Ecstasy

I've seen the way you look at him. Like nothing else in the universe exists for that moment that you stare into his eyes and he stares into yours. Not the sun, not the stars, not the ground beneath your feet.

And definitely not me.

I've heard how your heart beats when he walks by. You don't know it, because you just feel a tingling in your fingers and a darkening in your eyes and a thrill in your chest, but your heartbeat is like the soundtrack to my life. Thud... thud... thud. Sometimes it makes me feel safe and sometimes it makes me feel cold and lost.

Whenever he's around.

You lash out, because you have to. You have to say something or the moment will pass and he'll go on his way without so much as looking at you and you can't bear that. You have to think of the most unpleasant thing you could say or do, because even you think that you do it because you hate him.

You have all the time in the world for me until he comes along. Then everything stops and the world rushes in on you, and suddenly I'm stranded, hanging from the tattered threads of my heart in a womb of darkness, and all I hear is your heartbeat getting faster.

It never gets faster for me. You don't feel that way about me. You don't know I feel this way about you. Do you remember that time when I slipped in the dark on the way back from Hogsmeade after you found out about your father, and hit my head on the ground. I was unconscious, surrounded by liquid warmth and your heartbeat for four days, but you never gave me more than a moment's thought. I'm just a crony; there are plenty more where I came from. You're the special one after all. You're the one. You always will be.

But to you, no one matters; only your father and him. And now he's responsible for your father's imprisonment, he's more than everything.

And I'm less than nothing.

We're standing outside potions. You're gazing up the corridor while Pansy and I prattle on to amuse you, not listening to a word we say. I know instantly that you're watching for him. When he rounds the corner, flanked by his Mudblood sidekick and the Weasley kid, I feel your heart quicken, see your pupils dilate and the silver of your eyes darken. A grin spreads across your face, and you step forward.
"Draco," I plead, putting a hand to your shoulder, but you shrug it off. I try again.
"Just lay off, please."

You look at me like I came in stuck to your shoe.

"Since when did you have a problem with it?" you drawl, eyebrows drawn together. Then you smirk, and my knees threaten to give out. "Jealous, Blaise?"
I laugh weakly, glad that you turn away. I couldn't keep looking at you after that. Not for all the gold in the world.

"Potter!" you call. The shiver of forbidden glee at uttering his name runs through you like silver sparks.

He turns to you, and his eyes are blank. I know it hurts you, and part of me wants to kill him for making you feel that way. If it has to be him, and not me, then why can't he appreciate it? Why can't he be glad that he has what I never will?

"Afternoon," he says coldly, then turns back again.

"Potter!" you repeat almost desperately, and I hate him more for making you sound like that. You're never desperate for anything. Why prostrate yourself before him?

"What do you want?" he snaps angrily, tossing that stupid great hunk of fringe out of his eyes. "I don't really want to talk to you."

My eyes travel to your face again. Already, spots of colour dance high on your cheekbones.

"Shame," you say, far too loudly. You don't want him to turn away. "I'd love to talk to you. I'd talk to your little friends, too, but I'm not sure if they speak English. Do you, Weasel? Know your ABC?"

It was cheap, too easy, but the orange-haired boy throws himself towards you and I step forward reflexively. What else would I do?

"What about your sidekick?" he retorts, nodding his head at me. I stand my ground, but mentally I step back. I don't want to be a part of this. I already suffer enough. "Does he understand anything other than 'roll over', 'sit', 'come over here and suck my dick'?"

You lunge at him. I don't stop you.

"Want one, Potter?" you snarl, fists balled in his shirt and holding him up against the corridor wall.

He brings his face close to yours, and I feel your shock.

"I don't need one," he replies in a low voice. "I've got you."

You leap back as though you've been stung. Your cheekbones are scarlet now, and a halo of crackling energy surrounds you.

"You wish," you snap back. You could think of better, I know you could, but you don't. I don't. I can't think of anything but you standing up for me. Or did you? Were you just standing up for yourself? Would it matter? I can already feel the blinkers around your eyes. You and he are the only people in this whole universe now, all else eclipsed by how you feel when he's near you.

I know it. I feel it too, but not around him.

It's like pain, isn't it? I think at you. I know you won't hear, but maybe it's better that way. It's a burning like your chest is filled with lava and your brain stuck full of pins. Needles. Injecting thoughts of him. That's all there is for you now, pain and him, but that's not bad. It's not bad pain; it feels like hot lemon juice, scorching your throat and searing all the way down through your chest, and no amount of ice will soothe it. No amount of cold words will stop this feeling, but you wouldn't lose it for the world. You know that when it's gone the world will become grey, like it does when he's not around.

I know, because I feel the same way about you.

But I'll never say it.

You haven't noticed me staring; you're too busy glaring at him. Words have passed and I haven't heard them, but I realise Potter's watching me. I glance between you, bewildered, but you just take my arm, sending thrills over my skin.

"Don't listen to him," you mutter to me, tilting your chin up and leading me into the classroom. I relish in the contact, even though I know you're just using me to get you out of the fight because you're losing. It doesn't matter. Anything for you.

"I wasn't," I stammer.

"Good, nor was I," you say fervently, and then watch him for the whole lesson.

As we leave, I'm in my shell again, because it's the safest place to be. You've started to believe that I'm mentally challenged or going deaf, and you're not the only one. Snape took me aside the other day to ask, awkwardly and hesitantly, with a minimum of eye contact, if I had anything I'd like to tell him, or if I wanted to see a counsellor. I blinked and said 'Sorry?' which probably didn't help matters.

And now Potter's dragging me into your little world of insult rallies and total eclipses of life around you. Why? Why me?

Because I'm always there watching you, adoring brown eyes wide and devoid of anything but longing, like a Labrador. I do nothing; say nothing, until someone threatens you. Then my hackles fly up and my teeth are bared and I'd kill for you. I'd rip out throats with my teeth if I thought it would protect you, make you happy.

But not his. I can't touch him, you say. He's yours, you add, with a manic grin. He hurt you, so you're the only one with the right to him. You don't know how much he hurts me, every time you look at him.

Of course it's him, and not you. Like it's not my fault I feel this way about you, you can't help feeling that way about him. It's his fault. All his fault.

But you don't know what's good for you. Pansy chooses your breakfast, because, if left to your own devices, you would live on half a glass of milk a day. Morag hangs up all your clothes and lays out fresh ones for the morning. I... I make you look good. I'm taller than you, but I'm lanky and thin, so I make you look more powerful. My dark hair makes you stand out, and my dark eyes don't steal the shine of your silver ones. My silence lets your rich voice rise, and my adoration makes your indifference all the purer.

He's taller than you, and thin, with dark hair and dark eyes. He is indifferent to no one but you, and never speaks to you if he can help it. So you don't need him. He's nothing I'm not. And he doesn't love you. He doesn't love you.

I don't know how I'm going to do it. I don't have any plans. I don't even know where he's going to be, but I know the knife's sharp. It's only a half-formed idea so far, and my hand tenses involuntarily on the cool handle in my pocket as I walk through the halls. There's a rustling noise, and the pressure changes. I hear something, and I realise it's not your heartbeat, but my own. And it's getting faster.

I turn around sharply, and Potter's standing there.

"Did he mean to let you out on your own, or did you burrow under the back fence?" he asks me.

What do I say to that? I just shrug.

"Cat got your tongue?" he asks.

I step forward. "No."

"I don't think I've heard you speak in ages, Zabini," he muses.

"I don't have much to say to you." Lie.

"Probably not, but he does, doesn't he?" He seems rueful, not unfriendly. Nothing he's said has been particularly. More curious than mocking.

"He always finds something to say to you," I say. It's true enough.

He laughs. "He's not as talkative when there's no one around."

My heart stops. "What? I don't understand."

Potter steps closer to me, a smile playing about his lips.

"I thought you knew," he says in this incredulous but exclusive tone.

"No," I say warily, shaking my head.

"We've been meeting up in empty classrooms for ages now," he says, smile broadening until my fingers clench so tightly that the back of my hand cramps up.

Seeing that I'm not about to reply, he continues, "It's just sex." He laughs.

"Fuck you," I snap.

He blinks. "Sorry, what? Oh. OH." He looks crestfallen. "Oh."

"And people say I'm fucking retarded," I hiss, bitter pain lancing through my body. "Find a new fucking sound, will you?"

"I wouldn't have said anything if I knew you... I'm sorry..."

I laugh bitterly, loudly. "And would that change anything? At least now I'm not lying anymore." I snort, trying to detract from the burning, aching, searing feeling in my throat. "He doesn't want me anyway."

"No, he doesn't."

Three simple words, but I feel the blood pour out of my body. I have to force my mind down to my fingers to make sure I didn't accidentally slash my wrist with the knife. It's hard when my whole body's numb.

"It's just physical," he assures me quickly.

I wouldn't care if you got together and played Solitaire or drew pictures of chairs from interesting angles. When you're with him, you're not with me.

"Do you think that really makes a difference?" I demand. I can't think why I'm baring myself to him. Maybe it doesn't matter anymore.

"No," he admits. He's biting his lip, and I just want to rip it from between his teeth. Bite it myself, harder, properly, not that gnawing motion he's making. It's infuriating me.

"Fucking stop that," I snap eventually.
"Stop what?"

"Biting your lip."

"Was I biting my lip?"

"Yes, you were biting your lip."

He gives a sort of 'oops' ha of laughter, shrugging his shoulders. "Didn't notice."

I give him a dirty look. "Look, I'm going now. You and Draco just keep going with... whatever you've got going. Don't worry about me. I don't matter."

"Wait!" he says, grabbing my arm. He's biting his lip again.

I pull on the arm hard, one hand locking against the back of his skull. I take his lip between my teeth and bite down. He gives a muffled cry of pain, but as his tongue flickers out automatically it catches my own lips, and he pauses. His green eyes fix on mine, and they're not dark like I thought they were. They're rich and deep. Tentatively, he runs his tongue over my lip again and I make to draw back, but my body won't respond.

"Want to know what he sees in me?" he whispers, lips brushing my own.
I jerk back. "What do you think I am? Like I'm going to help you to cheat on my best friend."

"I told you, it's just sex," he says, exasperated now. "Or is that what scares you?"

"You're not what I thought you were," I breathe, eyes narrowed and searching his face. "Don't tell him you spoke to me."

"I'll tell him what the fuck I like," he calls desperately, and a thrill of familiarity shoots through me. He doesn't want you to walk away. "You don't own me!"

"If I did, I'd send you back to the shop," I reply, still forcing my legs to move.

"Wonder if he'll ever talk to you again after he finds out that you jack off to his picture every night."

"You're just talking out of your arse."

"Considering our usual state when we meet up, he sees more of my arse than he does of my face."

"I'm sure it's a better view."

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Like a five-year-old in a playground, triumphant.

"No, not really."

"Blaise?"

The heartbeat's there and I look up to see you in front of me. You're wearing your dressing gown and pyjamas, and your hair is tousled from sleep.

"Potter?" you add. Suddenly you're wary. "What are you two doing out here?"

"Nothing," I say quietly, dropping my gaze.

"Like we agreed," Potter calls. "Eleven, fifth floor corridor. You're early."

You give a strangled noise, and I look up. You're jerking your chin in my direction.

"He knows," Potter says sullenly.

You turn your eyes on me, and I have to look into them. Somehow I know that my perfectly mild expression has faltered, and you've seen the pain in my eyes. You look confused for a moment, as though you don't really know what to make of that, then you reach out to me. I step back. Your touch burns my skin as your fingers brush my bare shoulder anyway.

"Blaise, I didn't want..."

"Don't apologise," I whisper. It was meant to be so much louder, so much more powerful than that, but it wasn't and it's too late to change it now.

"Blaise if I'd have known--"

"Yeah, yeah, he said that too," I croak, pointing at Harry. "For a school, we sure have a lot of people who know nothing." I give a hysterical laugh.

"Not the time for this," you say gravely.

"Leave me alone," I snap. "You don't know anything about me. Just go away."

"Blaise!"

But I'm already running away from you.

I've never run away from you in my life. I've always run from myself but stood right beside you. Why am I running now? I don't know. I don't know many things. Part of my has my mother's voice playing over and over - Never run with knives, Blaise... I should take it out of my pocket. I do, holding it as I run, but I can't throw it away.

Suddenly there's something between my feet and I stumble. I hear your distorted shout, echoing from the walls, and feel your heartbeat quicken.

For me. All for me.

The moment before the blade sinks into my chest is ecstasy.