title: the rather odd couple
characters: Blaise Zabini, Ginny Weasley, Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy
summary: There's always a song about this.-—Blaise/Ginny
a/n: sorry for all the spag errors, but i actually like how this turned out, story plot wise. the word count is around 11k. i wasn't sure about which plot idea to choose, so i sort of chose both? i like part ii better tbh. also, in the movies, durmstrang was an all boy's school, but in the books, things were different, so i'm going by book-verse for part i.
disclaimer: i don't own anything besides the story idea; the original characters and everything else belong to J.K. Rowling.
dedication: this is for augustii gge
prompt: Blaise/Ginny
and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty
make thick my blood, stop up the access and passage to remorse,
that no compunctious visitings of nature shake my fell purpose
nor keep peace between, the effect and it
- macbeth, william shakespeare
PART I:
One of these days, letters are going to fall from the sky.
It's near the end of her tenth year that the letter comes through the mail (through the ancient owl that's about to spontaneously combust out of exhaustion, any one of these days), into the bustling kitchen—Fred and George are creating a ruckus about how they want to take the car and drive to King's Cross two months in advance of First Day, Ron's stuffing his face with the food that's supposed to be saved for guests later, and Percy's standing on the side, looking slightly aloof like he always does, albeit the grin that's threatening to spill across his face.
Errol—who resembled more of a moulting feather duster than anything else—flapped through the windows, which were hastily opened by Ron (because the last time, he had been preoccupied with the newspapers, and Errol had hit the windows, fallen down, and subsequently lost consciousness for a few hours) and fell upon the breakfast table. "Ginny, there's a letter for you," Ron announces, mouth half-full with an odd combination of cereals. "From Durmstrang."
Ginny hastily grabs the letter, and opens it quickly, skimming through the words before setting it down, wondering why her Hogwarts letter hadn't come yet.
"Durmstrang," her mother manages to get out, nothing short of a surprised expression on her face, jaw dropping. "Durmstrang. It's not Hogwarts, but it's certainly a very good school."
"I don't want to go to Durmstrang," she finally gets out. "I want to go to Hogwarts—like Ron and Fred and George and Percy and Charlie and Bill, like you and Dad—I don't want to go to a school in the middle of nowhere, where I don't know anybody." Ginny looks up, resolute expression imprinted upon her face. "I'm not going: you can't make me."
Her mother sighs, pressing her fingers to her temples. "I'm not going to make you go to a school that you don't want to go to. Just keep in mind that Durmstrang is a fine institute." She pauses for a moment, before continuing, "Oh, and did I forgot to mention: Viktor Krum, that Bulgarian Quidditch player, he goes there?"
...
"Viktor Krum," Ginny grumbled, leaning back on the swingset, which pushed itself back and forth every then, stopping when one of the Muggles walked by—the Wealseys had originally lived in a Wizarding World town before deciding that living amongst Muggles would be a much safer decision; of course, her father was very excited about the move—and then moving once more. "I can't believe that my mum thought that I would go to Durmstrang just so I could meet a famous Quidditch player. Hogwarts has famous Quidditch players too."
There's a rustling in the leaves, before a figure steps out, hands deep in pockets. "Viktor Krum's not that bad."
Ginny jumps back, before sitting back on the swing. "Do you know him, then? Whoever you are?"
"Blaise Zabini." There's a pause before he continues, "You probably know who I am."
She laughs, "Sorry, I don't." He's a thin, lanky boy, with his hands constantly in his pockets, a deep meditative expression on his face; Ginny almost laughs when she sees him, because he's such a stark contrast from her brothers (except Percy perhaps, who had decided that Hogwarts was changing him for the better) and looks more like a middle-aged man than anything else.
"We've been neighbours for what, all our lives?"
"I haven't even lived here for more than four years." Ginny can't remember the last time that she had even associated with her neighbours, let alone seen them. The people on the other side of the street kept to themselves; occasionally, they would wave hello to her if she saw them, but nothing more than that; knowing the neighbours from two streets down? That was pushing out. Especially since her father always warned her to keep away from those sorts of people, whatever that was supposed to mean.
"Maybe I'm confusing you with someone else." She nods, looking at the ground, the swing gently moving back and forth. "Durmstrang isn't too bad. Though it does have a pretty good Quidditch team, there are other redeeming factors." Blaise speaks as though he has an omniscient store of knowledge, and it's amusing to some extent. She stares at him, waiting for elaboration. "A first year," Blaise affirms. "I'm going to be a first year." After a moment of silence, "Just curious, you don't seem like the type of girl to go to Durmstrang."
"I'm not going to Durmstrang. But even if I was, what do you mean, I'm not the type of girl?"
"You're a bit less pretentious than the lot of them. Plus, you don't know who I am."
Ginny laughs. "What are you, a celebrity?"
She doesn't ever remember reading about somebody by the name of Blaise Zabini—it's a pretentious name, to say the least, but that doesn't say too much about him other than his heritage—or ever even hearing of his time. The only families that she had heard because of wealth were the Malfoys, and that was mainly because her father was constantly speaking about the horrible man that was Lucius Malfoy. His son, as spoiled as an only child could be, wasn't any better: like father, like son. "I'm rich. Or, to be specific, my stepfathers are rich."
"Stepfathers?"
"I have seven of them." He shrugs, "I had seven of them. The fifth one was probably the worst; honestly, I don't even remember him. My mom's getting married again."
"That's...wonderful? Good for you."
"So, I am a celebrity. How come you haven't heard of me?"
"You already asked me this. And, uh, probably because I have more important things to do in my life than look up famous child celebrities? I don't know, you're really not that featured in the news."
"Do you get the Daily Prophet?"
"Yeah."
"My mother's always mentioned on the front page."
"I don't read the first page. It's filled with rubbish about somebody getting a makeover and suddenly becoming the most popular person in the world, it's about a random famous person being killed, and of course, Dark Arts are suspected in it. The first page includes articles about a new shop being opened, a new haircut by the Ministry of Magic; it's useless, that's what it is. If I ever bring myself to read the Daily Prophet, page nineteen. That's what I'm looking to read for—mass killings, strange occurrences, tips on daily safety, etc, etc."
He looks at her blankly. "I'll see you around then."
"I'm going to Hogwarts," she blurts out. "I'm not going to Durmstrang."
"I'll see you around then."
...
She's walking in the middle of the road, fingers mindlessly curling around one another, when a shrieking sound emits from a house two streets down, to the left (Ginny knows this house, because she's walked past Blaise's place at least ten times throughout the summer, throughout the two weeks since their first conversation, because he's the only one her age, and her older brothers are at some sort of Quidditch camp—in which girls aren't allowed, or more specifically, girls under the age of eleven, a fact that she finds quite ridiculous, because she's probably better than half of those dimwitted rich pretty boys who only join Quidditch camp so that they can show off their expensive brooms (before falling on their faces two minutes after sitting on their brooms)—and there's not that much to do over the summer holidays), and she jumps and unconsciously moves closer to the direction of the mansion.
Blaise comes storming out of the pretty pink and white mansion, head down, hands in his pockets (he always wears robes, Ginny notices, from the few times that she's seen him, and it's the slightest bit interesting, but mostly pretentious), before he notices her, and stops, looking up for a moment. "What're you doing here?"
"Uh, I heard a noise—"
"Stay out of it," he snaps.
"Excuse me?" She recoils slightly. There's a brush of cold air, and Ginny steps back, examining her surroundings for a moment. She hadn't ever been on this side of town, partly because there was nothing interesting here, and partly because her mother had always warned her of these places, for some unknown reason or another. The houses were taller, and longer; there were smaller lots of land between the houses, which were covered in a black dust colour, pink-and-white decorations on the sides, in a way that was meant to be elegant but turned out as a mess.
"Whatever you think you're doing, stop it. I don't need your help."
"I'm not trying to help you."
He raises an eyebrow, "Sure."
"I'm not."
"Whatever you say."
"What was that, though?" She can't help but asking; it's her inquisitive, sometimes nosy nature that her mum says makes her unique, but sometimes, Ginny thinks that's just a white lie: it just makes her annoying. Blaise stares blankly at a mansion across the street, as though he's one of those dramatic actors on the telly. "Are you going to tell me?"
"What do you think?"
"I think that you want to talk to somebody, but you don't to have anybody to talk to you."
"That's you, not me."
She frowns at him, crossing her arms. "I have tons of people to talk to. I have friends and I have a family." Ginny's not even quite sure why she's there: she could be with Alexa and Tim, and all of her friends from school. If they weren't abroad, if it didn't feel as though she was constantly lying to them every time she talked to them, and perhaps a million other factors.
"Then why are you talking to me?"
"Because you're interesting." She laughs, "Not really, nevermind. You're actually the only person I can talk to right now. My friends are abroad, my brothers are at Quidditch Camp."
"You play Quidditch?" Ginny nods, crossing her arms as if challenging him. He raises an eyebrow, before settling with, "That's good." He pauses, before continuing, "Speaking of Quidditch, you've decided to go to—"
"Shut it."
"I couldn't resist," he laughs. "Have you decided then? Hogwarts vs. Durmstrang?"
"Have you decided?"
"My mother decided. Durmstrang's better for purebloods." Ginny's never seen his mother before, but from what she's heard of him the few times Blaise has mentioned her, she doesn't seem to be a typical person, albeit a wealthy, extremely beautiful one (otherwise, the whole thing with the seven stepfathers probably wouldn't have happened, she thinks).
"That's what you're going based off: purebloods?"
"You're a pureblood, aren't you?"
She shrugs. The Weasleys were a pureblood family—that much she was aware of, but her parents didn't act like the Malfoys, who took pride in their blood status and looked down upon those who were "lesser" because of their blood. Having parents who were wizards, having parents who weren't wizards: what difference was that supposed to make? Children didn't choose their parents, so they shouldn't be discriminated based off of that. "Yeah, so?" Ginny scowls at his expression, "It shouldn't make a difference."
"A lot of things happen, but they shouldn't happen, but they do still happen. That's just life."
...
In the end, it wasn't really her decision: "You're turning eleven, you have to have a party," her mother had repeatedly said. "If you don't have a birthday party now, you're going to regret it later."
Ginny only laughed, "I'm not going to regret it. Besides, I have nobody to invite."
"You can invite your friends from school: what were those girls names, Alexandra, Alexa?"
"Alexa's not even my friend. We just talked a few times because she needed partner for maths." Alexandra didn't even exist. Ginny had made up a lot of names of friends just to reassure her mother that the primary school she was going to do was going to be okay; in actuality, she was going to go to a more expensive school, but the tuition fees had been too high to keep up with the fees for Hogwarts for her other siblings, so some things had to change. "The other girls aren't even my friends. She's not my friend."
"We can have a birthday party for you without friends. We had one for Ron last year—"
"That was a horrible party."
"Ron loved it!"
"No, he didn't. He just pretended that he loved it so that you wouldn't feel bad."
"Is that true, Ron Weasley?"
"...maybe."
"I just want you to be happy."
"I'll be a million times more happy if there is no party."
...
Of course, there ends up being a party (it's some lame excuse of a surprise party) and Ginny pretty much hates it from the very beginning. Her mother buys her expensive dress robes that she'll never be able to wear again, and
Ginny's standing by the snacks table, idly sipping on a fruit punch drink when her mother approaches her, a beaming smile on her face. "I invited your friend," her mother says. After a moment of silence, she continues, "You know, your friend, the one that you've mentioned a few times. At least I think it was him, I could be wrong, though. The neighbour, a few streets down. I invited his parents too, but he said that they were busy. Poor boy."
"What neighbour do we have?" She scowls, crossing her arms, placing down the punch on the table. Her mother doesn't respond, instead sighing at the rambunctious state that the snacks table was in (mainly the fact that the food was barely touched). "What neighbour?" Ginny repeats.
"Just go talk to him; oh, he's coming this why. Ginny, say hello to—"
"Blaise."
"Oh, good, you already know each other." Her mother smiles appreciatively and walks back inside of the house, casting glances through the window back at the two children every now and then. "Why are you here?"
"The food," he says bluntly. "The food here is just divine."
"Liar. The food here's horrible." It had been catered from somewhere in town. Usually, her mum's food was top-of-the-line, except she had decided that purchasing food from outside would somehow make the event, which seemed to be somehow doomed from the start (partly because her dad had decorated it as Muggle princess theme, partly because it wasn't even a party—there were fifteen or so individuals there, most of them older kids from the neighbourhood that she didn't even know, but somehow, her mum assumed she knew), a little more tolerable.
"You're the liar."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You tell me." The snide remarks, the extravagant robes, the sarcastic gibes—she wondered if Durmstrang was to be filled with children like Blaise, pretentious know-it-alls (who weren't so pretentious all the time, weren't so horrid all the time), and thought for a moment if there was some other option: perhaps she could beg Percy.
"You mean...about the decision? I never actually got a letter to Hogwarts."
He shrugs, "Neither did I. You don't need Hogwarts anyway."
"My whole family's gone to Hogwarts."
Blaise pauses. Ginny doubts that any member of his exclusively pureblood family has ever gone to Hogwarts—the school which had been noted for its acceptance of wizards and witches of all blood statuses—and wonders, not for the first time, why she hadn't even received a letter. Her name should have been on the acceptance sheet, if such a one existed, from the time of her birth; the Weasleys were known for their hand-me-down clothes, flaming red hair, and going to Hogwarts, the latter the most important of the three. "Anyways, not getting a letter to Hogwarts: makes the decision a little easier then, doesn't it?"
"What decision?"
"The decision whether you want to go the Muggle route or the magical one."
"I never really thought about that. I never thought that I would continue going to normal schooling." For starters, normal schooling involved never being allowed to bring friends home (if those friends would someday exist) because they would see something of the flying pots and pans, the clock with nine hands, with strange caricatures of each of them, the artifacts from generations past lying around the house, some half-packed in boxes, others on top of the piano.
"Whatever you say. Just saying, you're growing up—"
"I'm not growing up. I just turned eleven."
"I thought that you wanted to grow up a little quicker."
"Since when?"
"Since you were eight years old and wanted to go to Hogwarts; you didn't want to wait for another three years, you wanted to go immediately."
Stalker, she thinks. Perceptive, she decides upon a better surrounding word. Blaise is a perceptive stalker, and she almost laughs. Ginny had never seen Blaise at King's Cross Station before—and she had been there every September 1st since before she could remember time itself. "Why were you at King's Cross?"
"Like I said, I've had seven stepfathers."
"So you keep on telling me. How come I never see your stepsiblings then?"
"How come I never see your siblings?"
"They're busy." Sometimes they're busy, but Ron would judge Blaise simply because of his blood status and supercilious nature and Fred and George would think he was too serious and not right for her and just in general, they would all make assumptions of him, and stick with those assumptions.
"So are mine."
The stars are useless little inventions of some higher power (when she was younger, Ginny would have said that they were created by magic, but even magic has its limitations)—when she was younger, her mother told her that the stars would guide her home. When she looks up at night, these days, they are a mess of constellations that always seem to fade: nothing is constant. She'd like something steady, something that could be relied upon—people change (because they are meant to, because they want to, because they don't want to); even the stars change. "A toast to growing up, then?" Blaise decides upon the wording, a quirk in his lips.
She giggles, "Blaise, we can't make toasts with lemonade."
He scowls, "You're ruining the moment."
"Fine," she momentarily sobers up, pouring a glass for herself and raising it up to the light. "Here's to growing up."
...
Durmstrang Institute is surrounded by mountains and glaciers and fjors and landscapes without tourists—that is the first thing that she notices of the ambiance; the blood-red robes do not nothing to milden the intensity of her fiery hair (people notice her because of her hair, she hates it) and the mandatory chopped haircut reverses the effect of the coconut oil she had applied every day all summer long—and it is wonderful.
She's sitting in the middle of the flower fields, the wind chopping through her hair in which several knots nestle—her mother reminds her to brush the knots away, and Ginny never listens—her fingers grabbing tightly onto the stubs of grass that grow beneath her feet. Sometimes, she comes up and sits here and tries to lose track of time, and it never works: she's attempted to lose track of time through books and music and anything and everything but nothing compares to playing Quidditch, flying on her broomstick hundreds of feet above the air.
You can't play Quidditch here, her mother had reminded her. Ever since a Muggle family had moved next door, the entire Wizarding community was kept on alert not to draw notice to themselves. You can't play Quidditch until you go back to school.
Ginny watches as the time passes by—some days, it's achingly slow, some days, it moves too fast; she's watching the time tick by, watching it float out of her hands.
...
It's in the first week of fourth year, when she's leaning against one of the pillars up in the Tower (the one with the tapestries with stars that look real enough to feel), red locks chopped into a bob cut that runs past the edge of her chin, wispy bangs resting above her eyelashes, that Ginny decides some things have to change. Not making the Quidditch team-for three years in a row for that matter-couldn't define how she was going to be: Quidditch couldn't define her.
(Except it's more than a hobby, she reminds herself. It's an obsession, it's a dream. You can't give up now. No other girls have made it before they've started fifth year-just one more year—Stop.) There's a shifting to the right of her; Ginny recognizes the figure and almost scoffs, before sighing. Scoffing, crying, that wouldn't do any good. "Didn't make the Quidditch team three years in a row. This is probably my last chance before I give up."
"Giving up, that's your fault."
I didn't give up, she wants to say. Because she didn't. Every spare moment back home, she read the newspapers and magazines (except nothing was the same as actually playing the game, so perhaps, none of those moments counted). "I didn't make the team," she shrugs, looking down and then away. "You did?"
"You haven't been to the games, have you?" Blaise laughs. "I'm rubbish at Quidditch."
She laughs, softly. "But you made it."
"Yeah. I'm rubbish but then the other kids are more rubbish than I am, if that's at all possible to imagine."
She stares at the watch on her hand blankly; from outside the Tower, Ginny can see Quidditch players (among memories of previous years—she had gone to the games, caught up in the midst of glory and vague disappointments, just never focusing on any of the players; rather their artistry and movements) and grimaces, before a thought strikes her. "Teach me," she decides, suddenly. "Teach me how to play Quidditch-properly. Good enough to make the team here."
"I don't have time-"
"It won't take more than a hour a day. And I'll...I'll pay you."
He recoils, eyebrows furrowing. "I'm not taking your money. I'll take a favour."
"Excuse me?"
He stands up, hands in pockets. "See you tomorrow then, 8am?"
...
"You're late."
"I'm not going to wake up at seven in the morning—"
"For the official team, practice begins at 6. Or whenever the captain decides for practice to be held."
"Shouldn't you have practice today?"
"Quidditch tryouts aren't for—"
"Three and a half more weeks; I know."
"You can't improve enough to get on the team in three and a half weeks."
"There's always next year."
"Do you really think you're good enough that you have a chance of making the team?"
"Weren't you the one who told me not to give up?"
"I was trying to be nice."
"Well, don't. Being nice is just lies."
"I wasn't being like—"
"Just shut up and teach me how to win."
He laughs, "It's not as easy as that. We'll start with basics."
"I know my basics."
"Then show me."
"Fine."
"Fine."
"Good."
"Good."
"Show me your basics."
"You have to give me an instruction."
"Fine. Take ten laps around the field."
"What?"
"Ten laps, I said. Are you deaf?"
"The way you're yelling, I probably will be."
"Ten laps."
"Why?"
"Rule No. 1, you don't question the captain."
"I'll test you on all the positions if you don't run the ten laps."
"I'm not trying out for all the positions."
"Which position?"
"Chaser."
"Three out of seven."
"I know—"
"We'll still do all the positions. Let's start with...Seeker. I'll throw the Snitch up into the air, after you've been flying around for a bit, and let's see how fast you can catch it in."
"I'm not a Seeker."
"People aren't born Seekers."
"The good ones are."
"You're probably not going to be a prodigy. If you were a prodigy, you'd have made the team by now."
"The people who make the team have connections."
"You sound bitter."
"I'm not."
"Five laps."
"You're having way too much fun with this."
...
It's on the Sunday after the (unsuccessful, of course) Quidditch team tryouts, at three o-clock in the afternoon, that he calls her on the landline. Ginny's fingers tangle up around the yellowing cord, the traces of cinnamon and turmeric gathering with the dust underneath her nails; her roommates, particularly Daphne, look at her as though she's insane—they looked at her the same way when she had chopped off her locks first year, and had never stopped. "Who is this?"
"Who else?"
"Blaise?"
"Who else would be calling you?"
"Any one of my friends?"
"Oh, right."
"Yeah. Why'd you call, then?"
"Uh, I have a favour to ask you."
"A favour?"
...
"This is…" a date, she thinks, and finds it troubling that she doesn't quite mind the fact.
"The favour I was talking about," he responds quickly, words rushed and pressed up against one another. "I think we're all even now."
"Not quite."
"What?"
"You made me lie to your parents."
"You hate my parents."
"I never said that."
"You implied that."
"When?"
"You just did."
"It doesn't matter-lying is a serious crime."
"I told you that you were half-good at Quidditch. That was a lie."
"Take that back."
"Lying's a serious crime."
"Shut it."
"We're even, then?"
"I'll think about it."
...
It's in the middle of the following week when they run into each other—the strangeness of block schedules, in which classes never change, but the order of them change daily (not on a weekly basis, but on a daily basis, just for variety's sake—because just once we've gotten used to things, they've got to confuse us somehow, Blaise had once told her)—in Potions. They hold eyesight for a moment, before she attempts to brush past him; he grabs her wrist, looking at her with an expression of a mix of confusion and earnest. "I've got to go," Ginny says, looking anywhere but at him.
"You didn't come."
("Three o'clock. Sunday," he had said, words rushed, as though they were troublesome to come out. She had sat there, for a few minutes, something of a dumbfounded expression on her face, before blinking (and subsequently forgetting).)
Ginny gives him a shrug. "I was busy." Like right now.
"You don't look sorry."
"I'm not very sorry, that's why. You never clarified why I was going over to your house."
"Do I need to clarify?"
"Yeah."
"It was like...it was supposed to be..."
"A date?" She finishes, with something of a smile on her face. "If you wanted to ask me out on a date, you should have actually asked me, not just stated random words and expected that I would understand what you mean."
"I'm sorry?"
Ginny laughs, "No, you're not. It's okay, though." After a moment, "Yes."
"What?"
"Yes, I'll go out with you."
...
It's in the middle of the night, when she's munching on a handful of pomegranates and about to close her eyes, empty scrolls of parchment waiting to be written on lying next to her, that Ginny hears her mother's voice. It's calm at first, a gentle calling, and turns exponentially frantic moments later; Ginny can hear the footsteps and the clangings of pots, the banging and shutting of doors, and a purr which expands into a roar within seconds. Without thinking, she opens the door, and immediately shuts out, a black sort of smoke spreading through the bottom and through the holes.
Through the window, Ginny can see the string of fire spreading; then the appearance of a woman with thick, hair, black as night, nearly fading into the background, a wicked grin on her face as she twirls her wand, laughing manically. She finds herself running down the staircase and stands with her mother and father and Ron and Percy, who are crowded at the doorway, staring unsurely at the scene before them as though it can't be real—because whatever this is, whatever the hell this is, how could it be real?—but it is, it has to be (she pinches herself several times to make sure, however, and the truth doesn't make her any less nervous).
There's a familiar look in the woman's eyes, and Ginny looks down, recognizing her immediately—it's one of the women she had seen at Blaise's fifteenth: no doubt a pureblood, some woman trained in the Dark Arts, a Death Eater perhaps? Ginny finds herself inching past her mother, slowly, before breaking into a sprint (she can hear her mother's yells from the background, begging her to come back, but she ignores it, because they're here for her—not for her mother, not for her father, not for her brothers, but for her—and she'll give them what they want as long as they leave her family alone) and runs through the brief gap in the fire before finding herself in a maze of head-high plants. Ginny's been here hundreds of times before, except it's different now, because her life is on the line (but perhaps, going to Durmstrang, her life has always been on the line).
There's a moment where she stops running, just stands there, among the leaves, feeling the breath of something on her back. A low grumbling sound echoes throughout the cornfield, the shifting of feet in water, and then there he is: Fenir Greyback. It's impossible not to recognize the Death Eater werewolf from the notorious posters throughout Diagon Alley, the way that her father used to speak about the killings and influx of children and bites. "Get away from me," she manages to get out, stepping back slowly, "Get away from me."
Ginny's reaching for her wand, hesitantly, when a rush of water sounds comes from behind her: Blaise, she recognizes, with relief and confusion, who yells out a Stupefy, which of course is easily blocked by Fenir, who looks up towards the sky, blood dripping from his chin, as he disappears in a cloak of black mist. The sound of rushing wind spins around the two of them, and they stand back to back in the middle of the pond, feeling more and more trapped by the moment. All of a sudden, a scream echoes, and the rushing stops.
"You alright?" Blaise manages to get out, his voice clogged and breathless.
She shakes her head, looking away. "They, they were Death Eaters. They are Death Eaters," she clarifies, trying to make her voice less shaky, because she can't be weak at a time like this (in all honesty, she can't be weak at all, but perhaps it's okay sometimes, but really, not right now). "There were Death Eaters and they're destroying—MUM! DAD!"
With a spurt of madness, she remembers and attempts to sprint towards whatever direction the fire seems to be coming from. It had spread through the cornfields, momentarily subdued by the constant reoccurring ponds every now and then, and the string of houses of the other wizards seemed to be relatively untouched (no doubt it was those wizards whose work this was, Ginny thinks angrily), for the most part. Minutes later, she finds herself standing behind her parents, watching the Burrow burn down.
The fire spun in circles, black mists brushing through every now and then, before it crumbled down, in a rage, leaving behind nothing but ashes and crumbs.
...
"I'm sorry," is the first thing Blaise says to her when they get back to school.
He's standing in the hallway of the train, something flickering in his eyes, and Ginny sighs, excusing herself from Daphne (who seemed disgruntled at the fact that Ginny was still associating with Blaise), and standing in front of him, arms crossed. "You can't—it's not your fault, it's mine."
He stared at her quizzically. "How is this any of your fault?"
"I don't think that we should see each other anymore."
He blinks a few times before responding, "You said that my mother wouldn't get between us."
"That was before she burnt down my house! My parents, my brothers, we're all in danger! I'm not going to let my family be in danger."
"I can protect you."
Ginny laughs weakly. "You were the one who said that your mother was unpredictable. There's no telling what she's going to do next."
...
Truth be told, neither of them really stood a chance.
...
PART II:
At the age of six, she wanted to be a princess.
Her mother decided that it was all the Muggle movies that Arthur had been bringing home; Ginny had been glued to the screen, taking movies out of the wicker basket and placing them back into incorrect DVD cases. Either that or the tabloids that Cynthia had been bringing around the house-they were filled with pictures of Princess Di and Prince Charles; "I want a tiara like that," she voices on a Monday.
It's more of a statement than a question. "Only princesses wear tiaras," Molly explains, gently.
"Then I want to be a princess!"
(After that, she finds tiaras all over the house: in tops of lamps, in glass plates and coral ones kept in the special cabinet for visitors and esteemed guests, in plastic trays that carry food, in paper plates and misshapen crescent-shaped rugs. They all work marvelously until they break or fall off or get drowned in the bathtub, which has a habit of ruining paper and beads, and Ginny outgrows it.)
...
At the age of six, he wanted to be his father.
Or more accurately, his third stepfather-Blaise didn't quite understand his mother who fell in love with men (or more accurately, their money), who had tragic deaths, or at least that was what his classmates told him-who had most recently taken up the profession of lounging around the house and doing nothing. "I want to be you when I grow up," Blaise tells the man over dinner.
He simply grunts and nods. "Nah, you don't." The stepfather is reading the Daily Prophet, which is filled with words of Where is Voldemort? and just five years ago and Blaise knows better than to ask, but still does anyway.
"What's happening? And don't tell me that nothing's happening, because I know that's something happening because there are all these storms everywhere and then there aren't anymore but there used to be and my classmates, my friends, I'm not allowed to tell them anything about being a magic person which really is bonkers because they wouldn't tell anybody, not my best mates, at least. Maybe Erica would tell. She's the type to tell secrets," Blaise lets out and then breathes.
His stepfather grimaces. "You're a wizard, not a 'magic person'. And listen-you're a Pureblood, you're one of the 28 Pureblooded Wizarding families that are left living."
"The others died, then?"
"Or got corrupted. Someone down the family line married a half-blood or even a Muggle." The stepfather is a distant figure, at best, but he is everything that Blaise wants to be-he is well-off, he doesn't have to do anything to make money because he's from something of an old money family, and his boss has apparently gone missing; nevertheless, he's more of a father figure than any of the other stepfathers or butlers. "That's the thing: Blaise Zabini, you are pure. Don't forget that."
...
He is ten years old when his mother drops him off at the Parkinson mansion and tells him to behave (as if he needs the reminder), and Blaise is left staring at the lively looking house, something akin to disapprovement on his features. A young girl, ten years of age, walks up behind him, dressed in all black, the slightest hint of green from the socks of her shoes, showing slightly, tucked outside of her black robes. "You must be be Blaise." She sounds thoroughly disappointed and Blaise is reminded of the face of his mother's old pug.
"You look like a pug," he responds, limbs hanging loosely.
She tilts her head to the side. "That a bad thing?"
They become best friends of the years: partly because they are both purebloods, partly because they hate most everybody together.
...
Ginny had six older brothers and loves all of them, even Percy. Blaise didn't have any siblings-even if he had them, he would try to compete with all of them and eventually grow to hate them all. She grew up with the philosophy that less is more, family before all; he grew up with the philosophy that family is interchangeable and never reliable. She was a pureblood, and didn't think much of the fact; he was a pureblood and adored it.
He hated the idea of love; she loved it. She wanted to play Quidditch; he did too.
A whole mess could have been avoided if Ginny Weasley hadn't decided to become interested in Quidditch, and therefore pursue it.
(Except, Blaise is more rational than that; half the time, he prides himself on being rational, half-good at being a Chaser, and a pureblood; and they would have met eventually, he knows. Hogwarts is a rather small school, and there's only seven players on each of the House's Quidditch teams, so that makes twenty-eight, and even without Quidditch, they would have been bound to meet each other at some point: either in one of the double periods of Potions that Gryffindors and Slytherins seem so likely to share. They could have met in millions of different ways, but the thing is, they meet: it's inevitable.)
But Ginny Weasley does play Quidditch, and she is also a Chaser, so the first meet of the season in third year includes a face-off between the two of them, the shaking of unfamiliar hands, and a sneer on his part, a sneer and an accidental kick to the kick from her.
Something curls in his stomach, and his breath catches the first time they meet: she's sort of pretty, even with the mud and sweat stains that are plastered onto her face as though they belong there, but his stomach's curling mostly because a Bludger's just knocked into it, and by the time he blinks and snaps out of it, Ginny Weasley's already made a goal.
...
The best part about being best friends with Pansy Parkinson is that she's pretty much oblivious.
Blaise can go on rants—completely logical rants, he reminds himself, with good reason, too—on Ginny Weasley for hours on end, and perhaps, maybe once or twice, Pansy will drop in a snide remark, but most of the times, Pansy'll join right in, and together, they hate practically everybody in Hogwarts, in the Wizarding Community, in the world. "I hate Draco," Pansy notes on a Tuesday afternoon, splayed out across the sofa, a pout permanently inscribed into her face. Her eyes, light green and beady, are featured in the darkness of the Slytherin Common Room.
"You're having mood swings, Pansy," Blaise barks out a laugh. "Just a few minutes ago, you said that you want to marry Draco Malfoy."
Pansy scowls. "Just because I want to marry him, doesn't mean I have to like him. For example, look at your mom." He stares at her, an incomprehensible expression on his face, something of distaste. "You know what I mean," she shrugs. "You can't seriously believe that she's fallen in love seven times over the past ten years. I mean, seriously, maybe three people in ten years is excusable, but seven, really?"
"She's a pureblood. She's very picky. Anyways, I hate Draco too."
Pansy raises an eyebrow, "He's your best friend."
He can't really my best friend, Blaise thinks. Friends aren't people that your mother told you to associate with because they would help you when you graduate from school, they're not the type of people you secretly, and sometimes, outwardly hate. Instead, he says, "You're my best friend."
She scowls, again. "I can't be your best friend. You're not my best friend. You're a boy."
He rolls his eyes, "And you're a girl. What difference does it make?"
"People will talk, Blaise. Not my fault that you're acting all innocent and naive about things. Pureblood boy and pureblood girl are friends, people will think that we're going to get married." We're probably going to get married, he thinks, an aftertone. You're from one of the 28 pureblood families left, and so am I, and it's either that you're going to be married to Yaxley's kid, me, or Draco; most probably Draco, though. Good for him.
"I have no interested in getting married to you!" He chooses to say, instead. It's much more appropriate for the situation, and sounds like something that one of the normal teenagers would say.
"Me neither!" She snaps back. "We can be good friends, though, family friends."
"We can't be family friends," he drawls out. "You may be a Slytherin, but your great-aunt was a Ravenclaw. You're not a true Slyth—"
"Oh, shut up."
...
Blaise sees Ginny in the hallways occasionally; he's trailing behind Draco Malfoy and his gang, not because he particularly enjoys the egoistical brat's company but because his new stepfather-the eighth one as of current (the previous seven had died of alleged mysterious circumstances)-told him that the Malfoys are a powerful family; they'll help him when he graduates from Hogwarts. "I don't even know why I'm going to this school," Draco drawls out, not for the first time that day. "It's completely rubbish, that's what it is. Dumbledore makes up the house points as he goes along-we should have won House Cup when we were first-years." It's a fairly valid point, Blaise thinks.
"Blood traitor sighting," Crabbe scoffs.
"That's absolutely wonderful-just what I needed. It's not as though this day was bad enough," Pansy complains-she's going through a phase of putting herself in challenging classes, and then complaining about all the classwork and always being second to Hermione Granger, and it's horribly annoying. "I can't believe Dumbeldore lets Mudbloods into this school."
Goyle tilts his head, as though he's thinking, and Blaise wants to laugh, because this is Goyle: coward, lethargic, glutton. Maybe, he thinks, people are becoming better than who they used to be, but he stops himself, because thinking too much makes him remember of a future after Hogwarts, and he doesn't want to think of that. "I think it's because Dumbleodre is a Mudblood himself," Goyle rushes to offer.
A round of snickers echoes among the five of them. "Dumbledore's not a Mudblood," Draco says. "He's an idiot, but he's not a Mudblood. Otherwise Mother-"
"Yes, yes, we know, your dear mother wouldn't let you go to a school with a Mudblood headmaster," Blaise interrupts, exasperated tone.
Draco turns around, arms crossed. "You're on probation, Zabini. Do you want my father's connections or not?"
"Sorry," Blaise lies. "Mudbloods just throw me off."
"I get what you mean," Pansy nods emphatically. "Today in Muggle Studies-"
Shit, he thinks. Not again.
Three minutes later, they're still standing in the middle of the hallway leading up to the Great Hall; Pansy lying her hand flirtatiously on Draco's forearm, Crabbe and Goyle surrounding him as though they're his minions, Blaise leaning against the wall and in desperate need of a smoke. "Blood traitor's gone," Blaise adds faintly, and like usual, nobody hears him.
...
"This is stupid," Pansy drawls out, arms crossed, face bloated. "Learning how to fly a broom; Quidditch for sixth years. Sixth years."
Blaise narrows his eyes. "I hate everybody here. Present company excluded, of course."
"That actually is stupid. I understand that you hate mudbloods and halfies but pureblood Slytherins, they've done nothing wrong, now have they?"
"They're a nuisance. Snobby and supercilious, the lot of them."
"Blaise," she speaks slowly. "You're snobby and supercilious."
"Oh, shove it."
...
They're paired together-once, then twice, then thrice-; the first time, Blaise is convinced that the entire world is against him. The next time, he thinks that Professor Flitwick is trying to encourage inter-house friendship, but all he's promoting is inter-house rivalry, and the only houses that he'd associate with are Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. Ravenclaws aren't too bad; there's quite a few purebloods there. Hufflefpuffs are eerily nice; it's nice, sometimes, though. Not having everybody hate you just because of your house. The third time, he doesn't really mind her company. "You know," he chews on a quill, and then his face contorts into a repulsed expression. "Without the idiots that make up the Slytherin Quidditch team, I could beat you."
Ginny laughs loudly. "No, you couldn't." She pauses, putting down her book. "Care to test that?"
He looks away, nervously. "The quidditch pitch's closed."
"You scared?"
"Of being expelled? Yes. I'm not an idiot."
(It takes one dare, and he finds himself on the Quidditch pitch, wind hoarsely blowing its secrets and whispers into his ears which feel as though they could fall off from hypothermia or something like that any minute. Blaise tries to reprimand himself for knowing something so common as a Muggle disease, but doesn't find it in himself.)
The first round, he beats her, 5-0. The second round, she beats him, 14-8. The third round, they end up at 7-7, when the timer signals one minute left.
Draco walks onto the field, Crabbe and Goyle standing by his sides as though they are bodyguards surrounding a king. Of course, Blaise thinks, they're just people who stand around him, laugh at his jokes, and sneer along with him. That's their roles in life. "What're you doing with the mudblood, Zabini?"
Blaise pauses for a moment, before sending out the typical reply. "Just teaching her who's superior." Draco nods, approvingly, and walks back to the dormitory rooms.
Ginny zooms past him, and shoots a goal. "8-7, she speaks coolly. "I win," and walks off the field.
Blaise slumps his shoulders, head in his hands. "Fuck."
...
Once, Pansy sets him up with a girl. The good, pureblood type, the type that he'll marry one day. "You're a pureblood," he states over dinner. He's never really had conversation with a girl like this, and it's awkward to say the least; of course, Pansy's different, the two of them have known each other since their parents were inducted. "That's good," Blaise nods, slowly. "Which school do you go to?"
Arabella rolls her eyes. "I already told you. Look, if you don't want to be here, you don't have to-" she barks out a laugh. "Oh, who am I kidding. Neither of us want to be here."
"Pansy Parkinson set me up with you," he says, nonchalant.
It's a proper date: he kisses her hand on her doorstep and is driven back to the Zabini's mansion (conveniently located in the middle of nowhere) where his mother stares at him as though he's not good enough. "So," later that night, Pansy calls, two hours after she said she would, like usual. "How was it?"
"Horrible," he lies.
To be honest, Arabella Black II never really stood a chance.
...
Pansy is leaning back in one of the uncomfortable armchairs, a light blue pillow resting on her lower back; some sort of tune is blasting from the Common Room and she stuffs handsized pillows on top of her ears, in a faint attempt to block out the incessant noises (because despite final examination screenings coming up in a few weeks, Draco and his gang had decided that studying was for the ignorant and try-hards); after a few minutes, she gives up and glances at Blaise, who looks more lost in the preparation and stacks of books than anything else. "God, Blaise, you're such a wimp." Blaise throws his parchment scroll at her, and Pansy clenches the paper in her hands. "You're such a wimp. What was wrong with Arabella?"
Blaise raises an eyebrow. "Arabella was perfect."
"You know, most guys take that to be a good thing."
"Well, I'm not most guys—"
"Yeah, you are. You fancy Ginny Weasley, then?" She changes the subject, abruptly. "Draco was telling me that he saw you two on the Pitch." Draco had also told her that he thought that Ron and Lavender were snogging outside the Room of Requirement, so Pansy wasn't quite sure if his supposed 'spies' were supposed to be the most credible of sources.
"Of course I don't like her."
"But you think she's pretty."
"I think you're pretty."
"What's wrong with you?" More somberly, "You've joined, haven't you?"
Blaise only laughs, acidic tone. "God, Pansy, you're such a girl."
She scowls at him, and throws her textbook, smiling grimly when the target is hit.
...
He finds her in the Potions room, near the Dungeons, some sort of scowl permanently imprinted on her face, a cloud of purple-coloured fog surrounding her face, an acrid smell coming from the steaming cauldron. "You know," he walks slowly, hands deep in his robe's silver pockets. "I don't think that any potion is supposed to smell like this. Or look like this, for that matter."
In response, Ginny throws her ladle at him and grimaces as he flees.
...
A faint tune plays in the background, a mixture of colours; she finds him pacing the hallways, on late nights, an arrogant step on his walk—he'll turn back every now and then, and she'll turn her head away, walking quickly in the other direction; or, perhaps, if she's in the mood, will attempt some sort of conversation (she's never been one for small talk, though).
The first (and only) time they go on a date, it's because Ginny's pissed off at her brothers: mostly Ron, sometimes Percy, sometimes Fred and George, never Charlie, rarely Bill; Ron because he's telling her what to do: who to date, who she shouldn't be dating, why she shouldn't be dating—it's a mess of illogical reasons and fumbling words, and she's sick and tired of it. One moment, he's telling her that she could give Harry another chance, and the next moment, he's telling her to rearrange her priorities. "I have an offer for you," she approaches Blaise.
He raises an eyebrow. "You don't have enough money."
"It's just a date."
"A date?!" An almost amused expression crosses his face, and his friends nudge him because this has happened before (and has subsequently resulted in Blaise insulting the other girl until she regrets her decision and never approaches him again, which perhaps, is for the best) and perhaps they've been bored—after all, a double period of Potions grows tiring after the second day—and a little excitement is what they want; what they need; most importantly, it's what they seem to be expecting. "Uh, sure."
"That was easy." He gives her a quizzical expression, and she elaborates. "I've tried three other guys before you. Here, I'll give you a few sickles. I realize that's probably pocket money to you but I don't really care—"
"I'll do it."
"Try to be realistic, though. You're not a very good actor."
"Insulting me isn't a good start to a relationship, Weasley."
"It's just one fake date, not a relationship."
"That's what I meant."
"Good. You'll pick me up at 10 on Saturday."
"10? Make it 8."
"I'm not waking up early for you."
"Fine. 10's good."
Ginny walks away.
"What'cha say yes for?" Pansy scowls.
He shrugs. "I won't say no to more money."
She squints, beady-eyed. "Since when?"
...
On March 3rd, Ron Wealsey was sulking. Usually, Ginny wouldn't be too perturbed by this fact because they lived on opposite sides of the dormitory room, but she was currently sitting on the sofa in front of the crackling fire, trying to focus on her Potions assignment, while Ron was staring at the fire and mumbling incoherent words. Finally, she sat down her quill and pursed her lips, staring at him as though he was a patient, and she was a psychologist. "He's a Slytherin," Ron answers, as though she had asked him a question. "Malfoy, I mean, he's a Slytherin."
"Okay."
"She's dating him."
"'Mione?"
"He's a Malfoy. He's a Slytherin."
"You're a Gryffindor," she says cooly. "He's a Slytherin. What's the difference?"
...
"Ron's sulking."
Hermione tilts her head. "He'll get over it."
"No, he won't." She pauses for a moment. "So, Draco Malfoy—"
She seems very eager to avoid the subject, "So, Blaise Zabini—"
"That was a fake date."
"Uh huh."
"Shut it."
...
The day of the finals Quidditch Match dawns upon them all: it is a bastardly day, with rain fogging all the player's visions, and even spells and charms cannot alleviate the hail that occasionally falls from the sky, but the Captains agree to play the match, to not give up, despite Madam Hooch's warnings, but they are determined. It starts off well enough because at halftime, Slytherin is up by 90-10, and Gryffindor is miserably flailing, bodies tossed around by the wind, limbs strewn apart.
Then again, most things start well enough (aka the school year, which often dissolves into bitter squabbles between Prefects—because, apparently, it's inevitable for two Prefects to start dating, break up a few weeks later, and try to take revenge on one another by, without reason, docking off points from each other's houses—it seems to be. By the time the Golden Snitch shows up, the fog has formed a thin layer across glasses fogged up, and clings to the uniforms which clench tightly to each of the players; and for the first time in forever, Malfoy's paying attention.
Draco's leaning off the edge of his broom, and is about to place one foot, no, now it's two feet upon it-everybody in the crowd is in uproar and Lee Jordan is making snide remarks about Lucius Malfoy and Professor McGonagall is scolding him-and he's almost there and—
...
Slytherin loses.
...
Sometime between the summer of sixth and seventh year, when wizards and people of all sorts are evacuating out of the country; mass emigration, the clueless news reporters are saying, is going on all over the country; Blaise moves out of the family mansion. His mother lets him go with a properly tearful expression on her face as the paparazzi surrounds her, Rita Skeeter on one side, camera flashes and Truth-Spell quills clutched in hands, and the ninth step-father stares at him as a stern expression, as though he is his father: he is nothing.
Or maybe he is his father; life is rather confusing these days. For days on end, Blaise sits down and thinks about the world and more particularly, the fact that atoms cannot be created nor destroyed, and thinks that
He voices this opinion to Ginny on a Saturday morning.
Pansy strolls into the room without knocking and looks between the two of them a few times, before crossing her arms, and saying, "I thought you hated aubergines, Weasley."
She blushes slightly, before responding, "Do you have to—"
"I really don't care," Pansy brushes her off, with a wave of the hand. Two minutes later, she finds herself tearing up—not crying, why the hell would I be crying; crying makes no sense at all, I don't cry, stop crying!—and tries not to think why; after all, the reason has always been there.
...
"Yeah, that's what I thought—"
"Blaise-y!" A thin girl with flushed cheeks and silky sheaths of hair embraces him and steps back quickly, tottering on three-inch stilettos. "I haven't seen you in forever, how are you?"
He nods slowly, hands in pockets. "Arabella, aren't you supposed to be in France?"
"No, silly, I transferred."
The beginning of seventh year is marked by a shadow of uncertainty, and there's rarely any smiles exchanged: the Carrows make Umbridge from fifth year seem like some sort of angel. The Slytherins act as though they are superior, and the Slytherins who aren't truly Slytherin are outcasted from their own house: so much for your house is your family, Blaise thinks. Then again, half the Slytherins had left for a higher cause (aka joining Voldemort's Death Eater Army), so some of the more tolerable people had been left behind; among others, Crabbe and Goyle, who were fairly good company when Draco wasn't around—subsequently, they would turn mute and obedient. "Why?"
"You don't have to be rude."
"I'm not."
A light wind blows outside, and the Carrows approach from the other side of the hallway, exchanging nods with some of the students and sending withering looks towards some of the others. "God," Arabella shakes her head. "I didn't think I'd ever see the Carrows outside of family get-togethers. Anyways, well, here's the thing: your mother was talking to my mother, and your father was talking to my father-"
"No. I'm not getting married to you-"
Arabella laughs, high-pitched and uncomfortable. "Me neither. I'm already engaged, anyways, promised to a boy named Gustav. I'll see you later!" She retreats back into the shadows, immediately surrounded by a small crowd of Slytherins-Blaise grimaces: she would be the type of person to end up being in the stereotypical Slytherin crowd.
Ginny turns toward him and snorts. "Blaise-y?"
...
The two of them are splayed out across the Slytherin common room; mattresses and bedsheets of different shades of green are strewn out across the common room, and half of the sixth-years have already dozed off, faces implanted in textbooks (aka signs of studying too early for the NEWT examinations), and the few that are awake are staring blankly at anything as though they're wondering when it will disappear, or perhaps, when they will disappear, because it's inevitable, all of them are aware of that. "Blaise likes a blood traitor," she spits out.
Draco laughs, hoarsely. "Blaise. Blaise Zabini? He hates blood traitors. He hates everybody."
"He doesn't hate me." She's thought about this before; whether Blaise is a bit different than everybody things he is: sometimes, she likes to think that she knows him (because they're sort of best friends, no matter how much the both of them deny it) but at the end of the day, she's just as ignorant as everybody else in the school. "But he likes her."
"Have you tried to stop him?"
"It's Blaise." Also known as, the most stubborn person she had ever met.
"Then let him like the blood traitor. Who's the girl?"
"Pureblood Ginny Weasley." The pause of silence is suspiciously long. "Do you have a crush on her?" Pansy narrows her eyes.
Draco laughs, a bit too loudly. "Of course not."
Pansy slumps back against the bed. "Right."
"I wouldn't touch that blood traitor."
She sighs, "I know." The most she can ask of him is the truth.
...
Here's how it happens:
Hogwarts isn't a safe place anymore (in the most understate of terms). His mother tells him this over the telephone line—owls are apparently outdated, and instant communication is much more simple—with something of concern in her voice. "I'm coming to pick you up in a few days," she speaks quickly. "We're not letting you stay at Hogwarts anymore."
"We?" He asks, something of curiosity in his tone.
There's a sound of shuffling on the other line before the phone is answered by another voice. "You're still at that dump," a thin voice, somewhat familiar, answers, complaining. "I can't believe that you haven't left Hogwarts already. I mean, I went there for a few weeks and I've already left; the condition of those dormitories were horrible. I don't know how they expected me to live with mudbloods and traitors."
"Arabella," Blaise clenches his teeth. "Why aren't you at Beauxbatons?" Why do you always have to interfere, he attempts to question his mother: if it was a face-to-face conversation, he'd probably be met with the same standard reply: I'm trying to do what's best for you. That's the role of what a mother is supposed to be, isn't it? and like usual, the words would make no sense.
On the other line, she shrugs, head tilted. "Thought I'd come back."
"How much money did she offer you?"
"One million Galleons." She laughs, slightly. "You know, I've been offered more before, but you're from a good family, and our parents know each other—nevermind about that. You're coming back, aren't you?"
He fumbles for words. "Uh, there's examinations coming up, and there's Quidditch too; I mean, Quidditch season hasn't even started yet, if it even will, but it's always good to prepare for later—
"Blaise," she trills, voice cold as ice. "You could be someone great, and instead, you want to play Quidditch?"
Yes, he wants to answer. Instead Blaise rolls his eyes, before responding, "Course not."
...
Blaise leaves before the Second Wizarding War culminates at the Battle of Hogwarts: it's a spur-of-the-moment decision, because on one hand, there's Draco and Slytherin loyalty lying with Hogwarts and Ginny, but on the other hand, there's his life, and it only takes a few more minutes before he escapes out the tunnels with the rest of the Slytherins.
He sees her once, before he leaves. She's facing the fireplace of the wall, watching the tendrils of fire attack one other before they are spurted out with the occasional dousing of fire, and smiles. "You're leaving," she says, matter-of-factly.
"I'm leaving," he nods. "Might come back."
She never faces him; Blaise thinks that it's easier that way. If they don't look at each other, it's almost as if this isn't real, and of course, perhaps that's what they want more than anything: for this to be one colossal love spell or some other mistake, because if it wasn't, if it isn't, then that says something entirely different, and neither of them are ready to face that. "Wouldn't change anything," Ginny responds cooly, then turns around, eyes narrowed. "Go now," she motions. "Otherwise, you won't stand a chance."
...
Truth be told, neither of them really stood a chance.
...
a/n (cont.): so most of the blaise/ginny was more implied than anything else in part ii; they went on a fake date once, he started to like her, she started to like him, but they never officially dated. other factors always got in the way. i hope this makes sense. thanks for reading!