" she said when he just stared at her instead of speaking.

"Oh…right. Um, are you in a hurry?"

Tracey hesitated. "Why?" she asked.

"I just thought…haven't seen you in a while…buy you lunch?" He felt oddly disconcerted. Very odd. Blaise wasn't disconcerted; it wasn't something that he allowed to happen to him.

Tracey looked at him, cool appraisal in those eyes. Yet all at once Blaise felt she was putting on a mask for his benefit and suddenly he was at home with himself again. He didn't know why.

"I am in a bit of a hurry, actually," Tracey said. "I know we haven't seen each other in a while but you know that was your decision."

Blaise nodded. "I know, Tracey. I cut myself off from everyone and now I'm realizing that even Blaise Zabini can't live without some human contact."

"You've been gone for almost seven years," she pointed out.

He nodded. "Well, technically, I was here almost four years ago."

Something flashed in her eyes but was quickly gone. "Were you?"

Blaise nodded again. "Yeah, but only for a couple days. I met Pansy at The Three Broomsticks and then ate with her but otherwise no one else knew I was here."

Tracey closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them they were carefully veiled. Blaise could see this, but he couldn't see what it was they were veiling.

"That's nice," Tracey said coolly. "Now I really must go. It's been nice seeing you again." She turned to go.

Blaise stopped her again. "Wait a bit, Tracey, you reckon we could eat out sometime?"

She turned her head and gave him a long look. "Maybe."

"When-" he began, but she cut him off.

"I really don't have time to talk right now. If you really want this, get in touch and I'll see. Goodbye, Blaise."

"See you," Blaise said, and let her go.

In all honesty, Blaise wanted to owl Tracey as soon as he got back to his flat, but he didn't. Though it annoyed him that he didn't know when his next day off would be, he knew better than to try to ask Tracey out that evening. Instead he did something else that he knew he should have done earlier. He went to see his mother.

Blaise's mother had gone with him to America, but he had left her in England and gone to Italy by himself. He had not contacted her since he was back, despite knowing she was doubtless wondering about him. He had received several owls from her but had only sent her one himself.

He Apparated to about a quarter mile from her manor and walked the rest of the way. He stopped at the gates and looked up the long cobbled path, lined with snow-covered strips of grass and hedges and an occasional tree on either side. It looked almost exactly as he remembered it.

Blaise laid a hand on the gates, wondering if they would let him in. He felt a strange sensation in his hand and, though he drew it back, the gates opened soundlessly. He looked at his hand and was almost unsurprised to see a small, neat cut in his palm. So the gates had tasted his blood and found him acceptable.

He walked up the long path without hesitation, and yet without haste. He did not stop until he reached the front door. He studied the great brass knocker in the shape of a sphinx for a moment before lifting her tail and letting it drop.

It took several minutes for the door to open, and then it was his mother herself.

"Blaise?" she said, and her high, clear, almost-childlike voice was incredulous.

He stepped into the foyer.

"Oh Blaise," she said. "You're back!"

She wrapped her arms around him, soft and silky and smelling like she always had, like Chanel No.5.

"Hello, Mother," Blaise said, returning her hug carefully. He always felt like he had to be careful with his mother.

"Come," she said, and clasping his hand, she drew him into a small sitting room.

They sat, Blaise on a chair and his mother on a sofa across from him. She pressed her hands together in her lap, and studied her son intently. He returned her gaze easily.

Akila Beaumont was beautiful-so beautiful, in fact, that she was well known for that reason. She gave the appearance of being more petite than she really was-people often thought of her as a little woman, though in reality she was only slightly smaller than the average. Her flawless skin was the colour of coffee, but other than that there was no trace of her African father in her looks. She had thick dark hair which, when loose, fell to the floor, and in her face were the delicate features of her French mother. Her eyes were large and dark grey, framed by thick dark lashes, her eyebrows arched in a way that gave her a demure, questioning look, which made people want to answer it. She gave one the impression of fragility, of a woman who needed to be taken care of.

Blaise was used to his mother's beauty, and he could see past the implications of fragility, of innocence, of timidity.

Many hated his mother, despised her, feared her, because of her many rich husbands who had died such sudden inexplicable deaths. Some admired her, wanted her. Others were puzzled by her. All of them did not know her. Blaise knew her better than anyone in her life, and even he did not know her at all.

All his life she was a constant stream of contradictions, a conundrum. Because of her, he had seen things no child should ever have seen. They were branded into his memory, and he knew he was a different person because of them. And yet, he could remember times when she stood before him, protecting him, though he could not remember from what, for he had never seen. He could remember one night when he woke screaming from a nightmare (strange how dreams made him scream, but reality never did, no matter how terrifying it was), his mother dashing into the room, terror on her face. He remembered her crushing him to her, and then shaking him, telling him he must never ever scream and scare her like that again unless he was being hurt. But he had, though his nightmares were few, he always woke himself with his own screams. And his mother always came quickly and worried. He remembered when she would have a new husband, or in the months before they were married, how he would not see her for days, how he would sometimes cry into his pillow at night for missing her. And the times when it was just the two of them and their days would be spent in laughter and games and at night she would lie next to him on his bed and sing to him until he fell asleep, and sometimes, though very seldom, she would tell him about his father.

After he went to Hogwarts, however, he distanced himself from her both emotionally and physically. He wanted her love and attention still, but now he did not let anyone see the need. And if his cool facade did not deceive his mother, he did not know, for she respected his reserve, no matter how much she might have needed his childish unrestrained love herself.

In fact, though Blaise never knew it, as long as he slept in her house, very few nights passed, even after his eleventh birthday, when his mother did not slip into his room to look at him and sometimes cry over him, and then kiss his forehead and slip back out, always careful not to waken him.

Others would have called her coldblooded and conniving and worse, had they known everything he did, but he knew she really was not, in her heart.

He had never doubted her love for him. He only doubted his love for her. He did not feel safe letting her come close, and yet he was scarcely capable of pushing her away. He knew he was very like her, and he did not want to be, and yet he unconsciously thought her above most other people. He did not know whether to love her or hate her, and so he did both.

"Blaise," said his mother. "Oh Blaise…"

He leaned forward. "How are you, Mother?"

"Me? Oh, I'm fine, Blaise. I'm… Blaise, where did you go?"

"Italy," he said briefly.

He saw his mother's eyes widen. But, like him, she was well practiced in hiding her emotions. There was no other sign of surprise.

"Why?" she asked.

"I wanted to," was all Blaise replied.

"Blaise," his mother hesitated, "Blaise…was it your father?"

Blaise hesitated, knowing what the next question would be if he answered. But he didn't lie.

"Yes."

"Did you-find him?" Akila Beaumont's every nerve felt like it was standing on end.

Blaise somehow felt resentful. "I didn't come to talk about that."

He could almost see the battle going on inside his mother's head. The outcome was what he expected.

Akila pushed away her questions and her burning desire for answers and smiled at her son. "I am so glad to see you, Blaise."

His mother used his name more than anyone he knew.

"I found him," Blaise said shortly.

If she had expected him to answer her question now, she gave no sign. It took her a moment to speak.

"So he is alive?" she asked, her voice controlled.

"Seemed to be," Blaise said.

Akila Beaumont took a breath. "Is he…married?"

"No," her son said shortly.

"How is he?"

Her eyes were fastened on his face as if wishing to go inside his memory and see the man for herself. But Blaise knew she would not use Legilimency against him, even though she was quite skilled at it. She respected him and his privacy too much for that, and even if she wouldn't have, his Occlumency was by no means deficient.

"He seemed well enough," Blaise said briefly. "He was a bit surprised to see me. I take it you never mentioned my existence to him?"

Akila pressed her hands together. "Oh, Blaise. I met your father when my parents and I were vacationing in Italy. I…" She trailed off and then seemed to change her mind about what she had been about to say. "We left before I found out I was pregnant. Blaise, I was engaged. I didn't dare write him and then when my fiancé was killed, I…simply didn't know what to do. My parents supposed you were his child, and it seemed easier to let them believe this than telling them the truth…they weren't pleased of course, but since he had just been killed, they felt sorry for me. They would never have let me be with your father, since he was not only Muggleborn, but also poor, and I knew your father would have come to me at once if I told him I'd given birth to his son."

"Didn't it ever occur to you that your parents didn't have to be the ones who controlled your life?" Blaise asked, half angry.

"What do you mean?" his mother returned, puzzled.

"You could have just told them to go jinx themselves and left with my father! He would've taken care of you and-" Blaise broke off. There would have been no stepfathers. No deaths, none of that. But he didn't say it. He just looked stormily at his mother.

She wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was directed out the window, but her eyes were unfocused. Suddenly, they snapped back to him.

"Oh, Blaise. Perhaps I should have done so, but…"

"You didn't," Blaise finished for her, a note of bitterness in his voice.

Part of him suddenly wondered what his life would have been like if she had-how he would have been different. Finding his father was something he had done because he had wondered if the man was anything like himself. He still did not really know the answer.

To say that Luca Zabini had been surprised to see him was an understatement. He had scarcely been able to believe that the young girl he had spent one spring with was old enough to be the mother of a fully grown young man. In his mind, Akila was still as young as she had been when she had told him goodbye. She had been younger than Blaise was now, and in his father's mind it was almost impossible for Blaise to be telling him the truth. But Blaise had eventually convinced him that he was, in fact, Luca's son. His father had been rather nice about it. Other than that throughout the whole course of their first conversation he kept asking "But why wouldn't she have told me?" and sometimes when Blaise would look up he would see Luca staring at him, half incredulous, half bewildered, the senior Zabini had been quite accepting.

The two of them had spent the summer of Blaise's first year in Italy, and also part of the winter of his second year, together. They had grown to know each other quite well in that time. Luca had made it obvious that he wanted to be acquainted with his son. He had questioned Blaise about his mother, of course, but also asked his son about his life; where he went to school, if he'd liked it, what he was doing with his life now, what he had wanted to do with his life while he was at school, who his friends had been and were now, what about the girls in his life, past and present, and many many more questions such as these. Blaise answered most of the questions honestly, a few he simply told Luca that he didn't want to answer. His father had accepted this as well.

Blaise had asked his father questions as well, and Luca was quite good at answering these, too. He was as honest as Blaise, but a bit more open, though there were also times when he declined giving answers. Both father and son had an innate sense of honesty that didn't allow them to lie to themselves and made them inclined to be honest with others, though to say they always followed their natural inclinations would be false.

They were more alike than either of them recognized. The things about them that were similar were deep things, things that were in their natures, things they had been born with and couldn't have changed if they tried, things that were least obvious to themselves but made them who they were. Blaise was slightly more aware of this than his father. He realized that his instinctive acts resembled his father's most and his learned behaviours were more like his mother's. This made perfect sense to him; after all, it was his mother who had brought him up and he had never known his father. The only things he could possibly have inherited from Luca Zabini were things he had been born with.

Mostly because of Luca's questioning, but also partly for other reasons, Blaise had confided more in his father than he had ever confided in anyone in his life. When Luca had asked his questions about girls, Blaise had seriously considered telling him about Ginny Weasley, but had chosen not to. But in the winter in which they had spent time together, Luca Zabini had told Blaise the story of his parents in much more detail than his mother ever had. Something about this had pushed Blaise into telling his father his own story, much to Luca's interest. When he had finished, Luca had looked at him for a long time before saying:

"You are your mother's son."

Blaise, uncertain whether he wanted to take this as a compliment or not, had said nothing.

Luca had studied him and gone on. "Do you regret it?"

Blaise scarcely needed to think about this. "No, I don't."

He father had nodded. "I didn't think so. No more do I regret being with your mother that spring, and I do not believe she regrets it either. I guess it was in your blood, Blaise. And nothing is more tempting than the forbidden fruit, yes?" He had laughed. "But you're certainly not going to get back together with her?"

"Ah, no," Blaise said flatly. "She's Potter's girl. I reckon they could be married by now."

"When you say Potter…"

"Harry Potter."

"Ah… Even here, we knew of the reign of Lord Voldemort and heard of his defeat by Harry Potter," Luca Zabini observed. "I must say, I never would have supposed I would have a son who is acquainted with this boy."

"I'm not acquainted with him," Blaise denied. "I never even talked to him I don't think."

Luca raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't like him," Blaise muttered, not sure why he felt the need to explain himself to this man who had sired him. "Before Ginny, I didn't really care, only thought he was a bit of an arrogant prat…"

"And after, you resented him for catching her heart so securely," Luca finished. "Yes, I can understand that… I never liked your mother's first fiancé much either, though I never met him."

Blaise gave him a look of surprise. "You knew she was engaged and you still…?"

"And I still," his father responded, half smiling. "Perhaps it was wrong, but then, I suppose the whole thing might be called wrong… And from what you told me, you were aware of Ginny Weasley's feelings for Harry Potter from the beginning."

Blaise shrugged.

Luca looked quietly at him. "You know, Blaise, I wouldn't have said I wanted a young man to appear and tell me I'm his father…but since it happened, I'm glad it was you."

"Blaise…Blaise." His mother's voice recalled him to the present.

His gaze snapped to her face. "Yes?"

"Was he…did he seem glad to see you, Blaise?"

"Well, it's not like he's been dying to meet me for many long years, seeing as he never knew I existed," Blaise stated harshly. "But he was nice about it. Told me he was glad I'm his son."

Akila Beaumont smiled. "He did, really, Blaise?"

"Yeah," Blaise said shortly.

"Oh, perhaps I should have told him…he did always love children. There was this little neighbour girl who adored him…"

Blaise gave his mother a sharp look. Her face was softened in a way he was not accustomed to seeing, and she appeared at be looking at something beyond his range of vision.

"But I didn't, Blaise. And I don't know if I regret it. But, Blaise, I'm glad you went and found him. I'm proud of you, Blaise…" Her voice was quiet and almost tender. He couldn't remember when she had last talked to him like this.

A slight change passed over her features. "Blaise…he didn't ask about me, did he?"

"He did," Blaise said.

She shivered. She knew how honest her son could be, but she also knew how closemouthed he was when he chose to be, and she could only wonder what all he had told his father.

Blaise took pity on her. "I didn't tell him about the other men… Well, I told him you married a couple times but that's all… He felt sorry for you, widowed so often, and said he wished you would've written him or something…but he said he understood why you didn't."

His mother sighed. "He was always so sweet…" she murmured.

Blaise gave her a look.

"I'm sorry, Blaise," she apologized quickly. "Did… What did he say about-when you told him my fiancé died?"

"I didn't tell him," Blaise said. "As far as he knows, your first husband was your first fiancé."

"Oh-oh, Blaise… Thank you." She pressed her fingers to her mouth for moment. Then she removed them and smiled warmly at him. "You know, Blaise, I, too, am very glad you're my son. Our son."

Blaise shifted, uncomfortable.

Akila Beaumont sighed. "Did he say anything more about me, Blaise?"

Blaise hesitated. "He seemed really interested in that you are not married now and asked if I reckon you'd mind if he'd owl you."

His mother's hands were so tightly clasped they hurt, but her voice was calm and controlled when she spoke.

"Blaise…what did you tell him?"

Blaise shrugged. "Told him I don't know and reckon he could try if he wanted to. He said he'd think about it. We didn't talk about you after that."

"Oh…" She bit her lip. "I didn't hear anything from him," she said.

Blaise shrugged again.

"Poor Blaise." His mother's face was not pitying, but apologetic. "This was about you, wasn't it, it was about you and your father, and I'm acting as if I had a part in it."

He shrugged. He hated apologies, they were awkward.

She sighed and smiled. "Have you been back long? What are you doing with yourself, Blaise?"

He shrugged again. "Since October. I've been training to become an Unspeakable."

His mother looked sad, and then smiled. "An Unspeakable? That must be so fascinating… And I don't think you could have chosen a more fitting career for you, Blaise. Even when you were just a baby, you were quiet and seemed to know more than you should…"

Blaise said nothing in response, but he thought that if he had known more than he should have, it was only thanks to her.

Perhaps Akila Beaumont was thinking along the same lines, because she sighed and a look of sorrow passed over her face. She covered it with another smile.

"Do you like it, Blaise?"

He shrugged and nodded.

"But I guess you can't really speak of it," she realized.

"No, I can't," he agreed. He stood suddenly, and after a moment his mother did too. "I reckon I'll be heading back to London now," he said uncomfortably.

She nodded. She followed him to the door and then gave him a warm hug. "Thank you for coming to see me, Blaise. I've missed you."

He said nothing, just hugged her back for a moment and then stepped away.

"Will…will you come again, Blaise?" his mother asked uncertainly.

Blaise shrugged. "I don't get many days off. I'll see."

She nodded as if she didn't expect anything more and smiled at him. "Take care of yourself."

He nodded too. "Goodbye."

She wondered when he had last called her 'Mother'. He seemed to avoid doing it.

"Goodbye, Blaise."