As We Fall (Blaise Zabini Fanfiction)

Chapter 39

Hello readers!

This is a relatively short chapter but I just wanted to get something published for you as I have a very busy schedule right now.

WARNING -- this chapter contains graphic depictions of violence. Read at your own risk!

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Zoe

The moment I get my first glimpse of what lies beyond the door, I realize it: 

My Grandpa was not the one who'd sent the letter I'd read this morning. 

Your Aunt has gone on a trip overseas, so I'm all alone here.

That's what the letter had said. And yet, here my Aunt Joan is, right in front of me. 

Her bruised, beaten corpse is floating in midair like a limp doll, as if she's hanging from the strings of some invisible puppeteer. Her head lolls to the side, lifeless eyes peering out at me from beneath a few strands of blood-crusted hair. 

Around her, the flat that I grew up in -- the flat that holds such a special place in my heart -- is in ruins. 

The walls have been gouged out and spattered with blood, bearing resemblance to a gruesome painting. The kitchen table which I'd celebrated my sixteenth birthday at not even a year ago has been overturned. Framed photos that had once lined the wall -- photos of my grandpa and I by the pier down the street, school portraits of me depicting my growth from childhood, even photos of my Aunt Joan -- now lie in pieces on the floor, a spray of glass surrounding each broken frame. Each and every photographed version of my earlier self has had her eyes vigorously scratched out. 

I don't move -- I can't. I am frozen, rooted to the spot, afraid that even the tiniest flinch might kill me. Horror seeps through my veins like thick black tar. 

I stay this way for awhile. Maybe minutes, maybe hours -- I don't know. 

I can't tear my eyes away from the floating corpse that was once my aunt. I want to -- in fact, every ounce of my being is screaming at me to look away right now -- but I can't. 

It's clear to me that whoever killed her must have magical blood running through their veins. 

The way she hovers in midair, completely defying gravity -- there's no other logical explanation behind it. 

But this can't be the work of any ordinary wizard. Surely, this must've been done by someone sinister. Although I haven't been apart of the magical world for long, I can tell that this is one of the darkest forms of magic -- nothing they'd ever teach us at Hogwarts. 

Right then, it hits me:

If this is what's left of my Aunt Joan, then what's happened to my grandpa?

It's as if a sudden jolt of electricity has struck my body. I am still in one moment, and in the next, I am not.

I fly forward into the apartment, my heart rattling violently in my chest as though it's trying to break free. After three steps, I throw up all over the floor. 

My hands collapse to my knees, the taste of acid strong on my tongue. 

But I don't have time to catch my breath or recover. 

My feet force themselves forward again, and I somehow feel weak and full of adrenaline all at once.

I stumble through the living room, tripping over splintered wood and shards of glass. I barely have time to register the heap of ashes in the fireplace, in the midst of which lies a familiar charred dog collar with a golden tag that reads Baby.

"GRANDPA!" My voice is frantic now, cracking like a gunshot as it spills from my mouth. 

"GRANDPA?!" 

I race down the short hallway and into my grandfather's bedroom. Torn apart, just like the rest of the flat. Completely empty. 

"No no no no no no no -- "

I'm tearing back the bedsheets now, ripping open closet doors and dresser drawers in a hopeless attempt to find the man who raised me, because the thought that he's gone -- really, truly gone -- is unfathomable. It's impossible.

Thick teardrops soak my face and the collar of my t-shirt as I stumble blindly out of his room, each frantic gasp of air feeling like fire in my lungs.

I shove against the door before me, forgetting, in the midst of my delirium, that the bedroom lying beyond it is my own. 

Egg yolk-yellow paint. Vibrant canvases hanging from the walls. A snow globe containing a family of ceramic egrets perched cozily on top of the dresser. That's what the room I grew up in used to look like.

Now, it's in pieces.

Again, the walls look as though they'll cave in any second; they're riddled with deep gashes that expose the wooden boards and metal pipes that run through the building like veins and arteries. My childhood bed has skidded across the room, and the snow globe displaying my beloved family of egrets is in pieces on the floor, one of the birds' necks snapped clean in half. 

For a moment, I think my heart's stopped beating. 

Because I know now -- in fact, I'm almost certain -- that someone has done this terrible thing to my home and to my family. Even worse, they've taken my grandpa, and I have no idea where he is. 

In the midst of the wreckage, I spot a small slip of paper perched on my old windowsill. It looks out of place -- perfect, untouched amongst the whirlwind of chaos surrounding it. 

It's been neatly folded in two; it even looks like someone's taken the time to match up the corners. 

I carefully approach the windowsill, my eyes locked on the delicate thing, and reach out a trembling hand.

I turn it over in my fingers. 

The off-white cream color of the paper, the hardy thickness -- it feels strangely familiar. I realize it must've come from one of my old sketchbooks.

I start to unfold it, my head pounding. 

Inside are just two sentences. The handwriting is a long, thin scrawl, the letters resembling brittle bones. 

The topmost point of the Caucasus Mountains. 

Make it there quickly, and you might still be able to save him. 

I read it again -- and then a third time. 

The reality of what I must do next sinks into my mind as I stand in the middle of my old bedroom, clutching the note with white knuckles. 

I don't have any more time to waste. 

I race back through the wreckage of the apartment, down the stairs, and out onto the cobblestone street. 

Night has fallen now, and the air is cool and clear. There's not even a breeze. 

Too quiet. 

I grab Eric's broomstick, which I'd left propped up against the building, swing my leg over the handle, and kick off against the ground, propelling myself up towards the stars.