Rinse

It must be the end.

She had told herself this so many times before, but never had it seemed so real. So necessary.

How had she allowed herself to become so tangled in his weaves of deception? When had she become his toy, to do with as he pleased? How could she have let this been done to her by any man; how could she have lost control?

Blaise asked herself these questions as slowly and deliberately as she painted each of the nails at the tips of her graceful fingers. The deep crimson glinted venomously in the firelight of the room, but even as she admired her usual perfect handiwork, the answers sprang like poison to her mouth, leaving a beyond bitter taste.

What irritated her most was the knowledge that perhaps it was not even of her own doing that she knew. So desperate had she been for the answers, she had prayed - she never prayed. Thinking that she might not be the one in control of her life was what pissed her off most in the world, and that was exactly why she was obliged to kill Draco.

He had invited her over, as usual, for Friday evening on the Friday before. That was how it was and had been for four months. In the beginning, she would pretend to be unsure for thereabouts of a day, then absentmindedly Owl him with the information that she supposed she was, indeed, free. It was not many weeks before this smooth answer deteriorated into the mere time between her arrival and after he had taken her to bed. She then, pitifully, further digressed into a single, feux-pensive pause - - that had been disgraceful enough, but last week-

Last week had been the unthinkable.

Without even thinking, she had said yes. She had not waited even a second - just yes. It had shocked her so that it had become quite difficult to keep a calm look upon her face. Draco, however smooth his exterior, was not able to hide his surprise. His pale eyes had widened ever so slightly in disbelief, and though it was the smallest and quickest of motions, she had seen it. She could have perished of embarrassment, and it was at that moment she realized he had taken her. She was his, to do with as he pleased. Her control was gone; he was the drug, and she was fully dependent.

And that had been when she knew it must be the end. She was no longer in control.

Perhaps the most disgusting part, she thought, zipping up her dress robes, was that she was falling in love. She had feelings for Draco past those of the pleasure of their intimacy, and it was this that was tearing her apart. Maybe she could even live with it if she thought he loved her; he didn't. It was blatantly obvious. To be honest with herself, Blaise had to admit she wasn't sure Draco could love.

As she admired herself in the mirror, Blaise lamented on the pointlessness of her freshening up. It seemed a shame to dress so stunningly for all of two hours just to have her clothes taken promptly back off. But then again, she reminded herself, fastening her blonde hair back into an expert knot, tonight would be... special. Wasn't that was payment enough for her effort?

Taking in one last scrutinizing view (but finding, obviously, nothing to scrutinize), she lingered on her eyes. Their beautiful grey-blue shade was her favorite part of herself, and that was saying something. Blaise was beautiful and knew it; she was not a modest beauty, like the Weasley girl - Draco would have hated to hear her say it, which was mostly why she did, but never the less, it was true. Stupid Potter had no idea what he had... yes... her eyes were definitely her best feature, which were, fortunately, quite unlike Draco's. His were so annoyingly pale - sometimes very hard to look into during love-making, she almost reminiced, slipping on her heels and sauntering out the door.

-- * --

When she arrived, Draco took a scandalously long and detailed appraisal of her. He soaked up every detail, down to her flawless nails, at which she tried very hard to sustain her expression. So she had given a bit extra effort... gain composure, Draco. Finally, he spoke.

"Blaise," Draco's eyes were rampant with hunger.

The way he spoke the word -if only for a second- nearly made her melt, and her resolve faultered. She was then, promptly, so apphaled at herself for such a reaction, she became surer of her decision than she had yet been. She would be like this no more.... Tonight...

It was as if she watched the dinner through an ever so slightly misty window. It was a very average affair; she saw herself engage him in their normal, polite conversation: the insolence of the pigs running the transitional, post-war government, with Weasley Seinor at the helm. They exchanged tips of coming ministry raids and Death Eater trials, as well as who had already been done in by some impatiant Auror - usually Potter.

Though she, obviously, contributed half the conversation, Blaise's mind lay nowhere near their mediocre topics of dialouge.

In the beginning, when she had first decided Draco could go on no longer, she had considered doing him in Muggle-style with a dagger through the heart, to make him feel perhaps a fraction of the pain he had caused her- it wouldn't be her mess to clean, after all. That would be left so some bumbling, sobbing, house- elf. She had quickly decided against it anyway, though, for anything that a Mudblood or less would do she refused to resort to.

She was rather proud of her plan, really. It was quite cunning, a death Draco was worthy of. Traceable, perhaps, but... no matter. She would be long gone before the Aurors or anyone else had the slightest inclination it had been her

"Anyway... to bed, my beautiful?" He said it with such ownership, as if she was his top show dog. Which, she reminded herself, was probably true.

The words snapped her out of her dream-like state, and she realized that she had somehow made it through all three courses, but had eaten even less than usual. Draco had not noticed.

"Of course," she said gracefully, taking his hand, and rising carefully from the elaborately set table.