A Plague of Legends

Chapter 10: Green Eyed Monster

Or, The Chariot

Blaise had considered killing Draco more than once. The thought crossed her mind often throughout the years, but never so frequently as it did now. Lately it burned in the back of her mind, inflaming her senses like a parasite gnawing at nerve endings. It scalded her, clawing at her skin and biting into her throat, compressing her larynx as she strained to say something, anything. A protest? A threat? Or maybe a warning. Blaise didn't know, wouldn't know until she said the words. But nothing ever came out, not even when Draco came to her, freshly bathed yet still somehow smelling of semen and sweat through clouds of roses. Certainly not when Draco emerged from darkened corridors and classrooms reeking and red, his lips alone pristine.

Blaise wondered at that, wondered why Draco came to her bruised all over, inside and out, with only his lips unmarred. Why? Had kissing somehow suddenly become sacrosanct with him? It seemed as though Draco did nothing but kiss her anymore. He sucked on her lips, licked them, gnawed at their edges, bit them bloody. He worshipped them as he had used to worship her other lips, now often forgotten in his impatience and frustration. He kissed her fiercely and hazy-eyed, his mind always elsewhere as he stripped the flesh from her mouth. He kissed her in private and in public, shoving gloats down her throat with his tongue, all the while smiling at the jealous anger Blaise could feel beating down upon them.

What new game was he playing? And how dare he bring her into it. How dare he bring her into it, transform her into a proxy. Her, a proxy! She was no pawn, and would be avenged upon Draco for making her one. Somehow.

***

Draco rolled away from Blaise, leaving her empty. Somehow she felt no less empty now than when he had been throbbing inside her. He filled her with nothing, his body intent on hers while he himself cavorted in distant towers. With someone else. Who was their social inferior. Not a Slytherin. And a boy.

Blaise had always known that she would have to forgive Draco his indiscretions, no matter how insulting they might be. So he was allowed his sexual escapades, his games, the boys and girls that followed his movements with slack lips and tripping heartbeats. He was even allowed his own personal whore, this boy that he kept returning to despite his pattern of one night stands and brief frolics that never left the closet. But he was not to be allowed attachment, involvement.

Blaise remembered the advice her mother had given her one night some years ago, after Draco had slipped out of her frosted bedroom window. The moon had been a pale map, framing his luminous flight back to Malfoy Manor. Blaise's mother loved to wander the rose gardens by moonlight.

"I will tell you this only once, Blaise, so listen well. Do not fall in love with your young Malfoy. Marry him, use him, break him, or kill him; do not love him. He will never love you back.

"Know that the only people any Malfoy ever loves are other Malfoys. Not their mothers, not their wives, and most certainly not the whores that trail behind them. Do not make the mistake of thinking that you are more to him than his owl or familiar. Do not delude yourself into hoping that you might one day possess him. It will not matter to him if he possesses you."

But her mother had lied. She had lied and that lie stared into Blaise's face, leering every time Draco nestled in her arms, the smell a putrid cloud that clung to her nostrils and tongue.

"Because he is mine."

It had slipped over marble lips, the vowels soft and liquid, consonants sharp and clipped. He had opened his eyes and for one brief moment a silver supernova destroyed his stone casing to reveal- not a legend, but a young boy. A boy buried under legacies and tradition and expectations. A boy with a heart and feelings, however well trained the façade was that hid them. A boy that could have been hers. That should have been hers. That now would never be hers. That was his, even as this Olympian lay slumbering in her arms.

"Damn you, mother." It was a low whisper, carrying barely enough breath for it to leave her lips, but even so Draco heard.

"Hmm? What was that, Blaise? Did you say something?"

He flipped over and onto her, his tongue probing at her mouth, not waiting for a reply. Blaise clicked her teeth shut and shoved at Draco. He didn't even have the grace to act disappointed or disgruntled. He just shrugged, slipping off of her and into his robes. As if it did not matter. As if none of it had ever mattered.

Do not make the mistake of thinking that you are more to him than his owl or his familiar.

The doorknob began its low screech, announcing Draco's departure. Without so much as a 'goodbye'.

It will not matter to him if he possesses you.

Was this how it was going to end? After everything they had together? Was this the end? Or was it just Draco exiting her room? What would it be, Draco?

Blaise's low cough stalled Draco at the threshold, "You were missing from Advanced Charms again. That is the second time this month, not to mention your absences from Herbology and DADA. And your attendance last month was just as spotty. Tell me, Draco, what exactly do you have against Hufflepuff House?"

"Did you make my excuses to Flitwick?"

"Vincent did. Not that Flitwick believed him. Draco, if you are so eager for your slut, why not simply cut a few of the classes we have with Gryffindor? You won't raise as much suspicion that way."

Yes, exactly why was Draco skipping only those classes that they shared with Hufflepuff?

"It doesn't matter; my grades have not suffered at all."

"You did not answer the question."

"And you actually expected me to? Mordred, Blaise, think! What reasons could I possibly have for not skipping a class with Gryffindor?"

"So you are saying that-"

"I am saying nothing. Just as you have asked me nothing. Remember that."

Blaise dipped her head, conceding Draco's win. It was time to change tack. "They are worried about you, you realize."

"Who?"

"Vincent and Gregory."

"They should understand that it's only sex."

"It does not seem like 'only sex'. You let him take you."

"You told them that?"

"No, but it does not change the fact that you did. Do you still?"

Draco yawned, "Every time."

Blaise choked back the bile rising past the back of her throat. "Why?"

"I do not believe that I owe you an answer."

Blaise recited a recipe for a poison her aunt had taught her. Tasteless, scentless, and slow-acting. Toenail of Lamia, crushed into a fine powder. Dead Man's moss, stripped from forest stones on a moonless night. Bark from a Silver Birch, shredded into long strips.

"No, I suppose that you don't, at that."

"Good Night, Blaise."

The door squealed shut. Blaise cast a lubrication spell on the hinges.

"Goodbye, Draco."

***

Blaise found Vincent and Gregory in the common room terrorizing the first years with a tired story about banshees in the Astronomy Tower. It had been inflicted upon them in their first year and probably dated back to Salazar Slytherin himself. After all, nothing caught a Slytherin's interest like a good mystery. And nothing taught skepticism better than a wild goose chase. No doubt this current batch would be heading up to the Tower to investigate, just in case. The only person in Blaise's year who had not bothered to play banshee detective had been Draco. Scoffing, he had claimed that the only worthwhile secrets in Hogwarts were those of the Dungeon. Draco. Blaise wondered if he had ever found his treasured mysteries. Even if he had, they would be of no help to him now.

"And if you go up to the Astronomy Tower at night, you'll hear their wails." Vincent waved a beefy hand at his skeptical audience, rolling back his eyes so that only the whites were visible. It was one of his more peculiar talents.

They would hear wailing, yes. But not that of banshees.

"But we've heard that that's because people go up there to snog," a snotty looking brunette piped up in the back.

"Well, you don't think they'd want it to get out that they have banshees in their belfries, do you? That bit about snogging is just to cover up the truth. They don't want you to get scared."

It was a bit late for that. One of the girls -Pansy's cousin, it looked like- was trembling. It was time to put a stop to this and send the children on their way. Blaise stepped forward and laid a hand on Vincent's shoulder.

"I hate to interrupt this, but there is something that I would like to talk to you two about." Blaise curled her fingers into Vincent's shirt, stabbing him with her nails. "Now."

"Of course." Vincent rose, grinned porkishly at the first years, and wandered over to a shadowed chair near the fireplace.

Gregory followed suit, and Blaise was about to do the same when a thin voice tinned out, "Uh, Miss Zabini?"

Blaise turned to face Pansy's cousin and briefly wondered who on earth had clothed this child. Gingham was an affront before both Wizards and Gods; no self-respecting Slytherin should be forced to wear something so horrific. Pansy would have to be informed of this outrage. And, knowing Pansy, the matter would be cleared up within a few days. Gingham. Blaise shivered, her silk blouse rippling comfortingly against her skin. Blaise gave due thanks for her mother's impeccable fashion sense and refined social graces.

Smiling smooth and soothing as chocolate, Blaise murmured, "Please, call me Blaise. Your cousin Pansy and I are old friends."

The girl -Margot was it- wrapped her hands into the skirt, fighting to keep her features free of fear. Blaise approved.

"I was just wondering if it was true. Um, about the banshees, I mean."

That skirt was going to rip if the child twisted at it any more.

"Margot- it is Margot, is it not?"

Margot nodded and blushed.

Blaise quirked a brow at the girl's fidgeting, unimpressed by her lack of control. "Margot, I am going to give you some advice. Now, it may not be the answer you are seeking, so what you do with it is up to you. Will you still listen?"

The girl nodded, stray curls brushing her cheeks and forehead. Blaise frowned. Such energy and innocence.

"Sometimes the asking of a question is more important than the answer itself. You see, questions are like decisions, and what you do with them can have far more impact than their answers ever will. It is up to you to decide what questions in life are important enough to ask. Once asked, a question must be seen through to the end, even if the answer is not the one you were seeking." Blaise paused momentarily for effect. "This is true even of questions whose answers you already know. Now let me ask you a question. Is the matter of banshees in the Astronomy Tower one which you wish to pursue?"

Gingham now crumpled and swinging free, Margot crossed her arms, tapping the side of a cheek with one finger. "I think. . . I think I understand. I'm not going to the Tower with the others."

"Then you have found your answer." Blaise dipped her head in approval and turned towards Vincent and Gregory. The faint swish of cloth swaying in a curtsy reached Blaise as she sat down beside Gregory. The girl would do well in Slytherin. A low grunt from Gregory brought her attention back to the matter at hand.

Looming giant-like and dark on either side of her, Draco's guardians were of the sort to inspire fear in most anyone. It would only take one heavy hand to shatter her, to dust her bones under the pressure. Blaise had felt it once before, that time last year when Draco had come back from the bath and his newfound slut, his smile curling back to reveal knives that stabbed her in the gut. Gregory's hand had been around her wrist before she even realized that her wand was drawn. One warning look and his thumbnail against her pulse had been all that was needed.

The times they had netted butterflies together; stolen candy from the kitchens; splinched themselves in that unfortunate Apparating incident; laughed as Draco taught Vincent the waltz, faces red and voices rasping: treasured memories all, become dreamlike and distant under the press of thick fingers. Even now, whenever she looked at Gregory all Blaise could hear was the distant throb of her heart pounding her ears in. Not his reedy laughter as she fell into a stream. And when he touched her, all she could feel were his fingers on her pulse. Not his hands, gentle and warm as he dragged her up from the mud. That day had been the end of the change, of their childhood. Of their friendship.

Gregory leaned forward, fire deepening the crevices and folds in his face until he seemed a creature of shadow and burnt flesh. "So what'd you want to talk to us about, Blaise?" His voice was low and nasal, making him sound snide even when that was not the case. Was it the case now?

"I am worried about Draco."

Blaise watched Gregory pull back into the shadows, trusting darkness to shield his thoughts. Too trusting. She knew more of him than just his face.

"Again? We've covered this. There's nothing to be worried about. Drake's doing fine. It's his parents and the school that need help. Even the Buffalo admitted there's nothing wrong with him."

Nothing nothing nothing. . . firey stone captured the word and spat it back, burning blue, into their laps. Nothing. But nothing does not have the power to burn.

"Then how do you explain his new preoccupation with our favorite prefect? And stop calling him 'Drake'. His name is Draco," Blaise coldly chided.

Blaise hated that nickname. Drake. It made Draco sound like a common garden lizard. Or a Gryffindor.

Vincent offered up his voice from the shadows, "Those two have been going on and off since last year. It's not new."

"And I'll call him what I want." It was a peevish and spoiled response. Blaise was not sure why she had expected better of Greg.

"Fine, do that. But he's never skipped class before."

"His grades are fine."

"So he says. That is not my point."

"What is your point?"

They had drawn together, long acquaintance affirming the brotherhood that nature had denied them. Heart-twins, towering fierce, facing all who would threaten the heart that had brought them together. Now facing her. Blaise could no longer remember all of the reasons she had to hate Draco.

"My point is that he has broken pattern. If not for this past summer, I might have written it off. But."

"But what." Gregory sounded like he wanted to drag the answer and her intestines across the floor. He was ever the last to admit Draco's faults.

"But the fact remains that this summer did happen. For whatever reason, he was in a coma for weeks. Now he resumes this fling, even going so far as to cut classes and lose Slytherin points. He has lost us seventy points so far. How many more will he lose before we stop him?"

"He's not the only one. Potter's lost just as many for his House. We're fine."

Blaise shot a sharp look at Vincent, chastising him for his short grunt. "That is not all. Draco also told me he lets that boy take him. He's never done that before."

"You're saying Drake's been getting it up the ass for the past two months and it's bothering you?"

"Yes," Blaise nodded sharply. "It's not like him, and I think. . ."

"Vince. Do you care?"

"No. We always knew aristocrats were weird. And this isn't even weird. Look at Marcus or Pansy. And I mean, remember Draco's stories about his aunt Hildegarde?"

"Mm. Yeah, wasn't she the one with the Hippocampus thing?"

"Excuse me?"

"Hippocampus. Hadn't you heard? Besides, as long as he doesn't hit on me he can do whatever he wants. You know."

"Does it really matter?" Vincent put a hand on Blaise's arm, his eyes unusually intent.

Blaise's head spun from the conversation's sudden loss of logic. "Does what really matter?"

"Draco being fucked."

"Of course it does! All one has to do is look at the stimuli Draco has been subjected to and-" Blaise stopped as they both stood up and cast off the shadows, their decision clear.

Gregory stepped forward and cleared his throat apologetically, "I don't know anything about 'stimuli,' but I do know Drake. And Drake thinks when he does things, see? He always has reasons. Besides, his sex life's his own business."

"Right, Greg. And Blaise- I don't see him getting upset over who you fuck. So if this is you having a problem with who Draco's screwing around with, count us out."

"That is it? You are not the slightest bit worried about your best friend?" Blaise scoffed, "And what happens when he falls from the pedestal you have so lovingly placed him upon?"

"Then we'll be there to catch him."

It was as though the oath had been charmed with the Sonorous spell, so completely was the common room silenced by Vincent's words. Dozens of glittering eyes fixed on them, measuring the weakness of those who made public such foolish vows. Yet all the two did was stand there, proud and sure in their resolve, shades of lion staring out from their flat snake eyes.

Blaise watched them leave the common room with something like despair clogging her throat.

"And if he breaks you in the fall?"

***

Blaise peered over the huge bound object (something so large could never be considered a book) in her arms at an unusually quiet Draco. While seemingly involved in nothing but studious endeavor, Draco's eyes had passed oh-so-carelessly over the common room's grandfather clock no less than five times in the last forty minutes. The hour was growing unusually late for Draco's nightly disappearance. There was no reason for desire's herald to be late unless desire himself wished it. Did he wish it? He might. Or perhaps the slut was playing a game of tit for tat, exchanging minutes for frustration received. If so, desire was trading in very expensive currency. At this rate Draco would be sketching Snitches in his notebooks until next Tuesday; just retribution indeed for all of his little dinner displays.

Perhaps Draco had even taken his game too far, pushing away both of his victims. Perhaps. But Draco was a master player, and Blaise doubted that anyone but a Slytherin would have the guile to maneuver out of one of his traps. Foolish Ravenclaw. That lot were idiots in their brilliance, always assuming that there was only one type of worthwhile intelligence. One type of- ah, there it was. Desire's herald.

Blaise hid behind her heavy tome, eyes bright and tense as she watched an almost-familiar House Elf slip up to Draco and proffer him a slip of paper. The note wavered in the air, trembling in the Elf's obviously unsteady fingers. The fool. What did it have to fear? It had been doing this for weeks now and Draco had not hurt it, had not even touched it. Indeed, Draco had a reputation for careless indulgence among the Hogwarts Elves and was, if the tarts and cakes left perched on Draco's pillows and desk were any indication, quite popular among them.

Draco slipped the note from the Elf's grasp and murmured something low and gentle, something that had the Elf gasping in a panic. Another whisper, this time tinged with harshness, and the Elf disappeared, too upset to even bow.

Distraction taken care of, Draco opened his note and scanned it, finally inserting it into a hidden pocket after a few still moments of contemplation. He was like a still life painting- fingers pressed thoughtfully against bottom lip, eyes vague, skin and body transformed into something beyond beauty by the dull shine of the fireplace. He glowed softly, yet his eyes were sharp and malicious as he watched the clock. Tic, tock. Tic, tock. Tic tock goes the grandfather clock. Two minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Twenty minutes. Would he never go?

Even as Draco played his game, Blaise was eager to begin her own. She began to fidget with her quill, then caught herself and stopped. Was he not going to go? Was that tonight's game? Blaise hoped not, hoped that this was only Draco's revenge for being kept waiting, prima donna that he was. She yearned to work her own revenge immediately, now. She needed to know about them, see them, breathe them in. Know them. It is not enough to blindly stab an opponent and watch blood run, nor is it enough to run him through the heart and feel his dying pulse quiver along the metal. And it is most certainly not enough to wound him to the death, only to have him miraculously revive. Phoenixes might not abound at Hogwarts, but imitating them was a more than commonplace occurrence. Blaise needed to know where Draco was vulnerable and then, only then, destroy him from the inside out.

Blaise watched as Draco rose from his chair and waved a hand at his books, sending them soaring back to his quarters. His eyes were heavy and lidded, filled with shadows and clear anticipation. Was he so looking forward to tonight's encounter, so caught up in his eagerness that his chiseled mask was now crumbling before her? All the better, then. If so, Blaise doubted Draco would notice her tailing him, not if she muffled her steps with a careful spell. Not if he was this preoccupied.

Blaise waited until Draco had left the common room before following, his light footsteps traitors to his cause, bouncing off walls and floor to reach Blaise's ears. She could have kissed Draco then, thankful for the preoccupation that had dulled his usual caution. Then they stopped and soft gasps took their place, filling the halls, striking at Blaise with their wetness and heat. Clutching at the walls, Blaise pulled herself forward stone by stone, teeth drawing blood as she bit into her lip.

And there they were: light and dark overlapping and melding, Draco barely visible as a black head and bony hands pressed him into stone. The torchlight made demons of the two boys, vague shapes defined by fire and darkness. Blaise suddenly remembered Gregory and Vincent, the way they too had been defined by shadow and flame as they spelled out rejection. The way it had hurt despite herself. Draco would pay.

Draco broke away from his captor, his captive, skin glistening and eyes a typhoon. "You rang? A little late for it, though."

Blaise could hear the other boy's sigh, could imagine the way it must have racked at his lungs. "Dobby said you weren't alone."

Draco's answering smirk was hidden behind a wall of flesh, but even so Blaise felt it, felt its impact on the slut. "But even so you couldn't keep away, I see."

"Shut it, Draco."

They were like chess pieces at war, black on white battling for domination, submission, acceptance. Suddenly it was over: Draco splayed against the wall, ravished and in control, taming the demon that had begun to feed on his flesh. And then, for just one moment the torchlight caught at the monster's eyes, illuminating them a deathly green. A Forbidden green.

Blaise caught her gasp between teeth and lips, painfully silent as beads of blood dripped steady from her chin, staining her blouse and the skin beneath it.

Then something like a low murmur issued from beneath that monster, Draco's whisper muffled by cloth and flesh. The sound filling Blaise's ears was garbled, its secret lost. Not so for dank stone that pulled away, drawing in and clutching at the two cloaked forms that tumbled into its bowels. The last thing Blaise saw before jealous stone hid its coveted prize was a brief gleam of green, snuffed out by the dark.

***

Blaise considered the blank scroll in front of her before slowly, oh so slowly, inking her quill. This was almost too easy, Draco's treachery too superficial. Then again, before tonight the thought of such a betrayal had been beyond conception. A problem with Hufflepuff, indeed. It was a mistake not worthy of a Slytherin and most certainly not of a Malfoy. And it was there that she found her answer, her revenge. Malfoy. Blaise watched absently as her quill dragged across paper, ink forming stylized loops and curves to form a deadly message.

My Lord Malfoy,

I have come across a piece of information regarding your son that I believe you will find most interesting. . .

Blaise paused and smiled.

Let the blood run.

**tbc**