Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All original characters and situations belong to me. The song lyrics used throughout 'Black Letter Days' are from You can still be Free by Savage Garden from their CD Affirmation.

Black Letter Days: She's been through hell and back, knows what it's like to be drunk on blood and love and ashes. She makes the boys crawl and the girls cry, but she doesn't care. Because they can't see what she sees, can't hear what she hears. All of life's a poem and she's going to dissect it. It's Blaise Zabini, living the high life, learning the hard way. 'Die young, leave a beautiful corpse.' A tale told in five acts.

Act One: Do you know where you're going, when the rain clouds your vision and anger is red haze before your eyes?

Author's Notes: Is Blaise Zabini male or female? Will we ever find out? I choose female and she sang me a song. This is it. Review if you wish to tell me about your enjoyment, your hatred/disgust, or even to point out any mistakes. This story was written for your enjoyment, so please do not feel badgered into leaving feedback. However, your comments will keep this poor, lonely author warm and fuzzy on cold winter nights (or even mildly breezy summer one's). *.~

ACT ONE - MOMENTOS

feel the presence all around

the tortured soul

a wound unhealing

no regrets or promises

the past is gone

but you can still be free

if time will set you free

The smoke, the candour, the warmth of a city swamped by Pacific Ocean blues, the concrete roads radiating heat. The flashy cars, the superfluous rich in their minks, sweating as the sun said 'hello', and the promise of a good time.

Los Angeles was calling her.

Neon lights, swanky cars, heart-pounding music, that was the idea. Somewhere where she could loose herself, loose the pain and the cuts and just be free. Drown herself in a swirl of martinis and heroin, die the glamourous death. Try to reach heaven by surpassing hell, kick your way in through the gates, and castrate the saints. She had plans.

So she answered, because L.A was what she was looking for.

Took a plane, flew over the land and sea, touched down in Los Angeles International Airport. Clean, immaculate floors, potted palms. They pretended they could rebuild paradise with some steel and concrete, pretty lights and new technology. She dropped her cigarette on the floor and crushed it, leaving it lying there. Life was ugly, get used to it.

Two faces, so hide the one you don't want them to see. Cruising the streets (she walked because cars cramped her style) she trod on rubbish, empty drink cans and cigarette buts, broken syringes in the alleys. This was her place after all. You only saw the pretty side on the screen, tall palm trees, peaceful water, the whole sticky summer breeze of it. But she knew that L.A was where the misfits came. To dirty this place up, set it on a dizzy.

It was going to be nice place to die.

Finding an apartment was easy (cheap rentals, if you don't mind squalor) and she bought the furnishings from a second-hand shop down the street (Rodeo Drive, it aint). A lumpy mattress, low table, and cushions were her saviour. Without cushions and candles she couldn't have survived. And then she went shopping for everything else she needed.

Coffee. The best standard Peruvian coffee, the rest wasn't worth drinking. Not unless you were in Starbucks buying the image along with the gunk. Chocolate, because she was addicted to it. Belgian, Swiss, dark, white, milk, Cadbury, she bought anything she could get her hands on. A six-pack of beer and a cooler, two glasses and a lime, a bottle of vodka and some tequila, she had all the ingredients she needed.

It was nightfall when she stepped out, stars half veiled by the smog. Red silk, black leather, pallid, glistening skin. Red lipstick, crushed elderberries staining her pretty mouth, black eyeliner and fake eyelashes adorning her black eyes. There was a time when they were golden, but then the flame burnt out, coals left behind. Black hair coiled and sprayed to a plastic sheen, gold chains woven in. Oh, she was ready for a night out on the town, vamped up and waiting for the Batmobile to whiz around the corner. When it showed up, she was going to kick the dude out; she didn't need no Superman tonight.

One, two...seven, eight, ten. By midnight, she forgot what she was counting as she poured fiery liquor down her throat. Could have been the hours, or the clubs she strutted into, making the brain-numbed crowd part for her. Maybe it was the drinks...no, she had far more than that (she knew, because of the glasses stacked around her). Maybe it was guys that had sidled up to her, whispered pretty lyrics in her ear (Wanna go somewhere with me, baby?), their tongues sliding down her marble neck, hands roaming her drunken body. She giggled at their ridiculous words, promises with no intentions to be kept and then kicked them away when her amusement wilted.

Boys were like puppies, if you knew how to handle them. And Blaise knew, because she had learnt, the hard way.

Dawn crept into the city, met with a chorus of groans. She threw herself back to her little flat with its run down grounds, graffiti covered walls, paint so badly cracked it flaked off like ice sheets from glaciers, exploding into dust. Up the stairs, through the door and she crashed. (Wake her up when 11pm comes around again; she'll be ready to party.) Sleep trod in, squashing a beer can on the way. Heavy sleep, without dreams, pulled her down and she fell into the darkness, a smile on her face.

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