The Handkerchief

The handkerchief

Padma fumbled with the handkerchief she carried with her in her robes? It was stained with tears, but she couldn't bear to clean it because it still smelled like him. He had given it to her on the night he ripped her heart out. The tears on the thing were the tears she shed when he had told her.

He had told her that he was leaving her for a boy who she saw as a friend. It felt even worse because she couldn't actually say that he left her, since the had never really been together. But she loved him regardless.

She looked at the handkerchief again. It was a memory. It remembered her to never be that blind again. She should have seen the signs. The signs she clearly saw in her sister. It was just that she hadn't. She had been blinded by her love for him.

In a way she was still blind. Instead of shunting him out of her life she had asked him if they could still be friends. Everything was better then to lose him completely. She could live with the pain of being around him, knowing it wouldn't work it; that her feelings were in vain. She couldn't live with the idea of never seeing him again.

The handkerchief, he had probably forgotten he'd even given it to her. She kept it with her all the time, as if... as if it was a piece of him, something more then a memory. It wasn't, it was a reminder of both happy and sad times.

Padma could never be sorry about the little they had shared together. She remembered the Weird Sisters concert she took him too. That was where it all began her love for him. He had brought her home and he had kissed her on her forehead before he left. In those dark times of the beginning war she had lost her heart to him. Sure she had felt some sort of infatuation with him before, but since then she had walked with her head in the clouds every time he kissed her, no matter where.

But she remembered more. She remembered the happiness she had felt everytime he had kissed her. She remembered how good it had felt to feel his lips on her skin, her lips. She remembered how good his touch felt on her skin even when she didn't like the message he was telling her.

She remembered also how good they could talk to each other. They were best at that, talking. Every time she felt she was falling apart, he held her close and made sure she didn't fall. In his strong arms she felt safe, even if he was the one that was administering the hurt. He could do nothing wrong!

She looked at the handkerchief again and rubbed her fingers lovingly over the initials embroidered on to it: B. Z.! Blaise Zabini; the man she could never forget, the man of her dreams!