A Blaise of Crimson
An SNB Production

All the other girls don't understand. But I do; I understand the pain and suffering of what Draco Malfoy has to endure. I understand that black and twisted soul and I understand why Draco is so filled with hate for the muggles. I know that for Draco, even the repulsive smell of a single filthy muggle can set off a blaze of crimson hatred, because I know that when a weaker race—a race of muggles, no less—kills a loved one in the act of an ignorant war, something in you dies... and it can't be replaced. No matter how hard you try to fill that gaping wound in the deepest depths of your heart, body, mind, soul... it just continues to bleed you dry, until... I don't know yet. I know the dark and tiring truth: Draco is pained inside, and only a few things in the wizard realm can end it.

Staring into an enchanted, cold icy fountain of water, I contemplate the young, and yet, years-tired boy sitting across from me. Would tonight be any different? For almost all my life I've been cut off from this world. The mirror reflection of my own life is shown back to me: Blaise Zambini. My almond shaped eyes are hugged by the black eyeshadow that caresses my face. My sin black hair falls near my waist, and my lips are full and blood red. Things have changed since that first year at Hogwarts, but I'm still here... and yet not. The times when I feel connected have only been solid with the time spent with Draco, and I can say and feel what I can with the time I can steal with and only with him, but it will never be enough. And every time we part, I miss it. I can't get my fix... until I can escape once again.

Today I have escaped again; he had called upon me for something important he said. It is at this moment that time stands still. Through glassy eyes, almost resembling the black pool from which I was seeking consternation, Draco Malfoy speaks in a cold and stoney tone, "You seem tired, what is this?"

"Draco, I know I have always asked you if you have ever wondered about the future..."

"Yes, I remember. And each time I would reply, 'There is no future for the dead.'"

"But Draco... I have to ask you again, 'Have you ever wondered about the future?'"

"And again I will reply, dear Blaise, 'There is no future... for the dead.'"

A cold and yet resolute silence takes the night between us. As the moon burns hazily in the sky, I try to determine some strand of emotion from Malfoy's face. As hard as I try to steal something from his conclusive eyes, Draco's face remains cold and sharp. I cannot detect anything but the bitter sense of remorse.

Suddenly, Draco takes a deep relaxed breathe which resembles something almost like a death coil. I blink in anticipation of whatever was to come. And in this moment of expectation, I am reminded of the rituals and mores of the Dark Arts. Like the beginnings from which we learned these dark rites, we have been taught to listen to the malicious feelings that we keep hidden from view. And yet, it seems that in this very moment, all the magic- and pain- and suffering- and passion of a single requiem sentenced to every dying day, has come together to force any doubt or solitude from my body. In a perfect moment of life or death, I stand awaiting the moment from which each stolen moment—each lost feeling—will be seen as my faith in Draco. A shell I have become, to show him my faith for him. All this to show Draco that, No! I am not like the other girls. I understand the sadist inside of all of us—inside of every living witch and wizard—inside every living creature which has felt the disgusting and threatening wounds of the muggle world. A muggle world whose actions are akin to running razor blades across our faces, swords through our sides, and stakes through our bones, bleeding us day after day until... I still don't know yet.

It is in this perfect stolen instance of time, that I cease to exist. And the scene I witness is as if I were one of the paintings on the walls. Draco hands me twelve roses: eleven real, and one fake. I turn my eyes up to meet Draco's. Normally his eyes are a sea green and full of agony... but in the moonlight which flowed upon his face; eyes open with intensity, his eyes appeared a silent black. As his liquid black eyes scan the ground upon which I stand, he utters the words, "I'll love you 'til the last one dies..." And as he said it I remembered the first thing he had said to me, "You said you wouldn't be seen dead with me... what about alive?" And it wasn't until now, that I realize the spell he had put upon both of us. I had made him alive again. And the future would hold bright prospects, and as he glided away again, our holocaust of the pathetic muggle world began...