In the Presence of My Enemy

In the Presence of My Enemy

It couldn't be called war if there weren't casualties.

Everyday there were more, numbers rising on both sides in trickles and spurts. The Order regretted the civilian deaths included in the toll; the Death Eaters crowed their cruel pleasure.

Blaise Zabini did neither.

He did not mourn or celebrate the innocent blood spilled. It was simply a price of war; he accepted, then moved on. Like he was doing now.

He hurried past the broken store window of Flourish & Blott's, over the bodies of--one, two--Death Eaters and--two, three--Aurors. He hardly spared a glance at the young witch who'd been hit by a stray curse and was even now screaming, shrill and panicked, at the burned stumps of arms she'd thrown up to protect her face. An owl across the way, tawny feathers ruffled and singed, shrieked its sympathy.

Blaise did not stop to help. The others--the ones that had survived this skirmish--would see to that. He was too focused on his task, pursuing a Death Eater that had managed to escape the fray.

The chase led him through the newly descimated ruins of Diagon Alley--he wondered not for the first time why they bothered to rebuild again after the third time--and down into the dark, abandoned labyrinth of Knockturn.

This more unsavory section of the Wizarding community had been swept clean by the Ministry not long after the war had started. The area having been long associated with the Dark Arts, Aurors had invaded--Blaise among them. Stores had been emptied, their contents either confiscated or destroyed. Homes had been searched, leading to several arrests. Afterwards, there had been an outcry by the inhabitants at the injustice of it all. Those had stopped after next barrage of raids.

Now, Knockturn Alley was little more than a ghost town. Almost every window was boarded up and of whatever inhabitants remained, not a single soul ventured out after dark. Which is why Blaise knew exactly who it was when he was grabbed and pulled into a pitch black side street too narrow to be called an alley.

That didn't stop his knife--the weapon he preferred over his wand for close combat--from making an appearance at his attacker's throat.

"We need to stop meeting like this."

"This is the only way we can meet."

"Then we shouldn't waste any time, should we?"

"No."

The Death Eater's mask came up and off, Blaise's knife disappeared with fluid ease back into the sheath at his hip, and his mouth was on Draco's before either drew their next breath.

Sixty-one days. It had been two months since they'd last done this, so long to go without the familiar scrape of teeth across his lips, that much-missed taste on his tongue. Two long months for the need to build, fester, and finally break over them, a violent firestorm of lust&want.

It was no real wonder their hands, greedy for skin, pulled and yanked, leaving fabric torn and turning buttons to bullets. Blaise's lips set to re-learning the flavour of Draco's throat while his hands shoved into the other man's cloak and up-under shirt. Fingers pressed over warm marble, nails scraped pebbled nipples. The blond shuddered.

It never failed to relieve him that they still fit together perfectly each time. Their bodies hadn't forgotten the thrust and lunge, the taking and having they craved with a kind of desperate avarice that left them both shaking.

They had learned to be quiet out of necessity, but Blaise's mind provided a soundtrack, superimposing the loud groans, whimpers, and screams it remembered over the stifled gasps that hung in shadows of the alley.

It didn't take long for the memories to bring him to orgasm, Draco following quickly after, and Blaise felt something akin to regret burn sharp behind his eyes. He shoved it away like always.

They straightened their clothes in silence. Briefly, Draco hesitated. Then the mask was back and their time had run out.

"I hate this."

"Do it."

"After the war..."

"Yes."

The masked man nodded imperceptibly and Blaise braced himself. He knew it wouldn't do any good, but some reflexive part in him did it anyway.

"Crucio!"

***

By the time Blaise stopped screaming, by the time the blinding white agony had subsided, Draco had vanished.

Carefully, Blaise pushed himself up and stumbled away from the dirty bricks and darkness that had served witness to their encounter. He took his time as he headed for the sound of his concerned comrades shouting his name.

It couldn't be called war if there weren't casualties. They were just two more in the grand scheme of things.

But he did not mourn what they'd had, nor did he celebrate what they had now. It was simply a price of war. He accepted and moved on. Moved on to the next battlefield in hopes of finding his lover there, kept moving on until there were no more casualties to be had and it couldn't be called war any more.