Chapter 2: Aftermath

Rome, Italy

My eyes fluttered open, only to close immediately as the sun pierced through the gap between the curtains to jab painfully into my retinas. I groaned pitiably as the soreness washed over me like a wave. It was like the worst hangover I'd ever had paired with a full-body ache that I hadn't felt since my ill-fated attempt at Crossfit to impress a girl in college.

Then I remembered what I'd been doing to end up like this. The repeated rounds of crucio. Her pulped cranium. Her lifeblood and brainmatter staining the wooden floorboards.

I whirled onto my side and retched but nothing came out.

"Yup, I'd be surprised if you had anything left to throw up at this point," came a voice next to the door.

I looked up to find the single most aggressively Mediterranean man I'd ever seen: bronzed skin from too much time on the beach; curly, windblown hair; bushy, salt and pepper mustache; he even had a mug of espresso in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He gulped down the espresso like a shot of whiskey and took a long pull of his cigarette before putting down the cup to draw a wand. The only way this man could be any more Italian was if he walked in with a bowl of pasta and dribbling a soccer ball. Sorry, football.

"W-Who are you?" I asked. I hated how my voice cracked.

"Healer Alvarez. Your attending healer, kid. You're in the Saint Gregory's Hospital for Magical Maladies. The intensive traumas and curses ward if you want to be specific. Now let me run some diagnostics and I'll go notify your mother that you're awake."

"H-How long was I out?"

"Four days since you got to the hospital. One of the aurors on-site had the good sense to dose you with a draught of living death before transporting you. Trust me, waking up mid-apparition can get nasty."

My mind spun chaotically as I tried to make sense of everything he was telling me. "And… And how long was I…"

"In there?" I nodded, too afraid to voice the words. "Two days? Three at most."

"That's… That's good. Survivable…"

He had kind eyes that simmered with rage, not at me but at what had been done to me. He put on a wide smile that quirked his bushy mustache up at the corners. He reminded me of Mario, except with a better mustache. "You're safe, kid. You're a real fighter. You were in good shape when you came in."

"How bad?"

"That's-"

"How bad was it?"

"Malnourished. You hadn't eaten or drank in a while. You cracked your teeth clenching your jaw too hard. Pulled some muscles too. Tearing of the vocal cords. Bruising. Minor concussion." I nodded along. That was expected. He shot me his best reassuring smile again. "But you're a fighter kid, a hell of a spirit. You're going to be fine. A month? Two? And you'll be right as rain, healer's promise."

I mulled over his words. It… It wasn't a bad outcome. All things considered, I'd lucked out beyond all reason and it was all thanks to my little gold ring. All of those injuries he described seemed fixable. Hell, Harry had every bone in his arm regrown thanks to that fuckwit Lockhart. Or, will? Didn't matter. Point was, magical healing was literally miraculous. I'd be fine.

I'd be fine…

I let out a sigh of relief at that. It felt as though a great weight had left my shoulders.

"You know, there is a silver lining to this," he began again.

"What's that, doc?"

"Healer, but what I'm saying is, magical potential is very much like a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets. Or perhaps 'stronger' is not the right word. More robust? Yes, let's go with that. It grows and adapts when meeting challenges or times of strife, especially during developmental years. I can confidently say no one I've ever heard of has survived an ordeal such as yours at your age."

"And what does that mean for me, healer?" I asked, making sure to use the right word this time. It was a minor thing but he seemed sensitive about it.

"It means you, young man, are likely to turn out to be a very powerful wizard."

"I… Yeah, silver linings…" I trailed off.

He tapped the bedside table and picked up his empty espresso cup. "I'll let your mother know you're awake."

"Is she outside?"

"No, she went off to handle some business, confidential, she said. She asked to be notified by floo."

"I see…"

"Chin up, kid. You're a fighter. A real survivor. You've got a lot to be proud of."

He left me with those parting words. The door closed behind him with a gentle clack.

I had no idea if what he was saying was just some empty platitude or there was actual truth to it. It'd be nice to be stronger, who didn't want power, but I would have happily given up any power-up if it meant not having to go through that. It wasn't like that was established canon or anything either. He was probably just doing his best to put a brighter spin on things.

Then again, now that I had time to myself, I noticed a lot of my memories that didn't quite align with what I knew to be canon.

For starters, students entered Hogwarts at the age of fourteen and graduated at the age of twenty-one. Three by seven, an auspicious number according to numerology. Looking back, I could see how my increased age from canon helped me. I doubted an eleven year old Blaise, even with an adult's memories and willpower, could have survived.

Another shift seemed to be more varieties of magic, both in breadth and depth. Blaise remembered hearing from family portraits about entire fields of magic that didn't exist in canon such as enchanting, druidic shamanism, and even necromancy and chronomancy. Other fields that were barely touched on in canon, like divination and alchemy, had entire libraries worth of literature dedicated to their craft with subfields dedicated to specific practices and branches such as the development of a true panacea in the case of alchemy.

All told, the world felt more lived in, an actual global network of scattered magical communities with more unifying interests than just quidditch. Here, the world consisted of a series of national governments reeling from two dark lords in the same century, ones with political complexities that the teenage Blaise had barely paid attention to.

To be fair to him, me, it wasn't as though the Zabini family were nobles. Purebloods, yes. Wealthy, yes, one of the riches thanks to mother-dearest. But nobles? No. Even the black widow that was Valencia Zabini knew not to fuck with titled families. Though most modern governments did not offer nobles any legalized protections that other houses lacked, besides a hereditary seat in whatever made up their ruling body, their wealth and centuries of connections resulted in enough soft power to effectively rule magical society.

I scowled. That was one more way old-Corbin fucked me over: My family was firmly in the dark, sorry, traditional, camp in terms of politics and had the appropriate associates to show for it. It was actually why I'd been in Portugal; mother was catching up with some contacts and had left me to my own devices in one of our properties. Stepdad-number-seven's summer house, which explained how the crazy bitch knew how to get in.

Not that my real dad, the first of mother's victims, was any better. Daddy-dearest was an acolyte of Grindelwald's, served with distinction if his braggart portrait was to be believed, and the creature I called mother taught Blaise to be just as critical of muggleborns. Condescending at best, more often outright hostile.

Part of me was disgusted with myself that I'd called a healer a doctor, as if a master of the healing arts could be compared to some upjumped muggle.

I shook my head. It was a habit at this point. Old-Blaise was basically indoctrinated into this way of thinking and It'd be a bitch and a half to correct myself.

Or, should I correct myself? By all accounts, nothing terrible happened to Blaise Zabini in canon despite being a pureblood supremacist. He just kind of faded into the background. If I nodded along with Malfoy and the Death Eaters and allowed the stations of canon to pass me by, I'd probably end up alright, a tacit supporter who couldn't be condemned for succumbing to peer pressure by the time the good guys won. I'd walk away with seven families' worth of wealth and resources, assuming mother didn't find stepdad-number-eight sometime during my schooling. By all metrics, letting canon play out would benefit me immensely.

But… But it wasn't the right thing to do. Old-Corbin liked to think of himself as a good man. If not a paragon of virtue, then at least a decent enough folk who wouldn't fold to the bystander effect. I'd also never been the type to be drawn to money; it was one of the few traits I was proud of.

No, I was drawn to books. Knowledge. Stories. Cultures. History. I certainly didn't get a graduate degree in library sciences to become a college librarian because it paid well. The Zabini fortune meant very little to me outside of what magical tomes we possessed and what more tomes I could purchase with said fortune. It was the mystique of magic that caught my eye, not the glitter of gold.

Nor could I count on the stations of canon being followed. I knew of at least four major differences just from examining Old-Blaise's memories. As mentioned, Hogwarts started at fourteen. Second, third, and fourth were similar: Malfoy, Parkinson, and Potter were gender-flipped. Draco was Lyra. Pansy was Heath. Those two, old-Blaise met at a yule function in Malfoy Manor a few years back. And of course, tales of the Girl-Who Lived filled bookstores all over.

What other changes were there? What else was I missing? I doubted Blaise was a powerful seer in the canon Corbin remembered. Would the Chamber open during my first year? Would it open at all? Was Violet Potter the same abused and neglected child desperate for friendship? Were the Dursleys somehow worse? Or, were the Dusleys a loving family in this weird alternate universe?

I sincerely doubted that last one but the trouble was, I didn't know.

I spent the next fifteen minutes sorting my memories. Not literally unfortunately, I wasn't an occlumency prodigy and what most fictions called mind palaces didn't actually exist, but I was competent enough. I did receive some training from my mother, mostly to keep a cool head under stress and keep out casual intruders. It didn't make me some kind of emotionally detached genius but it did calm me.

I'd have to work at it. The CYOA guaranteed that no one would be able to pick canon details from my head, but that was limited protection, if it could be trusted at all. I was a seer; I didn't doubt I'd learn plenty of secrets, keeping them to myself would be a priority.

I let out a sigh. My body still ached from the aftershocks and I didn't think an episkey from my ring would help any if the trained healer hadn't already fixed it. Dark curse. No choice but to smile and grit through the pain.

Before I could finish taking stock of this new reality, the door flung open and possibly the most gorgeous woman I'd ever seen sauntered into my room.

Valencia Zabini was thirty-eight years old and looked fifteen years younger, the result of a combination of good genes, magical vitality, and a steady regimen of beautifying potions. She had raven-black hair that cascaded down her back in lustrous waves. Her eyes were large and expressive, a warm, honey-brown with long lashes that models paid exorbitant amounts of money to mimic. Pouty lips, a healthy tan, and a body to put Playboy bunnies to shame wrapped in a form-fitting, purple dress, slitted on one side to show off her thigh, completed the picture.

I was of two minds on the matter. On one hand, Corbin thought she was a knockout, the kind of woman movie stars would be jealous over. On the other hand, old-Blaise was disgusted with myself. New-Blaise waffled between captivated arousal and shame before I reminded myself of just what she was known for and settled on healthy respect and fear, the same kind you afforded king cobras crawling up your leg five inches from your dick.

Then all thoughts flew out the window as she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a hug. The smell of her perfume hit me like a brick. Not that it was overly strong, it was elegantly subtle actually, but it was just about the safest thing I could bring myself to focus on at the moment. She literally smelled like roses, enough to be noticeable but not to offend the senses.

"Oh, my little warrior, I'm so proud of you," she cooed. She kissed me on the forehead and moved back to get a look at me. There was smug satisfaction there, also perhaps even a hint of relief?

My mind, only now starting to reboot, blue-screened again. Little warrior? Since when did she use pet names? For that matter, since when did she show genuine affection? I didn't know she knew what that meant. Was… Was old-Blaise's memories… wrong…? Or misinterpreted?

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The cynical part of me scoffed. Or maybe she was just that amazing an actress. But who was she putting on a show for? There was no one else in the room to impress.

"Mother," I replied, as neutrally as I could. I had no idea how to deal with the conflicting feelings this brief interaction welled up in me so I turned to tried and true detached apathy. "Please do not touch me; I am still sore."

"Of course, Blaise."

"What were you doing that was confidential, mother?"

"Oh, just talking to a few people at the Portuguese Ministry of Magic. You won't be charged for killing poor Carmen of course," she said with a giggle that sounded far too innocent for the subject of discussion. I hadn't even known that was my late aunt's name. "Not that anyone was trying considering the circumstances, but I had to silence a few people who wanted to use it to maneuver me into a corner."

"Did you kill them?" I asked, morbidly curious.

The patronizing smile she offered me sent shivers down my spine. 'Of course not, Blaise. There is more than one way to keep someone quiet and I have some very good friends in the ministry. Besides, murder is such an inconvenient method."

I almost barked out a laugh at that. The irony wasn't lost on me. "So what does this mean for me?"

"You? Nothing. The ministry is going to cover it up of course. As far as anyone knows, your dear aunt Carmen died in an accident, bad spell misfire. Could've happened to anyone," she said with a delighted little shrug. "The Portuguese minister doesn't want a scandal in the middle of reelection. The Espinoza family wasn't particularly influential, but they did have the right blood. Can't have a pureblood head getting killed by a child because she went off the deep end."

Political fiction then. I wasn't a stranger to politics; university administration could be surprisingly cutthroat, but this was on a scale that dwarfed anything I'd experienced prior. Honestly? It made me mad. The healers knew. The aurors knew. But it wouldn't matter; they'd keep quiet because the only one who could be blamed was dead and there was no retribution to be had that I hadn't already taken with my own two hands.

I looked down and for a moment imagined my hands as red as that day.

"So this is it then?" I said bitterly. I felt hollow, like there should be something more that could be done. Justice should not be equivalent to desperate self-defense.

"Yes," mother replied bluntly. Her warm smile was gone now, replaced by a cold, calculating gleam in her eyes. "You did well, Blaise. You fought, you killed, and you got a taste of what it means to wield power over someone else."

"Is that what this is about? Power?"

"That's what everything is about."

"That's not what I felt when I…"

"When you bashed her head in with a lamp after suffering through hours of torture that would have driven lesser wizards mad?" She reached out with a hand to daintily caress my cheek. "Oh, Blaise, that's okay. It was only your first time. Losing sight of what matters is acceptable at the start. The heights of passion can be intoxicating."

Her words washed over me and I knew then: This was Valencia Zabini. No frills, no longer that mask of seductive innocence, these were her innermost thoughts laid bare. In the crazy bitch's mind, my kidnapping wasn't a tragedy or an ordeal; It was a chance for me to cut my teeth on easy prey. She didn't see a traumatized teenager; she saw a kindred spirit.

Worse, this was her way of caring. She was trying to teach me, I realized, and that sent my stomach up to my throat.

"This is just the way the world works, Blaise," she continued in that charming voice of hers. "People like to pretend that relationships matter, that words like love and friendship mean anything, but they don't. Their only worth is how they can be used to manipulate the fools who put stock in them. Remember, Blaise, there is only power in all its myriad forms, and those too stupid to seize what they can."

Voldemort once told Harry something similar. "There is no good or evil, only power, and those too weak to take it," or something to that effect. The way she inadvertently echoed the Dark Lord made me deeply uncomfortable but I quashed the feeling down. This sociopath was my mother, she had full control over my life, and I couldn't show weakness.

"Yes, mother," I said finally.

"Good, now chin up, little warrior. Tell me all about how you killed."

So I did. I recounted everything, of old-Blaise having lunch that a house elf prepared, of wandering the gardens, and of feeling a spell strike my back. I told her of waking up mid-crucio, I suspected that was when old-Blaise died or went insane, only to be taken over by me. I told her about how I fought through the pain and used my ring to trip her before stealing her wand, snapping it, and jamming the two halves into her eyes before killing her with the lamp.

I didn't tell her about my spell ring. I didn't know if she knew what was in the ring, or if the CYOA gave it to me immediately and from an out of context source but if she didn't know, I saw no need to enlighten her. It'd already proved itself an invaluable ace in the hole.

Talking with her was… refreshing. It disgusted me saying that but it was. Valencia Zabini was ultimately a simple woman. Oh, she was undeniably conniving and manipulative, but she was simple in what she wanted. Now that she'd laid her worldview bare before me, I found her easy to understand if not accept. That understanding became the rock I clung to. It was much easier to view my ordeal more clinically when I spoke with a detached sociopath.

What did that say about me?

X

London, Great Britain

I stayed in that hospital for a week, just in case. There wasn't much they could do about the lingering influences of the torture curse beyond let my own magic wash it over time out but they wanted to keep me under observation anyway. Understandable. I would have appreciated the sentiment more had I actually been a fourteen year old boy.

Personally? I just felt restless. I tried to make progress on my occlumency but I wasn't sure how much better I'd gotten. I couldn't stress test my own defenses and I wasn't about to ask mother-dearest to rummage around in my mind.

We moved to Great Britain shortly afterwards, back to our main house. Mom moved us to Britain when I was too young to remember. Perhaps it was a sense of nostalgia, she was a Hogwarts alumni after all. Or perhaps she simply saw that the political landscape of Magical Britain suited her opportunistic ways better than those of other countries. I had no clue. I didn't ask.

In the end the results were the same: I was here a week before term and I would attend Hogwarts like mother and father. Family tradition, and certain images had to be kept. She also expected me to shop for school supplies on my own. The most populous magical district in the British Isles was far safer than some beach house owned by step-dad-number-seven according to her.

I was of two minds on the matter. Corbin relished the chance to explore Diagon without adult supervision. A thousand and one fanon tropes came to mind. Could I sneak off to Knockturn and somehow luck my way into a phoenix egg? Could I discover a forgotten tome on the mind arts? Or maybe Madam Malkin could weave me a custom order coat made of basilisk hide or acromantula silk?

Ridiculous of course. Diagon was Magical Britain's version of a mall, not some video game dungeon. If such secrets existed, they sure as hell wouldn't be accessible to someone who hadn't even begun his first year. Still, it was Diagon Alley, one of the core settings of the book series that defined my childhood. I couldn't help but get my hopes up.

Blaise, the part of me that was still a teenager, was far more cautious. It wasn't as though I feared for my life if I was away from my mother, even child-me could recognize that such a thing was highly unlikely, but it had only been two weeks since I'd been rescued and feelings were seldom rational.

I looked out over the garden as I pondered what I wanted out of this life.

Looking back on my memories, I was now convinced that Blaise was a Slytherin purely because his ideals made him unfit for Hufflepuff, he lacked the courage for Gryffindor, and he didn't particularly value knowledge. He had no true ambition because he genuinely believed Valencia would kill him off if he got too inconvenient. Ambition meant nothing to a boy who'd become a wallflower as a survival strategy.

Although, he had been reasonably cunning in the way he manipulated his numerous step-dads into giving him gifts in the vain hope of currying his mother's favor so perhaps that was it.

But that ambiguity just meant this body was a blank slate. What exactly did I want? I was a seer. My abilities would grow more powerful with time but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. It was an invaluable resource to be sure, but it was also a highly coveted resource, the kind that many would seek to exploit.

Dumbledore. Voldemort. It didn't matter. If I wanted to be my own man, pursue my own dreams, I'd need to be powerful enough to resist their machinations. I needed to be so powerful that fucking with me wasn't worthwhile.

I supposed it was possible for me to simply not use my power, but I didn't want that. I wanted to practice magic in all its forms. I wanted to explore, to push the envelope until I discovered new secrets only I knew. And, if I was honest with myself, I wanted the acclaim of being the first seer who could control Fate, not be bound to its whims.

So step one: Power.

I let out a derisive laugh. I'd spent all week in the hospital thinking about what a fucking psycho Valencia was but here I was lusting after power just like her. Perhaps the apple didn't fall far from the tree. Perhaps there were lessons I could learn from her, I just hoped I'd remain myself while letting her in.

She wasn't wrong after all; there were many forms of power. Magical might was the most obvious and though Healer Alvarez did say I'd become a strong wizard, I seriously doubted he meant I'd stand shoulder to shoulder with titans like Dumbledore and Voldemort.

Wealth? Wealth wasn't nearly enough to keep either off my back, nor was it something I could accrue much of while at Hogwarts. My family was rich, but it wasn't anything compared to the truly old families like Malfoy, Black, or Bones. More importantly, it wasn't my wealth; it was my mother's.

Valencia Zabini did not strike me as a charitable woman.

Connections? That was too iffy for me. It hinged on my connections being more loyal to me than to either side. No, it was worse than that. It relied on my connections being willing to put themselves between me and the two most powerful wizards of the century. Unlikely to say the least.

That left one option: Reputation. Reputation was tricky. Without direct power or influence, it was a hard thing to sell. Should I pretend to be crazy? No, that wouldn't be enough. I needed to be a porcupine or a pufferfish, never worth poking. I needed to convince both Dumbledore and Voldemort that I could hurt either side so irreparably that it wasn't worth ever trying to manipulate me.

Nicholas Flamel struck me as the paragon of this form of power. He and his wife had lived for six centuries, outlasting a dozen different dark lords. I didn't know if the alchemists were personally powerful, but they certainly had an aura of mystique that made even approaching them difficult.

It wasn't impossible, in theory, but… how did I accrue that kind of mystique?

I ran my fingers through my hair in frustration. "Maybe I should just help Violet win early," I mumbled. It'd mean going against my mother, breaking every connection my family had, but done right, becoming invaluable to the Light could be rewarding as well.

To do that, I'd… I'd have to take refuge in audacity. It was very unlike old-Corbin, but… but it was an option, one that seemed at least feasible compared to the others. At the very least, it was something to keep in mind.

Sighing, I stood and hobbled back to my room. I still hadn't gotten over the effects of the crucio; I wouldn't for months apparently. So mother, in a rare act of charity, had gotten me a cane.

It was made of rich walnut and fitted with a golden cap on the foot that made a distinctive clacking noise against the floorboards. The cane also sported inlays of golden scales, each individual piece the size of my pinkie nail. The pieces started from halfway up the cane and gradually grew larger as they entwined around the wood, forming the overall picture of a coiling serpent.

The head of the cane was that of a king cobra, hood flared and ready to strike. "To remind the world that my little warrior has fangs," she'd said.

It sounded pretentious as fuck even repeating it in my head. Hell, considering what a colossal slut my mother was, I couldn't help but feel like I'd been given a pimp cane. If I didn't literally need it to walk, I'd have tossed it into the fire the first chance I got. I was still tempted honestly, surely a broom handle would suffice.

Ostentatious gift aside, I hadn't seen hide nor hair of my mother since we'd arrived back in Magical Britain. She said she'd be off taking advantage of my newfound reputation, rumors traveled even if the official story said otherwise, though I wasn't sure what exactly British high society heard. It was what she did best after all.

Apparently, she actually had friends in Britain, or at least as close to friends as someone like her could have. Whoever this "Selene" was, I hoped she kept her husband on a tight leash while mother was around.

"Let's say I get what I want," I mumbled to myself as I pushed in the door. "Let's say I manage to convince everyone to leave me out of their bullshit to pursue my own interests. What then?"

I thought about it long and hard as I reacquainted myself with my room. I loved books. I had esoteric magical affinities. I wanted to explore those affinities, to pursue the secrets of magic only I could uncover. I wanted the grandest magical library in existence. I wanted to be known as the greatest seer to ever live, to never again suffer because Fate wanted to "test me."

I supposed that was what it came down to in the end: Defying Fate. Fate was all-consuming in the Potterverse. It didn't matter who it was, it seemed that everyone was a slave to the whims of Fate. From Harry and Voldemort who were forced into that ridiculous duel to Snape who inadvertently set those events in motion.

Whatever fanon nonsense people liked to spout about Death and his Hallows, it was Fate who reigned supreme.

I hung my cane on a hook embedded into the wall and stumbled towards the bed. One of my drawbacks was Somnolent. I required a full twelve hours of sleep to be functional or I'd be tired, cranky, or possibly even narcoleptic if the situation was bad enough. The healers said it was caused by an unforeseen aftereffect of the crucio. Seeing how no one my age had survived shit like this, it wasn't as though they had anything to compare my case to.

As I rolled onto the bed, I noticed something on the shelf that hadn't been there before. It was a potion, shimmering golden liquid trapped in a vial of ornate crystal. I recognized it of course, from both lives. The gold was a telltale giveaway. Felix felicis, the single rarest and most potent potion in existence short of Flamel's elixir of life.

Pinned beneath the vial was a letter I hastened to open. I knew it wasn't from my mother; she'd never bother with such an expensive potion. Penned in elegant but legible cursive on high quality parchment was a note from the chief bitch herself:

Corbin Silva,

You're not the first, you know. The boundary between realities can be awfully thin. It isn't unheard of for certain souls to slip through the cracks as it were. And sometimes, certain patrons like to insert these souls, often for some nebulous purpose like their own petty amusement. Of course, these souls don't typically insist on proving their right to remain here.

Was it your idea? Or your patron's?

I suppose it doesn't matter in the end. You made a grand challenge and I, your welcoming host, obliged you. And, surprise surprise, you persevered.

Congratulations, Corbin Silva, or Blaise Zabini if you prefer, I acknowledge your right to exist in my world.

I hope you understand the worth of what I am giving you. Blaise Zabini, the vessel you now occupy, had no grand destiny. There were no plans. He would have been raised a typical pureblood wizard and grown up to be a typical pureblood wizard. He certainly had no great affinity towards me.

Except now, he is an anomaly. Now, he's you.

This bottle is proof of your victory in our little contest, proof of your persistence. Yes, it is liquid luck, but it's so much more than that. It is the essence of everything you are in a way, the embodiment of everything I've allowed you to become: It is a Fate-Breaker.

Twenty-four hours. Drink this and not only will you have supernatural luck, you have my personal guarantee that I will not reassert my will on any prophecy you go out of your way to break during that time frame.

Suffice to say, this is not a gift I give often. Use it well, or don't. Actually, that would be better for me, less work you see.

Who knows? Perhaps we shall meet face to face one day and you will not need the aid of a potion to greet me as a peer.

Well played.

Your friend,

Fate

Author's Note

Blaise is a very confused boy.

The enhanced felix felicis is the single biggest reason to take Worst Day Ever. It's basically what the letter said. Since Blaise's build is so heavily tied to divination, I figured it'd be neat if his affinity in combination with the drawback made Fate take a personal interest in his development.

Animal fact? Sure. Tigers hunt by facial recognition. Or rather, they stop hunting by facial recognition. Because they are ambush predators, if they see a pair of eyes, they'll assume they can be seen in turn and won't leap.

Indian and Bangladeshi lumberjacks and woodsmen have used this to their advantage by wearing hats with faces painted on the back of the head to deter tigers. Unfortunately, tigers aren't stupid. They've caught on and there are on average 22 deaths per year (up to 50) in the Sundarbans region.

Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: https://linktr.ee/fabled.webs.