She was odd in his eyes. Most girls he knew were soft and quiet. Not like Ginevra. She was loud and outspoken. She had a loud, hearty laugh and an infectious smile. He dated girls with pearls at their neck and lacy lingerie that was meant to be seen not worn.
They were soft-spoken with cashmere sweaters daringly hanging off one shoulder and wore thigh high leather boots, managing not to look like a slag. They ordered nicoise salads and left the bed smelling like a rose garden after it just rained.
Somehow, Ginevra attracted 's pretty, and there's something gratingly, frustratingly effortless about it; waves of thick, gleaming red hair pulled back in a ponytail, piled in a bun on top of her head, damp from a shower and positively reeking
of cheap, floral-stained drugstore conditioner. She yawns a lot, into the sleeves of her baggy, oversized sweatshirts, and the only makeup he's ever seen her bother with is a sticky, cinnamon-scented lip gloss. Her laugh is loud, throaty and happy
and genuine, and her smile is infectious. She isn't coy. She isn't mysterious. She wears yoga pants and flip-flops when it's cold, and loose-fitting cotton gym shorts when it's not. Her nail polish—bright neon yellow, green, purple, pink—is always
chipped. He'd heard her say that she didn't drink coffee, once; that she prefers hot chocolate.
Freckles.
She had freckles.
There's a cluster on her nose and he had it memorized.
Blaise Zabini doesn't have a type.
He has an adrenaline rush that tastes like mass-produced cinnamon Altoids and Gatorade.
He has a warning sign with vibrant red hair and sense of humor like a razor blade.
He has a craving.