Cha Cha Cha
Title: Cha Cha Cha
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ginny/Blaise for rarepair_shorts
Prompt: the banality of evil
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,040
Summary: Ugh, Blaise thinks. He’s living a metaphor. Or whatever this is.
Author's Notes: You guyyyyyssss. This is the last one! D: Follows A Sobering Examination of Ginny Weasley's Brain. Thanks so much for reading and commenting. ♥
Link to Prompt Table: Accio!
First | Previous | Next
Cha Cha Cha
Eight o’clock.
Ate oh claw...
Kuh.
Blaise feels like such a girl. A silly little girl who giggles and frets and checks her hair in the mirror every five seconds and reapplies her lipstick (or whatever it is girls use now) just as often.
Except that he’s not giggling, just fretting. And there isn’t a whole lot of hair to check; and furthermore, he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing lipstick.
Or alive, for that matter. There’s a fine distinction. Don’t forget it.
The second time he catches himself casually walking past the mirror to quickly glance at his reflection before anybody notices, he stops, groans, and very pointedly turns his back on himself.
Only to turn his front on ANDPANSY.
There just is no end, is there?
And furthermore, why is she always here? Without DRACO? One annoying person does not a beloved dynamic duo make, Pansy Parkinson, keep on trying, you’ll get it eventually.
She’s sitting on DRACO’s bed, bouncing up and down on the springy mattress, and smiling at him like a kneazle that’s just got into the cream.
No. Like a kneazle that’s just kidnapped the entire cow and has trained it to do a whole manner of useful things, and possibly tap dance, and-
“What?” he glowers.
“Where you gooooooin’?” she sings.
“Out.”
“With Weeeeeeeeeeeasley?”
“None of your business.”
Her eyes light up, and she bites her lip excitedly. Is that something girls do, now? Chew their own lips off when they’re excited?
“Blaaaaaise, don’t you think-?”
He swings his head from side to side, cracking his neck comfortably; he cracks his knuckles, too, rotates his shoulders once. And then he proceeds to ignore ANDPANSY by pushing past her and sweeping out the door.
Yeah. That’s right.
It’s show time.
“So,” Weasley says, and maybe every little bit of confidence he’s managed to work up-because he is Blaise Zabini, stoic and desirable and amazing-flies out the window. “You decided to show up.”
He flicks his eyes over her once very obviously, hoping to make her uncomfortable. She smirks, but for a moment, looks down, and his eyes linger longer, this time. Unnoticed. There’s nothing worse than having someone notice you’re noticing them without you meaning them to.
Then she looks up and meets his gaze squarely. Shit. Caught in the act.
He shrugs, fretting again. “I could say the same to you.”
Let us dance. After all, the steps are familiar: back, forth, back, forth, back, forth, back, forth. Stop. Stare. Glare. Heartbeat, cha cha cha. Mix it up a bit with a few spins or twirls. Dip. Drop? Everybody, now!
Ugh, Blaise thinks. He’s living a metaphor. Or whatever this is.
Stupid metaphors.
He looks at her again.
Blaise hates poetry, of course, and Weasley’s poetry, especially, because it’s awful stuff, obviously, but right now, he feels like poetry, and Weasley looks like poetry. Moonlight dusting her hair and shoulders like snow, light and shadows-reflections off the lake-dancing across her face and changing her expression every second. Him here. Her there. Wind quiet. Water lapping.
“Christ.”
“What?”
He gestures around them, indicating: This is borderline romantic, I am waxing poetic, this is way too much, are you serious, TOO FAST SLOW DOWN OH MERLIN AND SALAZAR’S SOCKS WHAT THE HELL IS THIS.
Weasley snorts. “Too much for you, Zabini?” she asks, arching her eyebrow. “Maybe I should conjure up some candlelight, how’d you like that? A little music, maybe?”
She holds her pose for a few seconds, letting the horror sink into them both, and then grimaces. “Yeah,” she says. “I know. It’s disgusting.”
“We could turn around.”
She looks over her shoulder. To the front: picturesque, the lake in moonlight. To the back: a lovely view of the dirty castle wall.
A nod. “Yup. Turning around.”
There’s a cluster of small trees nearby, probably half-dead from the looks of them, and Weasley takes his hand just long enough to tug on it. Has she just cursed him, or something, or are his fingers not actually on fire? He blinks, shakes his head, and follows her.
They sit with their backs to silly, clichéd romanticism, leaning against the dead-maybe-half-dead trees. No moonlight now. No pretty, shiny lake. No more threats of candles and mood music.
Just...
Weasley sits cross-legged with her elbow propped on one knee, chin contemplatively in hand. The other knee touches Blaise’s, except that his legs are straight out in front of him, and it’s his arms that are crossed. And it is not romantic in any way.
Not at all.
“So,” she says. Her favorite word.
“So,” he replies. What’s mine is yours, apparently.
“So you’re a slimy, conniving Slytherin.”
“So you’re a blood-traitorous, self-righteous Gryffindor.”
“So here we are.”
“So it would seem.”
So now there’s silence.
So now she’s lifting her head from her hand, and straightening up.
So now he’s un-crossing his arms.
So now she’s smirking again.
So now he’s smirking back.
And maybe they should be worried about sneaking back into the castle, because it’s getting late and, hello, Filch is on patrol with his four-legged lover or whatever that cat is, and it’s almost after hours, and the doors are probably locked by now. And maybe they should have noticed the pair of matching giggles a few trees away, of the suspiciously familiar and nosy and annoying and I’m-going-to-kill-you-in-your-sleep-if-you-don’t-bugger-off-soon variety. And maybe they shouldn’t be talking to each other at all, because ooh, inter-house civility is a taboo, and what’s everyone else going to think once they find out, because obviously they are, because surprisingly Hogwarts is a cesspool of non-secretive things when it comes to students, and blah
Blah
Blah.
Blaise closes his eyes and says, “Ginny,” for the second time in his life, and really the only thing he notices is how he rather likes it, despite this unspoken Rule of Surnames thing. Ginny bites her lip and rolls her eyes. Mischievous.
“So,” she says.
“Blaise,” she says.
“Let’s not get too romantic now,” she says.
He lets out a derisive snort, and kisses her.
THE END
First | Previous | Next
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ginny/Blaise for rarepair_shorts
Prompt: the banality of evil
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,040
Summary: Ugh, Blaise thinks. He’s living a metaphor. Or whatever this is.
Author's Notes: You guyyyyyssss. This is the last one! D: Follows A Sobering Examination of Ginny Weasley's Brain. Thanks so much for reading and commenting. ♥
Link to Prompt Table: Accio!
First | Previous | Next
Cha Cha Cha
Eight o’clock.
Ate oh claw...
Kuh.
Blaise feels like such a girl. A silly little girl who giggles and frets and checks her hair in the mirror every five seconds and reapplies her lipstick (or whatever it is girls use now) just as often.
Except that he’s not giggling, just fretting. And there isn’t a whole lot of hair to check; and furthermore, he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing lipstick.
Or alive, for that matter. There’s a fine distinction. Don’t forget it.
The second time he catches himself casually walking past the mirror to quickly glance at his reflection before anybody notices, he stops, groans, and very pointedly turns his back on himself.
Only to turn his front on ANDPANSY.
There just is no end, is there?
And furthermore, why is she always here? Without DRACO? One annoying person does not a beloved dynamic duo make, Pansy Parkinson, keep on trying, you’ll get it eventually.
She’s sitting on DRACO’s bed, bouncing up and down on the springy mattress, and smiling at him like a kneazle that’s just got into the cream.
No. Like a kneazle that’s just kidnapped the entire cow and has trained it to do a whole manner of useful things, and possibly tap dance, and-
“What?” he glowers.
“Where you gooooooin’?” she sings.
“Out.”
“With Weeeeeeeeeeeasley?”
“None of your business.”
Her eyes light up, and she bites her lip excitedly. Is that something girls do, now? Chew their own lips off when they’re excited?
“Blaaaaaise, don’t you think-?”
He swings his head from side to side, cracking his neck comfortably; he cracks his knuckles, too, rotates his shoulders once. And then he proceeds to ignore ANDPANSY by pushing past her and sweeping out the door.
Yeah. That’s right.
It’s show time.
“So,” Weasley says, and maybe every little bit of confidence he’s managed to work up-because he is Blaise Zabini, stoic and desirable and amazing-flies out the window. “You decided to show up.”
He flicks his eyes over her once very obviously, hoping to make her uncomfortable. She smirks, but for a moment, looks down, and his eyes linger longer, this time. Unnoticed. There’s nothing worse than having someone notice you’re noticing them without you meaning them to.
Then she looks up and meets his gaze squarely. Shit. Caught in the act.
He shrugs, fretting again. “I could say the same to you.”
Let us dance. After all, the steps are familiar: back, forth, back, forth, back, forth, back, forth. Stop. Stare. Glare. Heartbeat, cha cha cha. Mix it up a bit with a few spins or twirls. Dip. Drop? Everybody, now!
Ugh, Blaise thinks. He’s living a metaphor. Or whatever this is.
Stupid metaphors.
He looks at her again.
Blaise hates poetry, of course, and Weasley’s poetry, especially, because it’s awful stuff, obviously, but right now, he feels like poetry, and Weasley looks like poetry. Moonlight dusting her hair and shoulders like snow, light and shadows-reflections off the lake-dancing across her face and changing her expression every second. Him here. Her there. Wind quiet. Water lapping.
“Christ.”
“What?”
He gestures around them, indicating: This is borderline romantic, I am waxing poetic, this is way too much, are you serious, TOO FAST SLOW DOWN OH MERLIN AND SALAZAR’S SOCKS WHAT THE HELL IS THIS.
Weasley snorts. “Too much for you, Zabini?” she asks, arching her eyebrow. “Maybe I should conjure up some candlelight, how’d you like that? A little music, maybe?”
She holds her pose for a few seconds, letting the horror sink into them both, and then grimaces. “Yeah,” she says. “I know. It’s disgusting.”
“We could turn around.”
She looks over her shoulder. To the front: picturesque, the lake in moonlight. To the back: a lovely view of the dirty castle wall.
A nod. “Yup. Turning around.”
There’s a cluster of small trees nearby, probably half-dead from the looks of them, and Weasley takes his hand just long enough to tug on it. Has she just cursed him, or something, or are his fingers not actually on fire? He blinks, shakes his head, and follows her.
They sit with their backs to silly, clichéd romanticism, leaning against the dead-maybe-half-dead trees. No moonlight now. No pretty, shiny lake. No more threats of candles and mood music.
Just...
Weasley sits cross-legged with her elbow propped on one knee, chin contemplatively in hand. The other knee touches Blaise’s, except that his legs are straight out in front of him, and it’s his arms that are crossed. And it is not romantic in any way.
Not at all.
“So,” she says. Her favorite word.
“So,” he replies. What’s mine is yours, apparently.
“So you’re a slimy, conniving Slytherin.”
“So you’re a blood-traitorous, self-righteous Gryffindor.”
“So here we are.”
“So it would seem.”
So now there’s silence.
So now she’s lifting her head from her hand, and straightening up.
So now he’s un-crossing his arms.
So now she’s smirking again.
So now he’s smirking back.
And maybe they should be worried about sneaking back into the castle, because it’s getting late and, hello, Filch is on patrol with his four-legged lover or whatever that cat is, and it’s almost after hours, and the doors are probably locked by now. And maybe they should have noticed the pair of matching giggles a few trees away, of the suspiciously familiar and nosy and annoying and I’m-going-to-kill-you-in-your-sleep-if-you-don’t-bugger-off-soon variety. And maybe they shouldn’t be talking to each other at all, because ooh, inter-house civility is a taboo, and what’s everyone else going to think once they find out, because obviously they are, because surprisingly Hogwarts is a cesspool of non-secretive things when it comes to students, and blah
Blah
Blah.
Blaise closes his eyes and says, “Ginny,” for the second time in his life, and really the only thing he notices is how he rather likes it, despite this unspoken Rule of Surnames thing. Ginny bites her lip and rolls her eyes. Mischievous.
“So,” she says.
“Blaise,” she says.
“Let’s not get too romantic now,” she says.
He lets out a derisive snort, and kisses her.
THE END
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