Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
A/N: This will be part of a novelish length fic that I will be doing about Blaise Zabini, but I just wanted to put this out here to see what you think. I know that it needs a lot of work, but I want a little feedback. I edited it a tad and so here 'tis again. Smiley.
The wall is cold stone; rough gray where there used to be a rich tapestry. All the tapestries are gone, burnt away with scorch marks as their only remainder or packed away to be put into the Dark Lord's current keep. It feels naked, lonely, small. Blaise tries not to look at anything but the floor.
Blaise leans on the cold wall, slumping and trying not to fall to the floor in a faint. He draws in a deep breath and when he lets it out it shudders. He shakes like a leaf caught in the wind.
There is a battle raging out there, beyond the sturdy doors, and Blaise has to go back out there soon. The Great Hall is his sanctuary from the battle, the only place in the school that his side has taken. He wants to stay slumped against the stone forever. But he can't.
With too much effort he heaves himself up and straightens his back. After a longing glance back toward the wall (more familiar to him now than in all his years at Hogwarts) he trudges toward the door. His hand tightens on his wand until he is afraid that the slender, graceful wood will break. In his head he conducts a frantic review and runs through all his curses.
When he is at the curse that makes someone's eyeballs fall out, he reaches the great set of doors, but heads toward a smaller one off to the side. He is not allowed to open it too much, so he slips through the smallest possible gap, sucking his belly in, trying to be unobtrusive. He pulls the door closed with a little snick and creeps back into the fray with a curse on a mysterious Order member that makes his eyeballs fall out. Not enough power goes into it, so the old man's eyes just wiggle wildly around and maybe Blaise breaks a few nerves.
So, then, he is noticed again, and spells start flying at him. Dodging is just like dancing, Blaise thinks. There are spells coming at him every which way, and he doesn't know which way to turn; but he gets light on his toes and lets his body take over. It is just like dancing, exactly like dancing, Blaise tries to think, except that he is shooting spells whenever he can see. He is good at dancing – he has been going to Ana's classes for years upon years.
There, a Crucio to avoid headed toward a Phoenix member, and some sickly gray curse from the another Phoenix, and a Diffindo from Blaise wand. It's perfectly on target, his spell, and he watches the spray of blood that comes from her neck soak the surrounding fighters as she sinks to the cold, hard floor and some Phoenix runs up and takes her away. The Phoenixes fight a little more ferociously.
But then it is back to the grind of dodging all these spells, since he doesn't want to use Protego. It saps one's energy.
Blaise shoves the image – too vivid – of the woman dying out of his mind. She is a muggle-lover, he snarls at himself, and a Mudblood maybe too – yes, she looks like a Mudblood. She is not the first – bludgeoning curse, dodge – person Blaise has killed, no, but he remembers her face in sharp detail. This is why – avada kedavra, dodge – Blaise only shoots at the ones he doesn't recognize, for this strange unnatural guilt would be amplified if the corpse's face was one he knew. Never mind that he is not supposed to – sectumsempra, dodge – be feeling guilty anyway about killing muggle-lovers.
There is a bit of a lull. Blaise allows himself to stand still, sagging, for a precious moment, trying to get his breath back through his mask. In that moment he imagines himself the victor of the battle, standing over countless nameless faceless corpses of the Order, and the Dark Lord making him the next Heir of Slytherin.
That jewel moment of rest is over, so he brings his wand up again as spells begin flying and he resumes getting out of their way.
Jumping over a low, spreading Tripping Hex puts Blaise a head above the crowd, and as he looks down for a split second he sees a pair of silvery blond heads bob to the surface. The heads are still attacked to the bodies, and Mr. Malfoy's mask has fallen off so he is recognizable, and Draco is wearing the robes of the Order.
Blaise lands but keeps his eyes on the pair, and in his imagination the tension of the room zooms up.
They see each other. A fight is inevitable. Diffindo. Imperio. Blaise can see the desperation in Draco's eyes as he matches his father fury for fury – Avada Kedavra. Sectumsempra – hurt for hurt – Crucio – pain for pain – Interficio. Avada Kedavra – until the final harsh slash that exposes Lucius Malfoy's heart – until Mr. Malfoy lies spread-eagled on the ground and Draco looks down at him with a pale green face. He ignores the battle around him.
A clever Death Eater notices and mutters Avada Kedavra. It flies past Blaise with the rush of wings as he twists away. But it is moving more slowly than usual. Blaise's glance flicks at it, at the Death Eater, at Draco. I imagine the look of terror on Draco's dead face and it makes me sick.
Without his consent, Blaise's wand flies up and he casts a bludgeoning charm at Draco. He makes it powerful, powerful and fast. It hurries past the Killing Curse and knocks Draco down. From the cold hard floor Draco looks up with blood dripping from his mouth to see the green ray meander over his head and into another Order member whom Blaise does not recognize.
Draco is safe. Blaise wants to collapse, he is so exhausted from the bludgeoning curse. But he keeps turning and twisting away from the rays of light, awkwardly, and no longer casting any spells in between. He can't keep up with the pace of the battle anymore, can't keep himself from getting hurt. So, in all his dodgings (he is dancing) he maneuvers around to a door so he can make a quick escape.
His position is perfect, now; he is ready to slip away from the battle and recuperate. If only he can duck away from this little curse headed toward his neck. Of course he can.
There is a little whistling sound coming toward him and he looks at it, and it's a spell coming toward his chest, from some Order member – no, he looks to its origin and a Death Eater is standing there, one of his fellows, and grinning beneath the mask, Blaise just knows it…he looks back up at the spell coming toward his neck and back down to the one at his chest and can't decide – which should I dodge? – but the question is moot because the chest-spell moves more quickly and by the time the neck-spell comes Blaise has fallen to slump low against the door and it only gashes the shining wood above his head –
Blaise looks down. He looks up. He sees the handle of the door and fumbles for it. His dead weight pulls it down and pushes the door open. He falls back on the cold hard floor.
There is a nice – foolish – member of the Order who sneaks around the battle Disillusioned and casts anesthetic charms on all who are hurt, though she has not the power to heal them. Blaise hears her footsteps as she comes to him and is washed in the cool bath of relief that disconnects him from everything, especially the pain that he discovers really hurts.
Blaise looks down at himself. He is gushing blood. He looks to the side and sees the stain of red on the floor. That's my blood, he thinks, I want it back.
Blaise can't think very thoughtful thinks now but his people remain in his mind. His mother – he wishes to be his mother; so beautiful and so deadly like a poison bubbling in a little cauldron. So seductive she could have ended the battle by fluttering her eyelashes.
And then he thinks of Nott, and Moon, and Padma and Pansy and the Weasley girl. How is his owl doing? Gilsy will have taken care of the picky bird for the whole time he has been gone, and will surely be relieved when he comes back. He thinks of Harry Potter and his heroics that were oddly heroic and everyone else he remembers but Draco.
Blaise tries not to think of him, but the attempt is futile; his mind is beyond his control and it is growing fainter. Draco – his friend. His friend who treated him like Crabbe and Goyle and yet (Blaise thinks) he is my friend. Blaise saved him today. Like a friend would. Even though he had betrayed everything and his family and would have killed Blaise today even if he knew who was who under the masks. Masks. Blaise reaches up, dimly registering that the pain has increased and he inches the mask from his face. It falls with a clatter to the cold hard floor.
Now he can breathe.
There is a difference in sound outside, in the battle, and he is grateful because it distracts him from his misery at first. A cheer rises up: The Order! The Order of the Phoenix! Harry Potter! The Order and Harry Potter! Blaise moans, and his pain seems increased tenfold.
He knows that Voldemort has lost. His head spins and he watches more blood spill on the floor. He had thought that he was on the winning side. Draco had told him that it was Harry Potter who would win and Blaise had decided that he was wrong. And so Blaise joined the Death Eaters.
Blaise once saw a waterfall. Somehow it seems to him that it thundered over the rocks red as blood.
The last thought that spirals in his mind leaves a bitter taste in his heart. Draco was right.
And then he is gone.