Hey everyone. This is a new one-shot I came up with. Hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer: J.K Rowling owns Harry Potter, not a broke fifteen year old struggling with schoolwork.

Summary: Blaise likes to watch.

Warning: This fic is pretty dark, with some slash and a character death. If you don't like some of these issues, don't read.

I watch them from my table as they eat. He jokes. She laughs. They flirt; hold hands under the table, thighs pressed together. Her hair is pulled back in two messy plaits, deep red hair that shines like the colour of blood. Her eyes are a latte brown; his are a vivid emerald, the colour of the Avada Kedavra curse. The colour of death.

He eats cherries. They bleed dark red juice over his equally dark red lips as he bites into them. He chews them slowly and deliberately, savouring the sweet taste. She wipes away the juice with her thumb as it slips down his chin, slowly sucking the juice off her thumb with a dark, seductive look in her light latte eyes.

She adores biscuits. Chocolate covered, warm, brittle biscuits that crumble as she sinks her teeth into them. Her lap is often covered bits of biscuits that she hasn't managed to devour. She eats quickly, demolishing them like they were the last ever biscuits she would ever taste. He would laugh at her haste, whisper in her ear as he scoops up the little crumbles from her lap and pour them into his ever-waiting mouth.

I watch him in Potions. He works quietly, a look of concentration settled on his face as he struggles to cut his shrivelled turnips evenly. He throws the unicorn hair into his cauldron almost carelessly, messy, uncontrollable jet-black hair falling over his glowing, emerald eyes. He pushes it back impatiently, looking around the room discreetly, his eyes pausing at Snape who sat at his desk, marking third year papers. His pauses again at his friends' desk, watching them work quietly together. Suddenly his eyes swivel around and I feel the intense deathly stare land on me.

He smiles.

And returns back to his work.

I closed my eyes wearily. This had to stop. This…this…obsession.

I watch her as she practises her charms. She waves her wand and chants out the Latin words, flicking her wand this way and that in an intricate dance, her body moving to its own internal music. She looks up in alarm when Madame Pince swoops down upon her like a vulture, latte brown eyes widening, in an instant her wand has disappeared up her sleeve and she's looking at her book. She pulls the most innocent face she can muster upon being scowled at by the book-obsessed librarian. She turns back to her book once Pince has gone, lets a sigh flutter into the air before looking up at me.

She smiles.

And returns back to her work.

They dance their own dance. Moving together to a beat no one can hear, let alone understand. They have their own rhythm, their own style that no one can copy and pass on. Glowing emerald eyes that sparkle with death and dark latte brown eyes that glitter with life. Blood red hair that shines in the sun and messy jet-black hair that hides in the darkness.

No one understands them. One overestimated, the other, underestimated. Misunderstood and falling into a bleak black hole of despair being ripped open by the Dark Lord.

I watch them as he presses her against a wall and kisses her deeply and hungrily, hands wondering and gasping for breath. She winds her hands through his trademark messy hair, pale skin sinking deep into the blackness, her eyes clenched closed, her breathing erratic and fast paced. His lips are deep red, as if blood stained, pressing against her almost white skin, sweet butterfly kisses on her nose, cheeks, eyes, pink lips, drinking her in. Slowly drinking, suckling and nibbling her like the dark red cherries he savours every night.

My school shoes echo as I walk past them, but they take no notice, so wrapped up in each other they are. I watch them over my shoulder, unable to take my eyes off them, and show no surprise as they suddenly stop, dancing their own dance as they turn their heads as one, poisonous green glare mixed with warm latte gaze. I wonder idly what they would do as I stop in my tracks and turn to face them, my own dark blue stare mixing in with those vivid colours.

"Blaise." She smiles in recognition.

"Blaise." He agrees, his poisonous glare softening.

Somehow I know, as I walk away, that something changed.

She wanders around in the dark, sometimes, bare feet padding lightly on the ice-like stone. She drifts around the castle without an apparent destination, flawlessly avoiding all authority in a manner I never understood, dancing to another dance all over again. Her dark red hair falls in careless bounces over her shoulders, spilling against her pure white t-shirt. She moves like a Goddess, foreign and beautiful in the most deadly way possible.

I watch, one time, as she pauses in her mindless wanderings and places a hand against the rough stone wall. Her latte eyes close briefly, and the wall moves aside smoothly and noiselessly. I hesitate, and then follow the redheaded beauty as she virtually floats through the newly made opening. The corridor is small, narrow and restricting, but there she stands, looking the part of a Goddess in her white t-shirt and flowing skirt and dark red hair. A vicious angel swathed in darkness.

She smiles wantonly, and I wonder briefly what she wants, why was I standing here, but such thoughts make rapid escapes as she presses her pink, soft lips against mine.

She was the meaning of life.

He likes to dance in the snow, spinning round and round in never ending circles as pure white snowflakes land in his jet black hair and camouflages against his deathly pale skin. His scar is vivid red and his eyes glint like emeralds in the sun. His lips are chapped and seems as if thousands of tiny wounds had bled it dark red, mingling with those falling snowflakes and condensed air flowing from his lungs.

I watch, when everyone has gone Christmas shopping and he's there, dancing in the snow covered grounds to his own rhythm, dancing to another dance all over again. The weight of the world on his shoulders and he dances, hums and spreads his arms to the sky, not a care for the world who cares far too much about him. Intense, fierce eyes fall on me, and I start to wonder if he knew what had happened a few weeks ago, but I am no coward and tread my way heavily through the perfectly white snow towards him. He stands, no longer dancing, like a dangerous warrior wreathed in blinding light.

He grins, a grin I find a tad feral, and captures my lips in a coarse, brutal kiss.

He was the meaning of death.

It occurs to me, now, that perhaps my obsession wasn't as unrequited as I once thought. I go from silent observer to green and silver amongst red and gold. I go from complete control to none at all as they dance circles around me, a blur of blood red and midnight black, vicious green and soft latte, dark and light all mixed together. Sometimes they catch me together, dragging me into an empty classroom or secret corridor. Sometimes they catch me alone, redheaded Goddess of Life or green-eyed Warrior of Death. It was a ferocious cycle that lasted months.

Seventh year brings a torrent of homework, studying and more secret meetings that drives me mad. I watch them constantly from my table, as he jokes and she laughs. Her hair is pulled back into two messy plaits again, and she's eating biscuits that crumble in her mouth and little bits stick to her pink soft lips that I ache to kiss again, right there and then, but he has that pleasure. His hair is as messy as ever, but longer, brushing against his shoulders in vivid curls. His eyes have that same poisonous glare but now I find that I'm no longer on the receiving end. His lips are dark red too, as dark as the cherries he bites into.

She intercepts me on the way to Advanced Potions, her latte eyes dark and her smile dangerous. I try to protest, I had Snape, and I had N.E.W.Ts this year too but she shakes her head and beckons- and I follow. I still try to protest, maybe I could still make it to class on time, but as I follow her into an abandoned classroom on the third floor where no one else goes, the protests dies in my throat.

He's there too, and even though he's meant to be in class with me, he's here instead, with the redhead we claimed as ours. He grins when he sees me, greets me with a powerful and unruly kiss, and I spend the next double lesson in complete bliss when I should've been learning the Drought of Living Death. But death and life were with me.

Winter came again, and he dances again. She joins him, dancing their intricate dance and calling for me to join them. Everyone's gone Christmas shopping once more, and the snow covers the grounds once more.

But this time the snow was soaked in red.

I watch as a flash of pure darkness erupts behind her, a whistling sound filling the air. I watch as he gives a yell and she continues dancing, her body moving fluidly and carelessly, her latte eyes bright and glassy, her pink lips captured in a sweet smile of a vicious angel. She falls in a graceful arc and the figure wreathed in darkness disappears again, but there was no mistaking the presence of pure, unadulterated evil. She hits the snow with a nearly silent thump, the hilt of a dagger pressing against her pale skin, and the snow begins to stain crimson, and his screams of grief shatters the very essence of life.

Because the meaning of life lay in his arms, bleeding at a rate that I once assumed impossible.

As I scramble towards them, slipping and sliding on the ice and snow, the redheaded Goddess smiles, then falls completely still.

Only death is left, and he lies beside me now, midnight black hair flowing onto the pillow, poisonous emerald eyes fixed onto me. His lips are coarse, but I savour them, drinking them in as I had once seen him drink her in.

Because tomorrow Harry Potter will leave to reap revenge for Ginny Weasley, and I, Blaise Zabini, know that he won't come back.