12Disclaimer: I don't own it; don't wish I did. I just like mixing and matching pairs.
A/N: So! I'm back again. This is a bit of an experiment— in reality, all of my stories are "experiments", but— it's my first unfinished one-shot/possible multi-chapter. It turns out "Then the Terrorists Win" did better than "Fire and Ice", so I guess the public loves the tragedy, dark romance, and angst. So, if in your review you ask for a proper ending, I will capitulate. If not, you may revel in the suspense. Until then, I'll be off finishing the second season of Doctor Who. Enjoy! :)
Blaise hated Christmas. He hated the bloody carols; he hated the gaudy colours (honestly! What colourblind prick decided that green and red compliment each other?); and he hated the merry spirits. But, above all, Blaise Zabini hated mistletoe. The weed every single twit in the world worshipped. He hated how it "magically" grew above people's heads. He hated how at every Christmas party, his bloody nosey mother insisted on trapping him under it with some completely wrong witch. He hated mingling with the twits and he hated that stupid bloody smile he had to keep on his face. However, this year was different. This year, she was here.
How she made it in, he had no idea. She definitely wasn't a Muggleborn, but she also wasn't a Pureblood. She was accepted into this circle; albeit reluctantly. He watched her; unsure of herself, socially awkward, rehearsing conversations in her head. He watched as she hurriedly grabbed a drink to keep her hands busy. He watched as she took it all in— probably wondering why the hell she even got mixed in with this lot. The lot that she fought against; the lot that killed her boyfriend. The lot that persecuted her friends, and made her watch. The lot that killed her family right under her nose. He almost felt pity for her; the stupid bint. Why was she even here? He embraced her presence, don't make that mistake. As stupid as she was; the girl was brave. She had as much nerve as a bloody Gryffindor. She didn't show it; but he could tell that she was fighting herself— the Raven advising her that this is unnatural. A bird mixing in with snakes and having the nerve to feel at the bottom of the food chain. She deserved to carry herself with pride; throw dirty looks at those that lost the War, instead of the losers being sore with the champions. She had the advantage. She had the Pureblood— the blood that diluted itself to keep clean.
She wouldn't ever have to worry about birthing Squibs, or being infertile because of years of ignorance and inbreeding. The fear of "Mudblood germs" brought the advancement their magic to a halt. Her kind was confident; she deserved praise. He continued watching her, his introverted enigma. The more he watched her squirm, the more he wondered. Normally, his sociopathic nature would have him revel in her awkwardness; take pride in her being put in her place. But she didn't deserve that. He watched her.
He had watched her since school. He watched her pine over that idiot, Diggory. He watched her mourn for years, then join those dunderheads in Dumbledore's Army. He watched her date that twat, Potter. He watched her cry. Oh he hated watching her cry. It was unnatural for someone to feel that sad; that alone. Never before had he seen someone so vulnerable. He wanted to touch her; to hold her; tell her that she deserved the world, not being shoved into a hideous dress and be mentally berated by those Pureblood bitches. As he watched her accept a flute, he waited for her to feel his eyes. He waited for that split second where he could catch her off guard; keep her awake into the long hours of the night; wonder why he noticed her and not the groupies surrounding him— spoiling his Firewhiskey and killing his buzz. He counted the seconds— 3... 2... 1...
As she turned to face him, he swiftly raised his glass at the right moment— the right angle. He was in the corner of her eye; always so precise, so punctual. He knew she was going to do a double take— whereas she was new to this, it was just part of his sick game. He knew how to read them; how to draw them in. The second she faced him, he was already heading to the ballroom doors— toward the balcony.
The cool air nipped at his face, but he didn't care. He preferred the cold. Cold was absolute. There was no worry about whether it was warm, or hot, or warm and breezy. Cold is cold. Absent heat. Blaise was cold. His heart was cold; his emotions died in the blizzard. There was no connection from his heart to his brain. The only thing he ever felt was pain. He could feel the hurt he inflicted on others. Most would hate themselves or hate the power. To Blaise, it was no curse; it was a blessing. It was a gift. He could feel the power he inflicted and it reverberated back into him. It made him stronger; harder to destroy, but more attractive. Everyone loves a bad boy and, Merlin, he was evil.
But her.
Everyone loves a bad boy but her.
She liked them self-confident; they had enough pride and leadership and praise to blaze a trail for the both of them. Before they had her, they pined for her. Hopelessly. Under her spell worse than an Imperius. But when she ended the chase— when they finally got her— they dropped her like hot dragon eggs. They ruined her; and he was ready to destroy them for it.
When she finally arrived, he was sitting on the ledge. "Join me", was his behest.
P.S.: If you truly hate it, I'll fix it until it's perfect, then promptly lose my nerve and cut it. Happy voting!
P.S.S.: As always, leave any: questions, comments, responses in a PM or review. Either way, I'll see and respond in a somewhat timely manner (student by day, secretly publishing stories by night).