Blaise Zabini x muggle!reader
summary: y/n is new to France on a study abroad trip. Blaise is visiting France post-Hogwarts. rags to riches story of an unfortunate muggle falling for a complicated, ridiculously wealthy person who just so happens to also be a powerful Wizard.
a/n: this started with an idea, became a moodboard, then became an entire fleshed out fic! I thought it would be short but my brain had other ideas. enjoy! note: I did write this from my personal perspective in life. as a result it is not very inclusive. I plan to change that with my next fics, I’ve just been having a really hard time lately and have been writing a lot of comfort fics and/or self-inserts to escape from irl bc irl is rly shitty for me rn
It’s a brand-new start, in a brand-new apartment, in a brand-new city, in a brand-new country... an ocean away from home. I can bring Tacoma to France, right? At least, that’s what I’m trying to tell myself. Study abroad is fucking... scary. I kinda regret it. It’s a good opportunity and for someone who doesn’t travel, it should be a fun experience. But I’m currently having an anxiety attack over taking out the garbage, so I’m not sure my positive self-talk is working.
I look out the window of my top floor apartment, wait until someone finally finishes walking down the stairs, and run out my door - I nearly trip about five times going down the spiral of death, my arms feel like jelly thanks to perpetually pushing my garbage deeper in to avoid this trip, and I swing with all my might to hurl my garbage bag into the trash compacting dumpster - only it hits the bottom lip and falls to the ground, splitting open.
“Great!” I say, sarcastically, “First they send my luggage to the wrong location, then they try to say my passport isn’t valid because my apartment was a temporary address, then I’m greeted with a fridge full of rotting food and no power, then I’m bitten up by fleas and now - I just- fuck. Why can’t I just- do anything- right-“ I cut myself off when I hear a screen door slide and blink a couple times to erase the threat of tears that had been creeping up on me while I ranted.
When I look up, I see a tall, dark-skinned guy about my age - handsome. He’s wearing a suit, and expensive jewelry. Combine that with the fact he’s living in the apartment building next to me, which is worth more than my life just for one month of rent, and I put together that he’s probably rich beyond belief. I quickly look away, not wanting to stare. I silently pick up my garbage, piece by piece. As I work, I feel eyes drilling holes in the back of my head. I ignore it. It continues, and I still ignore it as I finally shove my ripped garbage bag in the compactor and slam the door shut. I hear a slight jump up above, and chuckle to myself.
I zoom back up the stairs and almost make it to the top, but I trip 5 stairs away from my door - and fall, hard. Body laid out flat hard. Cheek scraped and stinging from the metal grating on the stairs, hard. Lost the goddamned slide that caught on the stair, and can see it gradually falling, bouncing and rolling down the stairs, hard. I lift my head and see blood on the stair. I feel it running down my face. All I can think is that this really fucking hurts. The tears come, a combination of pain and frustration, and I pick myself up and stumble my way into my apartment, completely forgetting about the attractive rich boy who just watched me be a danger and inconvenience to myself.
I rush to the kitchen and grab a roll of paper towels, and run to the bathroom, I see the markings in the mirror and can tell it will leave a sizeable scar. Do I need stitches? I don’t know. Anyway, I start dabbing at everything and blood is still oozing out of every nook and cranny, to my displeasure. I’m about to start bandaging my face when I hear a knock on my door. “Fucking Christ!” I mutter to myself as I slap a wad of paper towels on my face and sulkily go to fling open my door.
I’m not sure who I’m expecting, but to see the same rich guy on my doorstep, slide in hand, probably wasn’t it. “Hey, um, I saw what happened, and I thought you might want your shoe back.” His accent sounds very British - I was expecting it to sound more like a snooty Frenchman’s.
“Oh. Um. Thanks.” I say flatly.
As my muscles twitch to begin closing the door, he says, “Would you like some help cleaning that up? I have certifications to give medical aid... and stitches. My name’s Blaise, by the way.”
Doctor, maybe? Probably. “Sure,” I say, opening the door wider and standing back so the blood doesn’t drip on his suit. “I’m y/n.”
A few minutes later we’re in my bathroom, me sitting on the toilet, him sitting on the bathtub as he helps me fix my face. “So, Mademoiselle y/n,” He asks, “Do you find yourself in these predicaments very often?”
“Which one? Poverty, flea bitten, or bloody?” I say.
“I suppose whichever you’d like to think I was referring to.”
“Well, in *that* case - I’m usually caught unawares in all kinds of predicaments - though I’d say self-injury due to clumsiness is an uncommon one. And do you usually find yourself in predicaments requiring you to treat someone’s wounds?”
“I used to, though now it’s only on the occasion.”
“Sounds like an improvement,” I note. “I won’t guarantee it, but I think I’ll get the hang of walking up the stairs soon enough, so you don’t have to worry about me.”
“I wouldn’t necessarily mind it if I did worry about you once or twice more. Why were you running? It seemed like you wanted to get away from something. Does your garbage compactor smell that disturbing?”
“It doesn’t smell great,” I admit, “But truth be told, I’m not a fan of human interaction. It’s scary. Especially when everything is new to me.”
“How long have you been In France?”
“A few days, just enough to get myself physically settled.”
“I see. And you are from America?”
“Mhm. Let me guess, my accent gave it away.”
“And the slang, I’ve yet to hear someone from France use certain terms that you seem to favor.”
“Oh, most of my slang is specific to my city, not just my country.”
“Yea, Tacoma. It’s near Seattle, if you know where that is. Tacoma’s better, though.”
“I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never been there. My mother is a fashion designer, but she only travels where there’s inspiration or a business deal.” So that’s how he gets the expensive clothes. The rest of the money too, probably.
“Must be nice, having a handmade closet.” I muse. “Not that I care for having any more clothes than I brought. They’re pretty reliable, if I do say so myself.”
He laughs. “Yes, well, if the blood stains don’t come out of your jumpsuit you might need a new one. They shouldn’t be too difficult to remove, though.”
“Yea, I’ll just dump a bucket of Oxi-Clean on it and call it a day. That is, if any stores nearby have it.” I frown, realizing I have no clue if France carries any of the products I usually get. This is gonna suck. Hopefully the internet has some answers so I don’t have to ask anyone for help.
“Why don’t I take your jumpsuit back with me? Save you the trip. Believe it or not, I used to have chronic nosebleeds, so I know a thing or two about stain removal.” Blaise offers.
I smile, only just. “Well, if you insist. But I love this jumpsuit practically more than myself, so I expect it back right away!”
He returns the smile. “A fan of fashion? You ought to meet my mother.”
I chuckle. “I’m sure your mom would despise me - I only own seven jumpsuits and some athleisure for going on runs.” I pause, then tack on: “Oh, and some fuzzy pajamas for when I’m sick.”
Blaise cocks a brow at me. “And when you’re not sick?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I grin mischievously.
A wave of recognition graces his eyes, and he very quickly looks away, I assume for being flustered.
“You Americans, always so scandalous.” He tsks in mock scorn.
“That’s what we’re known for, is it not?” I say cheekily, “Beer, boobs and gun barrels. And all the other problems that come with that, but that’s a can of worms I am not looking to open today.”
He ties off his handiwork, and says, “It looks like my job is finished, other than stealing your jumpsuit off your back to fix it. I can wait in the other room, if you’d like?”
“Um, yea, that works. Lemme just, grab my next jumpsuit. Gonna have to do laundry early, I suppose-“
“I can wash your jumpsuit for you. I’m pretty good at reading labels, if I do say so myself.” He jokes.
“Oh?” I say, “Then you must be a real genius! Who taught you, Einstein?”
“No, but it was another white-haired, eccentric man, so you’re not that far off.”
“When all teachers are like that it’s kind of impossible not to hit relatively close to the mark.” I remark, then change clothes as quickly as I can, tossing the dirty outfit into a trusty plastic bag and tying it shut.
When I walk out to the living room, Blaise is toying with one of my sculptures. He’s definitely been meandering and lurking around. “Enjoying yourself?” I ask, at which he jumps. “You’re rather skittish, Blaise.”
“And you’re rather quiet on your feet, y/n.” He observes. “But yes, I quite like your eclectic style. If only you had an apartment that let your customization shine. Something more minimalist.”
“Yes, well, it’s something I’ll forever dream of and likely never accomplish. I don’t suspect I’m going to be someone leaving the income level I was born into.” I say, just a little bit cynical.
“And why is that?” He asks.
“Because most people don’t, and the ones who do are the ones who make money. My career isn’t going to make me money.” I reply.
“So why did you pick it?”
I sigh. “Because somebody has to care about the people like me. The politicians don’t, the middle class don’t, and the rich are hell bent on keeping us there so they can have factory workers and have people going straight to prison after they graduate because we’re all desperate and miserable.”
He frowns. “That’s terrible.”
“It’s reality. And I don’t want to be like the people who get rich and stop caring because all they see is the wage difference and pretend it’s justified so they don’t have to feel complicit in the system.” I look him in the eye, my face grim. “Not all luck is by chance. Most of it is by design.”
He nods. “I understand, in a way.”
“Everyone does.” I say. “But understanding in a way and caring enough to do something about it are two different things.” I look away from him when I see his posture change. “I’m not trying to be rude, but it’s impossible not to notice the wealth gap between us when you’re wearing designer clothes and living in what looks like a mansion and I’m living in a building made in like 1900 with no elevator. It’s just the way things are, though.”
“I know.” He says quietly, thoughtfully. “I’d better get going. Your clothes?” He reaches out tentatively for the bag I’m still holding.
“Oh. Right.” I say, handing it to him. Our fingers brush against each other slightly, and it sends chills down my spine. He heads to the door while I’m rooted to the spot, collecting myself.
“I look forward to seeing you again, y/n.” He nods, meeting my eyes with a rather changed expression.
“I’ll see you soon, then?” I ask, not quite sure which answer I’m expecting.
He smiles, only just. “As soon as I am able.” Seconds later, he’s out the door, and I’m alone in my dingy ass apartment. How in the fuck did any of that just happen?
