Title: These Shaky Hands
Date: August 14th, 2007
Pairing: Hermione & Blaise
Timing: After the war, not book compliant.
Summary: Blaise recounts some old wounds.
These shaky hands, dripping ink on the parchment and watching it bleed, wondering how all that came about was anything worth living for. Why did all this happen? I can not say. It's hard for me to remember it without… bad reactions. There are things in this world that no man was meant to live through.
Blaise shoved Hermione up against the wall with a grunt, his eyes greedy and intent on her. The air had pushed from her lungs as she exhaled, a small whimper the only indication that it'd hurt at all. "Did you sleep with him?" Blaise's voice was so low, dangerous, dark and foreboding.
"N-no." The strong voice of Hermione Granger was gone, lost and worn down due to the stress of the war, the stress of not doing anything.
When Blaise had switched sides for them… for her, she'd felt more complete than she had in years. He'd been initiated slowly, into the Order. What remained of it. She swallowed hard, and shook her head more, her fingers clawing at Blaise's arms. "No, no no, no – no."
His eyes were so brown they hinted at black, and the dim light made it all that much harder for Hermione to tell anything otherwise. She knew Blaise had a possessive side; it'd always been there, ever since he'd seen Ron get just a little too close to her.
But that had never worked out, anyhow.
A few strands of her bushy and unruly hair had escaped from the bun she'd placed it in. Blaise pushed them back, his eyes still on her before he leaned in to kiss at her neck gently, his eyes closed as he leaned against her. "Good." Blaise felt the empty pit in his stomach fade, his relief spilling over as warm affection, his arms touching and holding Hermione, pulling her closer and taking a deep breath, smelling her shampoo and soap. "Mine."
Hermione nodded, arching a little at the delicate touches to her neck, quietly crooning his name as her hand drifted slowly down…
The war, ha, I scoff at the war and the fanatics. Those who killed and spied and those who lose all they had gained; I had never thought myself as one of them until then. But now, sitting in my chair, staring out the window of my lonely flat, the rain pattering, and the pigeons cooing lowly to one another… sometimes I wonder.
Maybe it was meant to be.
Blaise wasn't fast enough. The green flash, the outcry of a voice in anguish. He wouldn't realize until later that it was his own voice calling out, his own strangled cry for mercy from any deity that would listen.
Blaise was a faithless man.
He didn't remember much after that, just… feelings. His wand, slick from the sweat and the sting of tears in his eyes. How the sweat dripped into his eyes and stung them more, burned and ached and how he couldn't see. He swung blindly, killing whatever moved. When he was finally restrained, it didn't matter to him. It didn't seem plausible that anything was worth living for at that moment.
Draco remembered his eyes looked so cold. So dead. He'd held his friend, one of the sensitive things of his lifetime. Blaise didn't cry. Just that outburst of rage, then he caged it up. The rage and loathing and despair, it all went inside.
And so it remained.
Perhaps, she would be happy. I like to think it so. It may not be true, for who am I to decide what comes after death. But I prefer to remember the stolen kisses and the love, rather than the pain. Perhaps, it will all go away.
But for now, I will feed the pigeons. It has been cold, as of late… and it wouldn't do for them to die on me too.
A/N: Random, I swear! I didn't mean to write this. I have no idea what it is! It's from Blaise's POV, hopefully obviously. No plot, really, just… rambles of a lonely man's journal.