Her slim fingers wrapped around his wrist, and she shivered. She didn't have to look outside to know that it was snowing still, and that everything was beginning to freeze. His lips skimmed against her shoulder blade, leaving the tiniest bit of moisture, just enough to cause goose flesh. She wanted to be able to fully commit to him, to the fact that he was moving inside of her, slowly, rhythmically, but she couldn't focus. She shivered again.
"Stop thinking about it," he murmured into her ear in the soft gush of an exhale. "Please. For me."
His hand cupped her full breast, and she focused on the warmth. Warmth. It had been so long since she'd been anything but frozen. She inhaled sharply as he struck a particularly sensitive spot. She had to remind herself to exhale again, and when she did her whole body shook with the effort.
"Damn it, Hermione." He pulled away from her, rolling onto his back. She didn't move however, didn't glance over her shoulder, just stayed on her side, facing the wall. "I can't… do you understand how hard it is for me to make love to you when you're thinking of him?"
"He's dead." Her lips were dry and her voice cracked as she spoke. She licked her lips quickly; she stared at the wall.
"I miss him too," Blaise whispered, turning to look at the pale contours of her back, sweet blue eyes tracing the curve of her spine. "I'm hurting, too, Hermione. But at least I'm trying to heal."
Hermione's eyes closed tightly, tight enough to cause a spasm of bright light inside both eyelids. So bright. Bright like… like she had stepped outside at noon, sun glinting dangerously off the snow, hurting.
All of a sudden she felt anger. Not her own anger, but the deep, brooding anger of the man lying next to her and she was frightened. She could feel him hardening beside her, and not in the way that he had been just moments before.
"You were just fucking him, you know?" She bit her lip. Hard. His first blow had been pretty fatal; usually he started softly, breaking her down over time.
"I was his best friend," Blaise spat with acidity. "His best friend since he was seven. Sixteen years. Sixteen. His best friend…" She heard his voice begin to break and he cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Do you really think three in the morning is the appropriate time to be discussing this?," she asked. She was tired. So was he. Mostly, she was afraid to hear him cry. She didn't want to turn this into a pissing match – who was allowed to miss him more, who had been a better friend.
"Well when the fuck do you want to discuss it?," he all but growled. "You say you're fine when I ask you about it. But you can't keep him off your mind when we're fucking. Does that make sense to you?"
She knew his pride was hurt, and that was all it was. She felt bad; Blaise was everything good, and deserved, at the very least, her attention. Hermione didn't want to be a slave to her thoughts. She didn't want her cage anymore.
But she'd seen it. She'd seen everything.
"Nothing makes sense to me anymore," she whispered and her eyes were wet. Blood. She panicked, grabbing at her eyes, rubbing, When she pulled her hands away, they were damp with tears. Not blood. Not blood, she reminded herself.
"Let go, cara. Please, let go." She knew he was reaching out to touch her, knew that his hands were seconds away from connecting with her back, her shoulders, her hip. She also knew that when he finally touched her, she wouldn't feel it. She couldn't feel him.
They went through the motions. She rolled onto her back as he rolled onto her. Her leg was maneuvered gently, bent at the knee and placed tenderly against his side. He kissed her neck, her jawbone as he slid into her, over and over and over again. But they were only motions. Empty motions, and she stared through her eyelashes at the ceiling, imagining snow, falling down on them both in a cold, heavy blanket.
When Draco was dying, she thought of snow often. She'd sit next to his hospital bed, a book held limply in her hands and think of snow. His skin was snow white, so pale. His hand, the one she sometimes grasped as if it were the only thing keeping her pinned down, was as cold as snow. His blanket, so white and sterile, was fresh snow, covering his body, shielding his wounds.
She hated snow.
The hand around her neck shook her from her reverie, and her eyes focused on Blaise, finally. He licked his lips. Squeezed a bit harder. She felt herself starting to go, she felt it.
"More," she croaked, her voice raspy and barely audible. He pushed into her more violently, less rhythmically. His long, tan fingers closed around her neck. She craved that pressure.
Vision blurring, she attempted to moan but no air would leave her lungs. All of a sudden, the wave crashed, her entire body went limp as her hips moved against his without abandon. He released her neck and she greedily inhaled, sucking in as much air as she could. Panting, breathless, her eyes lazily opened, staring at Blaise as he bit his lip and groaned with a final thrust.
She inhaled, exhaled, inhaled again. Every thought was on every breath. She wasn't thinking of Draco, she was thinking only of breathing, of Blaise.
Exhale. Draco. Inhale. Blaise.