Work Text:
It was like watching her from the bottom of the sea and not being able to walk on the shore. They lived in completely different worlds. Blaise had known from the moment he set eyes on her at the Yule Ball ten years prior that his breath had been stolen. His heart along with it. He was also well aware that she would never come to know the lengths he had gone, nor the sacrifices that he had made, for her to live. He was never one for grand gestures of love and he was not known to put anyone’s needs before his own. For her though, he would lay the world at her feet. She would never know that. She could never know that.
He had been sure to distract his housemates as much as possible from the little witch. It was difficult on many levels, she was always in the centre of the fray alongside Potter. He understood that she did not need protecting, that she was not known as the brightest witch of their age for nothing. He knew she oozed Gryffindor courage and confidence while still being sharper and sounder of mind than any Ravenclaw. Watching helplessly as the Bulgarian oaf dragged her to safety from the bottom of the lake, or when she was abused by the Umbridge woman in their fifth year.
He had managed to keep his interference discreet but somehow, by the winter holidays of their fifth year, his mother had found out. He was never sure how, though he had his suspicions. Slytherin princesses always had their spies, even after they left Hogwarts.
“A mudblood,” she had hissed, all cool exterior and poise. “It makes me sick to even think it. We are a respected part of pureblood society, I won't have you tarnish that." When Blaise made no indication that he would stop, she raised her chin, "Fine, it pains me to do this. You leave me no choice." She raised her wand at him, "Sanguinem Lutlentis. Now you shall have dirty blood, too."
The curse was brutal. Every time he would help her in any way, whether it was picking up a quill she had dropped in class, or sending a Protego charm in her direction during the final battle, his blood would burn in his veins. It was pure agony. The first time it happened he passed out from the pain. By the third time he had ended up in the hospital wing because of what his mother had inflicted on him, Madame Pomfrey was becoming suspicious. When he tried to speak the name of the curse a pain like one-thousand knives was at his throat and he started to cough up blood. The mediwitch never asked again. It did not deter him, however, and from afar he ensured that the young lioness survived. Blaise came to learn that the curse was an ancient one, as most things in pureblood society were, and so there was no information on how to counter it. All he knew was that it was killing him, slowly and painfully.
That was how he learned how precious time was. When they left Hogwarts, broken and damaged he chose to start researching cursed scars. He knew that many of his peers were injured, but Draco had told him what had happened to her on his drawing room floor. He decided to dedicate his life to ensuring that she would no longer be branded with that ugly word. She became a healer, with a speciality in long-term curse damage. He became a potioneering researcher in the same field. That was when he got to know her. Really got to know her. Having spent years admiring her from a distance, being in her orbit was dazzling.
It was tedious work to get her to open up to him. Hermione Granger, who had been so open and full of wonder in her early years at Hogwarts, was slow to trust. The war had affected them all in different ways and for her, it was more traumatic than most. Still, with everything Blaise learned about her the more he was taken in. Yes, she was smart, and yes, she was beautiful, these were things he had known for years. She was also a nervous talker, and she would always bite her lip before saying something that she thought would offend. She would always twirl a particular curl at the crown of her head when she was thinking about something, and she would hum show-tunes when she was happy. With every passing day, he fell more in love with her. Slowly but surely, she let him in. They grew closer and shared more secrets. Soon, he was not the only one of them in love. With every selfless action, his blood burned and his body got weaker. Yet, he did not stop his work, he did not slow down their relationship, he did not deny her anything.
The first time he saw her scars, raw and angry and red as if they had been inflicted on her mere hours before, he knew he was going to die for this woman. She had been naked beneath him, glorious in her abandon, and given over completely to him. He had kissed up the slashes at her chest and over the letters on her wrist. In that moment he vowed that he would love her more than his own life. As they worked diligently together and grew closer to one another through the years, she noticed that he was growing sicker. She became distracted from their work and started asking more about how to cure him. He could not let himself get distracted. With everything he had in him, he created the potion. As soon as the cauldron was off the flame, a blinding pain coursed through him. It had worked. He corked the bottle and picked up parchment and quill.
Hermione,
Dying for you is the greatest privilege of my life.