The Undoing of Blaise Zabini

The room swam in and out of focus as Blaise curled his arms tighter about himself and wheezed. Fire burst into his lungs with every one of his strangled breaths, and he coughed violently. He ran his teeth over his bottom lip again and again, tearing the skin away in bloody strips.

She had touched him. Ginevra had put her hand dangerously over his. No one touched him. Not even his mother was allowed to touch him. Dumbledore had done it once, once and never again. It had been the briefest of contact on his shoulder, but Blaise had almost passed out.

Blaise compulsively clutched his silver pendant tightly in between his palms as if to suck some of the ancient from it to calm him. It was then that he noticed that the silver bracelet, the one that had been pumping life-saving magic through his veins, was gone. The skin where the bracelet had lain was mottled and raw with reddened and peeling skin. The skin that covered his wrist bones was bloodied and bruised as if the bracelet had been removed by force.

Blaise looked about the white Infirmary from where he lay in a stiff-sheeted bed. He noted that he could not see very far through the tall curtains that had been pulled up around his bed and wondered how long they had been there. Blaise was not a stranger to the Medical Wing. He had been called there many a time in his earlier years, although had not been here for quite a while. It still smelled strongly of disinfectant potions, and in the circular thoughts of Blaise's head, he wondered if the Matron made it smell like that on purpose.

The white of the curtains flashed open for a moment, Madame Pomfrey's concerned face pocked through the gap. Seeing that Blaise was awake, the witch stepped through into the little room of starched material screens.

"You've been asleep for most of the afternoon, Blaise," the woman informed him in her brisk tone. "I would have examined you, but you've put up wards again." The Matron placed a mirror on the end of Blaise's feet and took a step backward as Blaise reached for the cool glass.

The boy stared back at Blaise from the mirror. There was a bruise across his cheek, and his lips were fluted with fresh and half-congealed blood. His lips twisted up harshly at one corner in a painful smirk. Blaise waited as the nurse reluctantly wheeled a trolley to the bed and seated herself on the bedside chair. The water gave a metallic ring as Blaise poured a little from the pitcher into the steel bowl on the trolley. Carefully, and under the careful guidance of Madame Pomfrey, Blaise cleansed the blood from his skin. He marvelled at the sharp sensation caused by the raw wounds of his lips. It hurt, but not the heavy pain caused by the bruise on his cheek. This pain bit into his lips, burning them in a lace of hundreds of fine lines.

Blaise continued to work, taking little notice of the nurse's nervous mutterings. Madame Pomfrey was in no way comfortable with Blaise handling his own medical treatments, but Blaise's natural defence had long ago made her a spectator. Blaise was not unaccustomed to treating himself for whatever unfortunates befell him, however. Indeed, Blaise was quite knowledgeable in the art. From quite a young age, as his reflex wards had become strong enough to deter all but the most persistent medi-wizards, Blaise taught himself basic medicinal magic; his knowledge growing as he became more proficient in reading.

The boy in the silvery mirror looked back at Blaise; his lips purpled as Blaise had only erased the punctured skin without stopping the bleeding. Carefully placing the mirror on the trolley, the wizard ran his fingers over the bruised lump on his cheekbone and reached for the basin to attend to his wrist. Here the nurse rose to her feet and left Blaise alone. Carefully, the wizard examined his wrist, applying a thin layer of greenish soothing ointment to cease the itching and redness. The balm disappeared into his skin almost instantly, leaving behind clear, seemingly unblemished, skin. The bruising and cuts will heal without much trouble, Blaise thought lazily, studying his hand. Silently he slipped out from under the sheets of his bed and laced on his boots. There was no need for him to stay in the Infirmary if he was conscious and the nurse wasn't able to do anything.

Blaise was out of the heady aroma of disinfectant potions and back into the hub of the school. He headed toward the Great Hall, his hunger pains getting the worst of him. The majority of the student population was already seated at their house table, either muttering darkly in amongst themselves or sitting in a heavy silence. Blaise took the seat left vacated for him and helped himself to a serving of peas.

"You're bleeding." Millicent Bulstode sat down on the seat to Blaise's right.

Blaise shrugged his shoulders and speared four peas on his fork, one for each prong, and chewed on them thoughtfully as Millicent glanced around the room.

"That Weasley girl is looking over here," she said quietly after a while. "She looks like hell."

Blaise glanced across the room, catching sight of the youngest Weasley from the corner of his eye. Millicent's description of Ginevra Weasley was very accurate. The girl's red hair was pulled back in lank braids from her washed-out face. Dark circles shadowed her half closed eyes as she stared vacantly across the hall. Nonchalantly, she pulled the edges of her faded cloak about her shoulders and propped her chin up with the back of her sleeve-covered wrist. Blaise turned back to his peas.

He didn't feel like eating them any more. Nor did he feel like he wanted to eat anything else. His stomach did not agree with him all of a sudden, although he had no idea why.

"Oh, she's an interesting piece of work." Millicent motioned back across the hall to the Gryffindor table.

One of the boys sitting next to Ginevra, a fifth-year by the look of his face, turned to engage her in conversation. The witch smiled at him, looking up at him from under her thick eyelashes. She swatted his arm, laughing as he turned back to the main group. Blaise could almost hear the words, "I'm just tired," come from Ginevra's mouth as another witch gave her an inquiring look. As soon as the attention of the group had shifted from the Weasley, she resumed staring vacantly out across the room.

Blaise shifted uneasily in his seat before getting to his feet and exiting the Great Hall. He moved about the castle, walking up and down staircases until a wave of nausea stilled his progress. His hand gripped the railing of the staircase, shaking as the rest of him. For moment he closed him eyes, willing his mind to take hold of him limbs and bring them into order. Minutes passed before Blaise opened his eyes, his vision blurring in and out of focus. He slid down the wall, encasing himself in shadow and his own thin arms. The sleeves of his cloak hid his hands, and Blaise lowered his head to his knees, covering all visible patches of pale skin. Nothing but a dim dark outline of him could be seen against the evening shadows. He was not disturbed as the rest of the school adjourned for dinner and tricked back to the common rooms in various places around the castle. It seemed that the corridor that he had chosen was not close to any house dormitories and the dim silence was left relatively undisturbed.

As Blaise's mind cleared, he again rose to his feet. For a moment he steadied himself against the wall, his fingers gripping tightly into the small grooves between the stones, before continuing his wandering. The wizard wound his way up to the North Tower, pausing every few steps to clear his head. In the tiny circular room at the top of the stairway, Blaise seated himself in front of the open window. Casually, a snowflake took residence on the top of his shoulder. For a while Blaise watched it shrink until it was nothing.

"I didn't think that I'd see you again."

The wizard didn't need to look up to see the small figure pulling her cloak tighter about herself as she took the last step up into the room. The voice belonged to Ginevra Weasley. She crossed the room uncertainly, seating herself on the cold stone bench a few feet away from Blaise. The wizard closed his eyes, trying to clear his mind which had suddenly begun to whirl into life.

"I'm sorry." Ginevra's voice was small. She wrung her hands in her lap. "I don't know what I was thinking. I don't ever seem to know what I'm thinking any more. I don't know why I just can't be happy. I know that there is a war, but I used to be happy about some of the silliest things..." she trailed off and lapsed into silence.

"Did you know that I was possessed by Voldemort," the witch said as if trying to make conversation. When Blaise didn't react, she continued, "I was in First Year. I was writing in his old school diary. You stop trusting people after something like that." Ginevra rubbed her wrists uneasily.

Blaise absently ran his fingers over the cool metal of the pendant about his neck. He nodded his head slightly to indicate that he was listening and Ginevra's grip on her arms loosened slightly.

"It's funny," the witch gave a small, ironic smile, "sitting here in the dark talking to you; a brave, loyal Gryffindor pouring out her weakness for a rival to see."

The wizard felt the corners of his mouth twitch in a suppressed smile. Ginevra curled her legs up underneath her, brushing her hair away from her face as she did so. Blaise noted the way that her fingers coiled around a length of hair and wrapped it behind her ear. Ginevra fell into a thoughtful silence, playing absently with her shirt cuff. She smiled to herself as she pulled the fabric this way and that, never undoing the buttons.

"Do you want to know another on of my secrets?" she said, catching Blaise watching her.

The witch slid her fingers into her cuff, undoing the buttons and folding the material over and over until it was a grey band around her elbow. She then leaned forward, extending her arm so that Blaise could see it. The skin was latticed with scars that worked almost the complete way up to her elbow.

"Pretty, aren't they?" the witch breathed, running her fingers over a few of the angry red marks. "I didn't think that I'd ever be doing it," she said almost to herself. "I thought that only strange, unstable people did it." Ginevra gave a hollow laugh that filled the cold stone room. "I guess I'm one of them now."

Blaise watched the mutilated skin glisten in the half light. He stopped himself before he reached out and ran his own fingers over the raised lines of scar tissue. The girl had given herself some serious cuts, some of them would have been just shy of hitting muscle, and others looked to have gotten infected at one point or another. He listened as Ginevra explained her strange, deep sense of unfeeling and how she tried to bring some of her feeling from the inside to the outside of her body. The witch seemed to enjoy feeling the rush of pain, the release it gave her, and the distraction from the world outside her own. Blaise ran his tongue over his bruised lips. He understood.

Ginevra looked up at Blaise, and Blaise looked back at her. There was pain and sadness in those eyes, and curiosity burned in the depths. The witch stared at him and learned forward, kissing him roughly. It was a long moment before Blaise responded. His lips, bruised and painful, kissed her calmly as if he had kissed a thousand girls, and when Ginevra deepened the kiss, Blaise matched her. His arms wrapped themselves about her, drawing her closer and closer until he could feel the heat from her body and almost taste her soul. Blaise could feel the witch trembling slightly, magic rippling under her skin, and gripped her tighter. The magic flowed through the connection between them, passing from the fiery witch into Blaise until he broke away, breathing heavily.

He sat in the stunned silence, his mind suddenly fuzzy.

"I'm sorry," the witch whispered, breaking into his thoughts.

Blaise looked at her from under the curtain of his dark hair. Ginevra looked shattered, brown eyes wide and shocked.

"Ginevra," he said, mouth unsure of the alien movements. "Go."

The witch stared at him, eyes suddenly dark and scared. She didn't move.

Blaise stared at her shaking form and opened his mouth. "Go now," he said roughly. "Just go."

Ginevra broke his eye contact and fled from the room, cloak billowing out behind her as she disappeared down the spiral staircase.