A 500 word drabble I wrote a long time ago...
No infringement intended.
The jangle of her laughter rolls through the room to his left, glancing from cut crystal and sterling to reflect, loud and gleaming, from the giant mirror hanging just inside the doorway.
Blaise stops on the staircase, stilled by the image of his mother's mouth in the mirror, lips split wide, flashing ivory teeth and a glistening, red tongue. Her fingertips rest on the bare skin at the back of the young man's neck, then fall away. She moves to stand beside him, evaluating the work so far.
"Stunning," she says.
"Perhaps you should reserve judgement for when it's finished." His smile is slight. "I might manage to ruin it, yet."
She turns her face, her cleavage, his way, leveling upon him - Blaise knows, though he cannot see- the clear, tea-green gaze, the age-old overt invitation.
"I doubt that very much," she purrs, then glides away, watching him in the mirror as she goes.
Blaise drifts back up the stairs. He steps into his room and closes the door.
...
She talks of him, here and there, amongst their guests, all evening. She calls him "Mr. Thomas," and "Dean Thomas," or "My Muralist," or, sometimes, just "Dean." She gestures at the drop-cloth and promises an unveiling - perhaps a private party with the artist. Every dusty fortune in the room fawns, lauding such auspicious talent, amazed that such questionable beginnings could spawn such a wonder.
Blaise answers when spoken to and makes sure the glasses are never empty - least of all, his own. As his mother leads the last guest to the door, he drops onto one of the sofas and takes another drink. She floats back into the room, plucks her glass from the mantle, and slips into her standard pose, all beauty and satisfaction.
Blaise snorts.
"You don't see how ridiculous you are? He was in my year at school."
She tilts her chin and walks his way. She trails her finger along the back of the sofa and lays both her hands upon his shoulders.
"I'm ridiculous? Darling," she leans down to his ear, "I'm not the one skulking about the corridors, watching him from afar." She pats him twice, then walks away.
...
Blaise wakes in the night. He walks to the sitting room and tugs down the drop-cloth. He stares at the place where Dean's fingers, dripping with ochre, carved light out of shadow with one swift, sure stroke. Blaise traces the path of light, imagining the motion against his chest and stomach, down his spine. He imagines fingers, palms, breath, lips.
Upstairs, creaking.
Blaise opens his eyes, goes back to his bed.
...
"You should paint it as it is now," Blaise says, gazing at the garden the next morning. "Just black sticks and ice."
"That's not what she wants."
Blaise turns. "We can't always have what we want."
Dean Thomas stares determinedly forward. "I've found that rule doesn't apply to Ms. Zabini."
"No." Blaise slumps against the window frame. "I suppose it does not."
~FIN~
Thank you so much for reading.
Thoughts and con-crit, as always, are appreciated.