Summary: Blaise and Daphne reconnect at the Malfoy-Greengrass wedding reception. They argue. They cry. They laugh. They live.
Warnings: Coarse language; mature references.
"…We live in a generation of not being in love
And not being together
But we sure make it feel like we're together
'Cause we're scared to see each other with somebody else…"
Drake ft. Stevie Wonder, "Doing It Wrong"
:Hopeless Romantics:
He inconspicuously withdraws into the crowd as the mass of people abandon their seats and occupy the dance floor. It's been a long time coming, he thinks, adjusting his necktie before his lips curls upward in a sneer.
The nuptials had been a pile of rubbish, simply feigned words, spoken with the only goals being upholding two families' prides and preservation of old bloodlines.
Shallow, it seems, given the war, still fresh in their minds, fought in the name of ideals which cost them all dearly. But he accepts the climate for what it is, given that he has never claimed, nor will he ever, to be the token "yes man" for society.
The music has begun again and he sighs, exasperatedly, dark eyes shifting from bride to groom, studying the looks of happiness, perfected, frozen onto refined features.
A quite curious scene, thankfully, distracts him. From the corner of his eye, he sees a woman slumped over at a counter, snapping her fingers so as to get bartender's attention. The server slowly examines woman. He concedes in the end, though, fills the glass and leaves.
Moderately amused, the man stuffs his hands deep within his pockets before accompanying the lady.
"Not at your sister's wedding, Greengrass." Blaise says contemptuously, sliding the alcohol from her reach as he positions himself in the seat to her right.
Daphne's blonde head whips up and her features contort as she recognizes Blaise's smug face. Angered beyond words at his boldness, she closes her eyes and shakes her head, tiredly, in order to keep her composure. "Zabini, must you toy with me?" Her voice is far too calm to be considered collected, but this is the most presentable manner to sort out a nuisance in public.
"Really, after all these years, this is how the maid of honor greets me? I'm hurt."
She is not, even a little, enamored by his tone of mock upset. Dark green eyes flash as she raises her eyebrows, looking at him pointedly, responding, "You're shit. I'd like to think the best man would be on his best behavior and leave me be, but considering you hold that title…"
Blaise's slanted eyes darken and he sighs, eyes flickering over to the dance floor. Childish, childish little brat. They'd not spoken a word during the numerous rehearsals or the rehearsal dinner and he, honestly, expected her to be a bit more welcoming. But Daphne was still bitter, unable to forgive, unable to tolerate anyone for too long. The latter became evident in the ceaseless bickering between her and Astoria.
The aftermath of war had driven all of them apart, but none more so than the two wallflowers.
"You cried during the exchange of vows." This bothered him so much that his eyes rarely left her in the moments that had followed. When fiancées became spouses, Blaise's eyes were on Daphne. His eyes glanced down at her as they exited the Italian villa, arms linked. And when Draco and Astoria engaged in first dance, Blaise cringed as he gazed upon Daphne's pained, jealous expression.
"I did."
"Why?" He demanded, rounding on her again, grasping her by the arm. "Why?"
She recoils at his touch, incredulous as she looks into his brown eyes. Daphne stares at Blaise, then at her seized limb, then back at present company. Wrenching free, she props her left elbow on the surface and tilts her head so her fist may support it. "Has it ever once occurred to you that I do not find Draco Malfoy good enough for my sister? Has it ever once occurred to you that I'm entitled to cry for my little sister, to cry simply because she's to be trapped in a loveless marriage until her dying day?"
Blaise rolls his eyes, shaking his head ever so slowly at how melodramatic she is. "You're telling me you were crying at the altar because Astoria was to be wed to Malfoy?"
"Yes."
"Because you don't think he deserves her?"
"Yes."
"Because you think he doesn't love her?"
The woman hesitates, scrutinizing the man, unwilling to repeat herself a third time. She stares at him, eyes alive with a perilous gaze. "Yes." She finally utters, annoyed.
He smirks. "Don't play the role of 'dumb blonde,' Greengrass. You're better than that."
"You don't know that." She twists her body back to the counter and snaps her fingers, calling the bartender again. "You don't know anything about me."
The bartender approaches, carelessly dangling the neck of the bottle from his wrist. "Tell you what, sweetheart." He begins, ignoring his patron's new guest. "I'll leave this here for you, yeah?"
"Yeah, you do that." Daphne snaps as he sits the bottle before her. "Now get the hell out of my sight, you useless twat."
Blaise waits for the attendant to get out of disappear before he snatches the bottle, just as she reaches for it, hurling it at the display of liquor.
"What the bloody—you just—that was mine!" Daphne exclaimed, rising to look from the wasted beverages to the million shards of glass tarnishing the floor. The wreck has gone unnoticed by the guests, the multitude hypnotized by music and the bliss dictated by today's occasion.
"First of all," He hisses, anger barely contained as he addresses her. "Just because your father ensured a free, all-you-can-drink bar, that does not entitle you to make a spectacle of yourself! In Salazar's name, you're a decent pureblood woman; if you wish to behave like trash, do so in Knockturn Alley!"
Daphne shrieks in indignation, chest heaving, and backhands Blaise. The blow is hard—so loud she figures even those dancing might have heard it—and his face reddens from her strike. Bleeds, in fact. Her fingernails have broken the skin by his left eye, the abrasions leaving long markings sure to inflame into unsightly welts. To Blaise's credit, he does not flinch. His eyes do not water; he shows no sign of vulnerability. Instead, he looks at her expressionless.
"I suppose I deserve that." He states, after an eternity. Maybe it's to mock her, make her think it doesn't hurt that badly. Maybe it's to break their uncomfortable silence, to ease the tension.
It's neither. He knows why her assault was so forceful, so passionate. And, in truth, it is far less than what she truly owes him.
"You do. No need to 'suppose.'"
Their bodies rotate, synchronized, towards the table. Daphne folds her mouth, nervously popping her knuckles in the process as her eyes bore into the ruined display. Blaise's fingertips gingerly touch maimed skin, eyes boring into shelves now barely supported by a nail.
Suddenly, memories ravage his mind.
Robes fall at their feet.
She gasps as he forces her back to the concrete, taken aback by how domineering he is.
His lips silence her, ceasing her cries of protest as they leave her own and trail to her cheek, her chin, her neck.
She doesn't want the ecstasy to end—not to inspect the grounds, not to check on her sister, not to count her friends.
He's all that exists in her world.
"I was young and insecure, Daphne." He admits, coming out of his reverie.
"Bollocks." She barks just as he turns and wishes he didn't. The tears streaming down her cheeks make him feel small and insignificant, as if he's less than a man—a Weasley. "We were all foolish. You were negligent. Insensitive to my feelings, you used me for one thing, and one thing only, and left me, the next morning, on dusty, bloody, and wet sheets. You left me alone."
She's not looking at him and that's the dagger, what hurts the most.
"That….night. It wasn't our first time making love." He argues, similar to a petulant child.
"That was fucking, not love making." She reminds him, voice cracking. Broken. Harsh. "We almost lost our lives that night and I needed you. Foolish me, though." She chuckled sadly. "I wish I'd known you'd leave once you assumed the sun was up."
"I put my all into—"
"What, Blaise? Fucking me?" She laughed, almost hysterically. "Because that's what it was, Blaise. Hit and run, just like muggles. Now that's trashy. People who make love are still lying with each other in the morning."
Blaise falters with each word she speaks, understanding the gravity of what transpired. But he had been a child, an ignorant child requiring some way to escape the reality of Crabbe's death, to escape the terrible aftermath of one self-proclaimed Deity's idea of righteousness. Consequently, he had run towards the one person with whom he could be himself; the one person who wouldn't laugh when his defenses were down; the only person in that bloody school that he loved.
He scoots his chair closer to her and reaches out, wiping the tears from her face. "I was scared." He said simply, shocked she's even allowing him to touch her. "I was scared that you might put assemble the pieces and realize that was the only way I knew how to cope. That's why I left. Not because I didn't love you. I still love you."
The final four words are out before he has time to consider whether they will result in further punishment. But they don't. Daphne places a delicate hand over Blaise's larger, stronger one that lifts her jaw. Green eyes inspect brown, searching for deceit. Acceptance could wound her again, break her to the point of no return. Was such a risk really worth it? Was he really worth it?"
"You do?" She prods, scrutinizing him. She's abiding by the wishes of her heart, disregarding the mind which she knows is conveying rational advice.
He nods, affirming her inquiry.
"Then why haven't we spoken in three years?" She inquires, crossing her arms as confidence floods back.
"Because." He sighs in relief, as she begins to smooth his shirt. "I wanted to be certain not to become another Malfoy."
"Come again?"
"I didn't want to become 'Ferret Boy, Version 2.'"
Blaise embraces Daphne just when the ghost of a grin appears. Her whispers of "No, don't cry" are drowned by his sobs of "I'm so sorry" as his lonely teardrops sting her clavicle.
"Why do fools like us fall in love?" She asks, wiping away his blood.
He shrugs, laughing slightly. "The hell if I know."
Their eyes flicker over to the guests—to her parents, to his, to Draco's.
"If," Daphne states, eyes drifting between the Malfoys and a certain pug faced matron of honor. "We try this crazy thing again, I need to know it'll have longevity. I need some affection, this isn't the '70s. I would rather be a spinster end up married to a useless tool like Lucius Malfoy."
"Well, look at it this way." Blaise reacts, looking over the newly married couple. "Malfoy and Astoria fostered love—" He represses a smirk at her scoff. "—in a hopeless place, who's to say we can't rekindle ours in a hopeful one?"
"Come on, Greengrass." Blaise decides, kissing Daphne's cheek before leading her from the bar. "A dance to end the night." He adds, hopefully, and to humor her, "Merlin willing, you'll be the matron of honor next time Astoria remarries."
Fin.
Author's Note: I should hope, in three years' time, Blaise has matured. And, we obviously know very little of Daphne Greengrass, so I just winged it.