Like Mother, Like Son.
Like Mother, Like Son.
Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Abruptly turning over, shaking from the cold sweat that was a result of his intense nightmares (if you could call them that), Blaise Zabini opened his vivid blue eyes. He groaned loudly, and his breathing hitched in his throat; jerky and unsteady.
He sat up in a juddering motion, sliding his quivering legs out of the heavy, ice-cold, sweat-glazed bedcover. His feet freezing the moment they touched the cool, ash-wood, floor, he ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, shuddering.
Eyebrows knotting, Blaise constricted his vision by screwing up his eyes. If he could see nothing then nothing would be there. He shook his eyes in a lagging way, with deliberation, attempting and failing to stunt the growing memory flashbacks inside his head.
He rested his head on his hands. His naked, muscled, arched back trembling. Ebony hair was pasted to his suddenly pallid, normally tanned, skin. Blood caked his lips, where he must have bitten them while he slept. Blaise relived and endured the worst possible things while he slept; the memories that haunted him for longer than he cared to remember. They were memories, mostly happy, of his late father. It's the happiness of them that was hurting Blaise.
"Blaise!" Almond shaped, sapphire-blue eyes met the elder man's deep-set ones – the colour of a tranquil, cloudless, midnight sky. The man laughed, wrapping the smaller boy in his arms.
The small boy giggled, exultant grin spreading from dimpled cheek to dimpled cheek. His father lifted him up, and swung him around playfully, ignoring the laughing child's protests. The man pulled the boy to his chest, laughing again, and kissed him lovingly on the forehead.
Tiny Blaise escaped his father's arms, running across the pure-white sandy beach. The sound of the wind was like a pleasant song fluttering through them, curving around the two like a blanket or a soft wave.
Suddenly, the atmosphere changed – stunted. Hacked, suffering darkness suffocated the images only living now in Blaise Zabini's imagination. A place of infinite absence filled his heart; the colours muted and edges lost in a haze of despair. His father was lost in this place, something that intoxicated Blaise every night – however, he hoped, fiction. His father's once-chiselled features that were so like Blaise's own were bitter and violated and distorted. It wasn't like the laughing man that Blaise knew as a small boy.
Corrupted. Tainted. With, as always, that perfected touch of poison. Blaise's mother was dangerous.
Blaise opened his eyes again; the memories and inventions, of his own, disturbing, imagination, dissolving into the room. Blaise jerkily moved towards the open-window, staring out into the sooty clouds. A translucent slice of the moon could be seen hanging behind the purest of the clouds. Blaise let out a breath, spluttering on his pain.
Blinded with raw distress, he came to a decision. One Blaise had been trying to make for months. Blaise moved from room to room, avoiding the portrait of his mother's, which lived in the hallway, mocking glaze. Blaise stumbled into his only child's room. She was sleeping. Blaise pressed his cold lips against her forehead, gently brushing his shaking fingers through her chocolate-coloured hair. He whispered a sickly sweet apology, as he looked at her unprotected, fragile, perfect facial features. She looked angelic.
Blaise, every step feeling like a death sentence, tersely walked into the bathroom. A man with a motive. He could hear his wife cluttering about in the nearby kitchen. Unknowing seconds passed as Blaise steadily stared at the bathroom cabinet, watching his sleep-derived eyes. He took a deep breath, and opened it. It was his mother's old house; he knew it as well as his daughter's every feature. Blaise, with wavering finger tips, pulled away the back of the cabinet from the inside. There was glass after glass of poison his wife knew nothing about. His mother's spare stash. He took the colourless one; the one he knew to be the most deadly. The most painless, but the one that would infect someone's very soul within a split second.
Blaise, holding the tiny tube, shut the cabinet and looked into his eyes again in the mirror. They seemed to hold that barely-noticeable spark his mother's had. This sickened him slightly.
He slipped, silently, out of the bathroom and past his mother's portrait and through another door – into the kitchen. His wife's back was facing him – a lukewarm mug of coffee sat on the unit. Blaise inconspicuously poured in the fatally venomous liquid, his mouth curling into a tiny smirk. He stepped forward, close to his wife, silently. He touched her neck, making her flinch in surprise. He slowly, with deliberation, ran his cold hand down the length of her back. She shivered, and he placed an arm around her waist. He pulled her close to him, enveloping her lips in a lethal kiss. She sighed contently as he let her go.
"Don't forget your coffee, love," Blaise whispered slowly, delicately, seductively, into her ear. She nodded, smiling, as she moved to pick up the mug.
She brought it to her lips. Blaise told himself that he was doing the right thing. She took a sip. He told himself that, this way, she'd be no danger to him. Not like his mother was to his father. Not like she was to all the other men. She finished the small amount left in the mug. Blaise would not be taken away from his child. She smacked her lips.
She touched her throat, eyebrows rutting in confusion.
Blaise locked eyes with her.
Her eyes widened in shock, as she let out a choke.
Blaise let a small grimace touch his lips as the mug, and his wife, shattered against the floor.
He knelt down beside her, and watched the light go out.
It was all over.
Blaise kissed her forehead for the last time, "Like mother, like son." Blaise idly collected the small chunks of china from the floor, a slight smile at his lips.
A/n. Sorry about the shortness. Chapter One will be longer. Please review if you want me to continue with this.
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