Rating:
PG
House:
The Dark Arts
Characters:
Blaise Zabini Hermione Granger
Genres:
Angst Romance
Era:
Multiple Eras
Spoilers:
Philosopher's Stone Chamber of Secrets Prizoner of Azkaban Goblet of Fire Order of the Phoenix
Stats:
Published: 10/24/2005
Updated: 10/24/2005
Words: 1,355
Chapters: 1
Hits: 299

Moonlit Shadows

Jawy

Story Summary:
"He wants to stay here with her, allowing the moonlit shadows to draw him into this lull where he can forget reality and time and just breathe." (fanon!Blaise/Hermione)

Chapter Summary:
"He wants to stay here with her, allowing the moonlit shadows to draw him into this lull where he can forget reality and time and just
Posted:
10/24/2005
Hits:
280
Author's Note:
This one-shot has been the bane of my existence for the past month - not because I hated writing it, but because it took forever to perfect. Of course, it's not perfect perfect now, but it's as perfect as it's ever going to be. Much love to my beta esus, who was so patient with the many versions of this fic that she had to read.


Moonlit Shadows

In a world apart from anyone else, we are Frank and Billy, with no significance to anyone but the other.
Oh, the terrible privacy and loneliness of love affairs...

- Laurie Colwin, My Mistress

The moon casts odd shadows in the night, distorting everything he sees, even her.

The room around him is simply four, white walls and a wooden floor; in the night, it is enshrouded in inky darkness, lending the empty corners mysterious appeal. The bed sheets are thin and threadbare, barely covering them both, but the simple cotton now has the lustrous glow of satin. The rickety table to the left side of the bed, her side, is white and jagged, the innumerable scratches on it smoothed away. Closer to the door is a pile of books stacked against the wall, but they are blackened beyond recognition in the shadow.

In the far corner, their clothing flows like a haphazard trail from the door to the bed. His black cloak lies in heap beside her dog-eared tome on counter spells, lying open-faced on the floor. The sad position of the book betrays the haste of their union, for she would have never allowed such damage normally.

Closer to the bed is a large puddle of ink, spilt during his display of ardor. It is staining the floor, but he doesn't care. It will leave a mark, a reminder of their union so that anyone who sees it will remember them if he or she doesn't return.

That thought alone reminds him that he can never escape the world outside of this room.

He closes his eyes, wanting to forget the way his white mask shines brilliantly without these walls, leering at him with mocking clarity. He ignores visions of that decrepit volume on the floor by the ink, the book she has been poring over for the past two weeks. Yet he cannot stop the unbidden memories of the times she's taught Potter or Weasley those spells, a quill keeping up her unruly hair as she flicked her wrist with confidence.

He grimaces in pain and frustration, for these thoughts merely remind him that the war they are fighting in will be coming to an end in a few short hours.

Instead, he wants to stay here with her, allowing the moonlit shadows to draw him into this lull where he can forget reality and time and just breathe.

The night beckons him back into this sweet oblivion, and he opens his eyes to drink it all in with pleasure. He looks over every detail in the room again as though with a lover's caress, sweeping past everything that reminds him of the world outside as though they are inconsequential flaws. To him, there is no indication of the two dangerous roles he plays or of the gentler side that only she is privy to. His many masks melt into the shadows so that they are willfully hidden from the moonlight that guides his eyes.

The ink puddle has a poignancy that it never had before, truly marking this room as theirs. The walls and floors are still scuffed and plain, yet they now seem inviting with a homely simplicity. The furniture and the bed are like beloved relics, representing memories of better times. In this perusal, he recognizes the Muggle picture of her parents on the bedside table beside her, their smiles captured forever on that flimsy paper. He takes the time to observe the designs on the extra blanket that has been pushed to the end of the bed, its crumpled state reminding him of how they'd pushed it there in post-coital bliss.

His thoughts lead him to her again; now, he traces the lines of her figure as though they are more familiar than he is to himself.

There are worry lines across her pale forehead - he knows this because his lips have traced them many times, testing their depth and travels across her face. Her skin is sallow, even paler than her natural fairness - he cannot forget the slump of her shoulders, for she is forever etched in his memory. She has lost quite a bit of weight since she graduated from Hogwarts - he could feel her ribs pressing against him when he crushed her to him earlier that night, upsetting the inkwell that sat by her elbow. Her naturally curly hair has become unruly and knotted - he had quite a time at loosening it from its severe bun before he kissed her, ignoring the spreading ink stain along his pant leg. Her lips are chapped and bloody, from all the times she's chewed them while thinking - he'd noticed, while he drank up the sight and feel of her, that she savored his kisses, coating his saliva all over her lips heedlessly.

Yet none of these traces of the war mar her beauty in her slumber. Her face is illuminated, casting her cheekbones in shadow and erasing the lines across her forehead. Her hair is as black as the spilt ink on the floor, only a hint of the thick strands lit. As the moonlight touches her lips, it curves to emphasize her laugh lines, so that she seems to be smiling. The angularity of her figure beneath the sheets is given sensuality, and his hand moves to caress her once again.

But he stops himself, afraid that he will disturb the fragility of this moment in time. Instead, he rakes his fingers through his already-tousled hair in a gesture as familiar as this world he has escaped to.

For it is here in the darkness, when hope seems so elusive and the future so bleak, that he will find strength to meet his fate. In this night, as he has the nights before, he will tell himself that she will still be here, be his, after morning comes. Leaning on his elbow, staring down at her beloved face, he will allow himself to dream of how they will live after Voldemort is defeated, when their moments together will no longer be confined to these four walls. His eyes trace a ghostly line down her pale cheek, for he knows that tears will follow that trail tomorrow when she realizes that he has survived for yet another night.

Like countless times before, he notices a hint of yellow in the light illuminating her face. If he turns his eyes to the window, he will see the soft pinks and oranges in the horizon as the sun quickly rises before him. If he glances around the room, he will notice that the walls slowly become yellowish white and the floors return to a scuffed, pale wood. The corners of the room will reveal their emptiness, while the spilt ink will reflect the black depths of his cloak.

And when he finally turns his eyes back to her, he will notice that the lines on her forehead and the shadows under her eyes have deepened. Her lips will be pursed tight in stubbornness, attempting to hide the fear that she feels even as she sleeps. Her hair, her skin, her entire being will return to its odd mixture of wild and dull in nearly the blink of an eye, and he will find himself longing for the night once more.

Yet this morning he resolutely keeps his eyes upon her face instead of inspecting the changes to the room. The pragmatic part of his mind tells him to go about his usual routine and then dress, so that he is prepared for the call of the Dark Lord. But he forces himself to remain. This time, he will not be distressed by the onset of reality. His resolve to survive will not and cannot be broken by the sunrise.

For the slight burning of the mark in his arm reminds him that tomorrow night may never come.

When Hermione finally wakes, Blaise is already fitting his mask on. He spares her a momentary glance through his guise, wondering when the day became as distorted as the night, before he Apparates away.

Finite Incantatem