Author: Masqued.
Title: Real and Regular.
Rating: PG.
Summary: Love, devotion, and tragedy undefined weigh on her shoulders as she continues her life as though he were there. HermioneBlaise
Disclaimer: The usual banter – J.K. Rowling is the proud owner of the characters used in this side-noted portrayal of love, devotion and tragedy. I simply own the pitiful plot I use to manipulate her magnificent characters.
HBP Spoilers Included: Vaguely. But just vague enough to work.
--
Mist clutters the air when it rains, prowling over the grass and soil, filling the air with a stingy aroma of renewal and rebirth. The bawling clouds curl and clatter with thunder and lightning, or whimper and weep with drizzles that barely touch the soul. Still, the quill and dark blue ink fall forsaken beside a bag of other artistic spoils and are forgotten as the droplets of recreation sting the clothes, burning desire onto the skin.
On tiptoes, twirling, spinning, dancing in the scent that lingered in the air and tasting the perfection of rain, a lithe silhouette with extended hands clings for answers from the Heavens. And, as she spins and spins and tumbles to the soil, she begins to mindfully question why people haven't attempted to contain the smell of a spring rain into a candle. People, she mentally adds, would certainly be willing to buy it.
She continues to muse on the subject, the biting reminder of her forsaken editorial at the back of her mind, and surmises that a rain scented candle would only attract flies. Or, perhaps, would perspire and dampen the walls and chip the pain like a too hot beam of shower-water does to a small bathroom in an even small flat in an even smaller town in Muggle London. The idea flits away as she decides for society that they wouldn't actually buy something that would have a negative affect on their homes.
Suddenly concerned with the lack of attention she was giving to a bottle of dark blue ink and a worn feathered quill she was fond of, the dancing, spinning, twirling, rain obsessed editorial writer flitters back to her now drenched bench, fiddling with the straps of her overused bag and fingering the remnants of her soaked thought-covered parchment.
Her bag dangles for a moment and she watches the motion before turning to glance at her muddy footprints, pausing to ponder if it should concern her that her small feet and distinctive shoes would later cause her problems if they were found. Then she chews her lip and slugs her bag over her shoulder before trudging home, consistently reminding herself that she needn't be concerned with foot steps as she was two years ago.
--
"Cover your footprints." She pauses in her crouched stride and turns to point her wand at the faded and lightly-printed footprints.
"Why?" She doesn't need to ask. He doesn't need to answer. But she asks, regardless, hoping to scintillate conversation instead of the stoic utterances they offer back and forth. He doesn't answer, regardless, knowing what she wants, but knowing better.
Footsteps could be read, voices could be over heard, and the enemy could easily find them. A shiver crept down her spine, sending fear and desire to her already curled toes, and a reminder to her faint heartbeat that the were yet to be safe.
"I don't care if they find us, you know." Indigo eyes blaze and search for hers intently, allowing surprise and despair to seep down from a lined brow to a pair of frowning lips. Still, he replies with nothing and instead, seeks her hand with his.
Of course she cares if they find her. And it's impossible for her not to know why footprints in the soil aren't good. And as she walks, she continues to disintegrate their footsteps and clutch his hand.
"Thank you." She offers a mild apology, coated in whisper and sincerity, in an attempt to reconcile her ruse to get him to touch her. His fingers curl closer to hers and she feels their pace quicken. She smiles.
And knew he saw.
--
A wooden doorframe with rusted hinges, unused locks, and broken doorknobs. A doormat that always manages to stay clean soaks up the mud her shoes offer as a peace offering to enter the house. For the sake of the carpeted floors, she toes off her shoes at the steps.
The jingle of her house keys draws the attention of four legs and a swishing tail, quickly followed by mews of delight. Her toes curl in her socks as her partially bare calves come in contact with soft, comforting fur.
She smiles. The fur leaves a trail. She doesn't bother to swipe it off, and instead, welcomes the feline that created the thick spread of hair into her arms, curling her fingers through the knots and thick coat. And somehow, when she tries to roll the creature's name off her tongue, his name comes out instead.
And it always has. And it always will.
--
"Don't," Blaise's hand stops hers as she goes to swipe off the thick patch of fur her cat left on her leg. She raises an eyebrow at him and leans back against the wall.
"And why not?" He gives her a soft, satisfied smile. She doesn't need to know why. And he never really needs to tell her, because in all truthfulness, it doesn't matter.
"Because," he offers as the response, and her lips curl into a smile as her arms link behind his neck.
"Mm, yes. Because."
--
"How are you?" Her best friend's eyes squint at her as though she's staring at a three-headed dog named Fluffy. She offers a quick smile.
"I'm regular," she replies. "Regular and real." Her answer never changes. And she never stops to wonder why, because she knows the exact reason. So does her best friend. The issue has already been addressed.
The issue was, is, and always will be him.
--
"How are you, love?" His fingers were spread out and softly tugging at the knots the days worth of stress have created in her hair. He smiles, she smiles, and they both know what's coming.
"Regular," he smiles and leads her lips to his for a soft, reflective moment. "Regular and real." She tickles his nose with her soft breathing. "And never any different." Her lips curl up and purse as she pecks the tip of his reddened nose, then travel to his sore protruding lips, giving them a gentle reminder of what is truly real.
"Will I ever understand you?" She queries, twirling a curled lock of hair on her finger. Mustering a chuckle, his gaze penetrates her vision and her twirling finger stops.
"Will you ever need to?" Her heart seems to skip a beat as she contemplates an answer. This conversation had never arisen anywhere other than her subconscious, and she never considered his spontaneity to answer her query instead of his logic.
Her concentration is interrupted by a nuzzling at her neck.
"You smell like a rain scented candle," he murmurs against her skin and she sighs softly.
"No, I suppose I won't." He smiles and takes her mouth into his possession, glad the subject finally dropped.
--
A feathered quill rests uneasily against an unmoving palm, quivering with each soft and unsteady motion the hand takes to reaching the edge of the withered desk. The ink bottle is tipped over on its side, its contents dangerously close to colliding with unevenly cut finger nails and dry pale hands.
And for once, she wakes up in time to clean her mess and save her quill, shocking herself in the process. Emptied ink bottles and death defying quills never seemed to make it way back when her subconscious wasn't all there was to wake her. She shudders and leans against the back of her chair, confusion clouding her eyes.
--
"You did it again." She jumps against his soft hands, and then shifts so she is no longer nestled atop her desk. Her hands reach up to her face, where dark ink permeates her skin.
"I know," she murmurs and reaches for a napkin. He stops her and takes her chin into his hand. The ink. The bottle. The dropped quill. Everything is left forsaken as her eyes meet his and she realizes, again, that it isn't ever about the stain on her cheek that the ink leaves.
"We need to get you better coffee." She gives him a look, and he smiles, reaching to take her empty coffee mug. "Or me a better job." His statement makes her smile.
But even if he does get a better job, she'd still wait up and then fall asleep in ink just for him.
--
Her knees, cold and pale, dig into the soil. Her empty hand reaches forward to pat the gravestone that holds only initials. And even though she can't help but cry, she knows he doesn't want her to, and she continues to wish her hopes would sink with the memories of him into the soil that covers his lost existence.
-Fin-