Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
A/N: Written for HP Rare Pair Shorts Numbers Game Ficathon 2021.
A Breath of Smoke
Leaning against the stone parapet of the Astronomy Tower, Blaise lit a cigarette with a practiced flick of his fingers, took a drag, and let out a breath of smoke into the starlit night. A brisk breeze caught his breath and scattered smoke into the wind. Below, the Hogwarts grounds and the forest beyond lay in the dark like crawling shadows. It was surreal to think that he would see this scenery again after all these years.
"Good evening, Professor."
Startled, Blaise straightened up and turned towards the direction of the sound. Back straight and bound in chains, the figure of the Bloody Baron floated beside him, silvery and incorporeal as smoke. After willing himself to relax, Blaise heaved a breath and collected his thoughts. "Good evening, Baron."
The Baron was not looking at Blaise; instead, his unblinking eyes were fixed upon a spot in the distance, as if he were addressing to someone in his memory. "I remember you." His voice was husky and low, a mere whisper without a hint of madness or malice.
Is that what they call a smoky voice? Blaise thought absently as he leant once more against the ancient stone parapet and contemplated the myriad of stars in the sky. "I was in Slytherin."
"I remember the way you looked at him."
Taken aback, Blaise shot the Baron a sidelong glance. The pearly white figure cut a sharp image in the dark; it could have been chiselled from ice. A heartbeat or two later, Blaise brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply. When he exhaled, a breath of smoke accompanied his word. "Who?"
"The boy who was in your house and in your year," the Baron said quietly.
A vision of pale blond hair and slate grey eyes flickered in Blaise's mind like a mirage. It stirred up an itch in him, a not entirely unpleasant itch. He thought about the night he had Draco and Draco had him. It doesn't have to mean anything, Draco had said as he covered Blaise's eyes with his hand. Unless you want it to be.
"That was years ago," Blaise said aloud in the present—to the ghost who might or might not be listening. "But to you it's probably just a blink of an eye."
The Baron stirred, as if stirring awake from a dream or a memory. With downcast eyes he stared at the ground below, thinking of what Blaise had not the slightest idea. "There is no need to let what had transpired become the past. There are ways to preserve the past forever."
Looking down at his cigarette, Blaise flicked the ashes away, and a night breeze carried the ashes away into the ether. "One thing about being alive is that you can choose to let go." Unlike the dead, he thought to himself.
There was only silence and stillness, as if Blaise's words had fallen into a deep well—without a sound, without an echo. At length, the Baron said, "Yes, it is the privilege of the living." An undercurrent of some nameless emotion lurked beneath the Baron's countenance, and Blaise had an inkling what it was.
Silence fell once more in the space between Blaise and the Slytherin House Ghost, between the living and the dead, but it was not an uncomfortable silence. As Blaise smoked his cigarette some more, he wondered why the Baron came up here in the first place. He wondered why the Baron talked to him; he wondered if ghosts could feel lonely as the living could; he wondered if the Baron regretted not letting go when he was alive. Blaise did not ask, however, and the Baron did not tell.
Blaise watched on as the Baron hovered a spectral hand above the parapet, not quite resting, not quite touching, as if he were aware that he was no longer a part of the material world and yet unable to resist reaching out all the same. It was a strangely human gesture.
An impulse came over Blaise unbidden, and the impulse morphed into an idea, into actions, into words. "May I ask you a personal question?" For the first time on this night, the Baron turned to Blaise, his glassy gaze falling upon Blaise and his gaunt face all but unreadable. Without flinching Blaise met the Baron's gaze. Some beats later, the Baron nodded ever so slightly. "Can you taste smoke?"
The Baron did not speak, did not move, his impassive face revealing not a hint of his thoughts or a glimpse into his frozen heart. It was not the first time someone had asked the Baron a similar question, Blaise could tell. Surmising the Baron was not about to give him an answer, Blaise took a long drag on his cigarette, leant towards the ghost, and breathed out smoke upon the Baron's ice-cold, intangible lips. It was like dipping into a cold lake at night, submerging into a moment in time that was no more.
Even though Blaise could not see it, he heard the Baron suck in a breath he did not need, as if he were sucking in Blaise's warm breath and cigarette smoke and the memory of being alive once upon a time. When he had breathed out all that he could, Blaise took a breath of frigid air into himself, let it out slowly, and took a step back. Immaterial and translucent, the Baron could have been made of fog and smoke and borrowed breaths of the living.
A flicker of emotion appeared on the Baron's face, and for a moment or two, there was a spark of life in him that Blaise had not seen before. There was surprise and bemusement, yes, and something else as well, something that held Blaise transfixed. Black eyes narrowed, the Baron regarded Blaise for a long time, the fellow Slytherin who was many centuries after his time—and Blaise let him.
Turning towards the starry sky, Blaise finished his smoke, snuffed out the cigarette, and made it vanish with a casual sleight of hand. The taste of nicotine lingered in his mouth, a bitter taste that left him with a vague sense of wistfulness and loss. He did not ask if the Baron could taste the cigarette smoke. There was no need to ask, not anymore.
"I saw the way you look—or wouldn't look—at her," Blaise said quietly.
Silence swallowed Blaise's words like a whale, and the wind rustled the hem of his robe. Ever so slowly he turned his head and gazed at the empty space beside him. The Baron was no longer there; he had vanished without a word or a sound. For a ghost that was feared by the living and the dead alike at Hogwarts, the Baron was surprisingly cowardly.
Blaise curved his lips in a wry smile, his lips tingling still with the memory of the ghostly kiss, a moment lost in space and time. He rested a hand on the parapet; the weathered stone was ice-cold beneath his palm, rimed with invisible frost and touched by icy breaths.
"Come find me if you want to share a smoke again," Blaise said to the empty space beside him—and to the ghost who might or might not be there, listening under the cover of darkness. "Good night, Baron."
With that he turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. As the autumnal wind brushed against his robe, a disembodied voice trickled into his ear like an echo of the past. "Good night, Professor Zabini." And with a quirk of a smile on his lips, Blaise gave a casual wave in return and went on his way.
Finis.