Disclaimer: Neither own On/Off (Snow Patrol) nor Harry Potter (J.K. Rowling, Twentieth Century Fox, Time Warner, and respective publishing companies). However, my intricate little ditty does belong to me.
Running away seemed like the easy
Thing to do because I wanted time
To put a smile back on my bitter face
For once nothing's missing and I feel fine
I was afraid to tell you some things
But some things all find a way to get told
Hearing it from the lips of somebody else
Must have knocked the wind out of your sweet chest
Blaise floated in about an hour past fashionably late and barely was there in time for dinner. Her partner for the night wouldn't mind of course, as he was her fun-loving playmate of her school years, Miles Bletchey. Draco, however, had a more exact standard for prudence.
"Nice of you to join us, my dear ward." Now head of the Malfoy house due to his father's unfortunate death in a rebellion during the uprising, Draco was more like a man playing house, especially when his coldly affectionate hiss attracted the attention of his gests. "Ladies and gentlemen, the young lady of the house, Miss Blaise Zabini."
Polite claps welcomed her into the ballroom and Draco's ghost butler dismissed everyone into the dining room directly afterwards.
"Where have you been?" Draco demanded, gripping her bicep forcefully as they fell into line in the back of the crowd. "The party started at seven and here you are at nine fifteen. Have you any idea what people are likely to think?"
He let go of her as they entered the dining room to seated guests, looking like the prince and princess of the purebloods—almost practically bloody related, no pun intended.
"Ah, a toast is in order." Draco boomed as he and Blaise sped to their seats—his at the head of the table with Pansy and Blaise's not too far from it, placed next to Miles and across—across from Oliver Wood. "To the Ministry." He said abruptly and almost out of breath, chugging back the wine in his goblet with barely enough time for his guests to repeat it.
Oliver enjoyed seeing Draco so riled up by Blaise's presence. He rose his glass and winked across the table at the composed Malfoy Mansion resident. "To the Ministry." His Scottish R's rolled delightfully towards her ears and Blaise inhaled sharply.
Draco clapped his hands and the pewter platters running down the center of the long tables filled with food and he sat, slipping an arm around Pansy and dipping a hand at the lap of her robes and into the depths within the shocking pink silk, grinning politely at his guests. "Tuck in."
And that he did, looking pointedly over at Blaise, knowing she would be well aware of what they were doing.
But she was grinning far too widely at Oliver Wood for his comfort. "Draco is such a terribly immature boy to continue to invite you and place you directly across from me." Blaise whispered across the table, leaning over it gleefully.
"And you take far too much pleasure in teasing everyone in that dress of yours." Oliver chirped with a similarly devilish grin on his face, his own posture straight and nonchalant as he sat on the end of the four-person Wood line—mum, dad, and brother Lance.
"Had I known you were attending, I'd have more fun." Blaise flirted right back and Draco cleared his throat to indicate to Miles to watch his date.
Miles, however, was a bit too interested, for Draco's comfort, in the elder Zabini girl, whose husband was mysteriously absent from the festivities. Giving Miles an unseen evil eye, Draco returned his gaze to Oliver, but the young man had excused himself to go to the bathroom. Blaise, fortunately, was still wicked in her seat and hadn't followed him out.
Between the Ministry politics and the mayhem about to unfold, Draco was going to be very busy tonight.
Draco very much liked the image he was always saw Blaise dress up as at his large parties. She'd stand in the well-lit ballroom, just on the outskirts of its social circle, with her date nearby, her right hand settled into the nook of her left elbow, and a cigarette between her left hand's fingers. He never could smoke with his left hand. She'd be slightly slouched, and then she'd pop the cigarette into her mouth, search her date's pocket for his wand, he'd light it for her, and then she'd drag him out to the terrace. It was just glamorous enough to be affectionately thought of as, "Oh, that Blaise," by the elder of the upper crust, but just pathetic enough to remind her date that she was forever Draco's girl.
But now she was a little too happy for his taste. Whenever her date was of the 'original' line-up of the Slytherin Quidditch team, he was slightly worried, but knowing that they answered to Draco within the Dark Lord's circles, he was fine—they were practically her chaperones.
Intending for Oliver's invitation to be a polite extension of the Woods' Ministry status, and a sharp jab at the depressed Malfoy ward, Draco watched his plans spin out of control, as Miles found solace over in the elder Zabini sister's corner and Blaise laughed it up with Oliver Wood at a table, sitting and smoking, leaning back in her chair and looking too happy for Draco's taste.
He could see the Witch Weekly tidbit now, either that or the Daily Prophet's society section.
The still single Oliver Wood is finding fun in ex-love Blaise Zabini's court yet again as the two yukked it up at the ingénue's residency, the Malfoy Mansion, during a Ministry party late Saturday night. The two flirted over the feast planned by Blaise's guardian and contemporary, Draco Malfoy, and retired to the ballroom for a smoke and a laugh, much like old times, sparking rumors amongst Draco Malfoy's guests that a reunion is in order.
Oh, bloody hell, now they'd both disappeared.
"Do you always come upstairs and kiss the boys, Sparkplug?" Oliver whispered in affectionate, teasing tones as Blaise struggled to put one foot in front of the other like she had been taught by Narcissa the second she had turned thirteen. One drink usually robbed her of the ability.
"Only into Draco's room." She giggled, twisting and backing into a door, letting Oliver in. "Never my own."
They stood in her darkened doorway for a moment, and Oliver smiled softly down at his ex-girlfriend, the familiar mischief in her eye still a head shorter than his. "Let me take off my makeup." She murmured, rising onto the tips of her toes, her breath hot on his Adam's apple.
"Do." Oliver followed her in, shutting the door behind them.
"Take over, will you, love? I've got to fish Wood out of trouble." Draco whispered into Pansy's ear and she smiled up fondly at him.
"She is such a nuisance." Pansy whispered back to him, and she loved how they discussed Blaise like she was some sort of pesky little sister. "I'll hold down the fort."
They kissed briefly. The picture perfect couple.
"You seem to be playing dress-up here." Oliver commented with a smirk, sitting directly across from Blaise in her dimly lit boudoir, both settled into lush crimson chairs. "Your hair's darker."
"You're the first to notice." Blaise replied casually, sipping some thin liquid in an intricate glass. She raised it. "Want one?"
Oliver shook his head, glancing over at her vanity. "I see you still have your collection."
"Only one's ever used." Blaise interrupted his thoughts and his smirk, and he studied her face for a moment. "I bought it myself."
"Malfoy allowed you enough allowance?" Oliver asked almost coldly. Blaise ignored his tone.
"I told Pansy I needed it. Hate as I may to answer to her, she loves it when I spite Draco." Blaise rose from her chair and put the glass on her vanity table, lifting the ceramic box that held sixty-four ounces of the scent to indicate her favorite. "Loch Ness."
She strode closer to him. He could smell the earthy, fresh scent on her, and he closed his eyes, taking in the dulcet remnant of home. "You smell like Scotland."
Draco scowled. She wasn't in his bedroom, vengefully fucking one of his enemies or competitors in his bed, as she had taken up to doing in their fifth year.
Over dinner once, when Pansy decided to play mother to the orphaned Blaise, who was actually only six weeks older than her, Pansy had asked Blaise who she had expected the great love of her life to be. Draco had just had another fight with Blaise, and she quite honestly stared them both in the eye, from one end of the dining table to the other, and said, "Oliver Wood."
"Ooooh. Why ever did you split with him, honey?" Pansy asked, as they were both served a significant amount of blancmange.
"I was led to believe he was the wrong choice for me." Blaise had answered.
"And now?" Draco asked, drinking from his recently refilled cup.
"I was led astray."
Draco punched the wall beneath a torch, and it fell to the floor, lighting the hem of his robe. He put it out absentmindedly, and knew not to prolong his absence, returning to the party and intending to return to his search later.
"Well, at least I know your intentions." Oliver said with a laugh, knocking back a sip of Blaise's drink. She sat on the edge of his chair, his free hand resting on her hip, his strong Keeper arm behind her.
"How do you mean?" Blaise whispered, leaning in rather close to his lips to fetch her drink seductively.
"You've quite a reputation for luring your lovers into Draco Malfoy's bed in the least homoerotic sense imaginable to spite him." Oliver's voice was a perplexing blend of bitter and warm tones, like an espresso coffee too long left under her tongue. "So in the very least, you've grown up a bit."
"Egomaniac." She laughed into his ear. "You mean to imply that you're irresistible?"
"Am I?" Oliver asked honestly, pulling her into his lap playfully and splashing the last sip of her drink out onto her dress. It landed between the 'V' of her collarbone.
"Going to get that?" She asked with a wink, shifting further into his thighs.
"Come on, Blaise." Oliver muttered, sitting up straight. Blaise climbed backwards up onto the armrest she had perched on seconds before. "You know you don't want to do this."
"What do you mean?" She squeaked, setting her drink down on an end table.
"Blaise, it's traditional for you to bring your dates up here to have fun and I thought—well, I thought that us not going into the master suite meant this was platonic." Oliver winced and scooted as far away as he could from Blaise's perch.
"Platonic?" Blaise repeated almost weakly. "I don't sit like this with my platonic friends, Oliver."
"Yes, yes you do." Oliver couldn't believe she was doing this. Two years of hard work to get to this point and now she was trying to undo it all for her cheap lust. He stood up and turned his back to her, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.
"No, I don't." Blaise stood up hotly. How dare he?
"You've sat like that with me in private ever since—even before we were going out." Oliver explained flatly.
"It's because I like you, Ollie, I always have." Blaise retorted, rolling her eyes. Her breath caught in her throat as the light flickered. It was darker now, and the poignant soliloquy in the blue tones of her boudoir earlier that evening flashed back to her. Did she have the guts to tell him that she loved him and nearly always had?
She was close enough in saying she had always liked him.
"You think I'm some sort of man-eater, don't you? Haven't you always?" Blaise shrieked, her bratty side taking over her.
"Merlin, no!" Oliver turned back and underneath her riled stature, and her silk and lace, he saw her frustration and her confusion. "You smell like Scotland, for Morgan's sake, when you could smell like brandy, or silk or something exotic and the like. You smoke fucking Duets, even though you have boxes of Solos at your disposal, just because of its sentimental attachments—and you're friends with me. Bradley is so much better for you, but I don't see you dragging him upstairs in the papers all the time…you're just…I don't…"
"I don't know either." Blaise interrupted him gently, and for the first time, Oliver saw how small she had become.
"You're so thin." Blaise didn't reply to that. He tried to laugh to lighten the mood. "Do you realize how much trouble you would have gotten me into if we hadn't waited until after you were of age to have sex?"
"I liked the wait…it wasn't because of my age." Blaise answered hollowly and Oliver nodded in agreement.
"It wasn't."
"Have we both gone too far as to the point where you're indifferent to my charms, Oliver?" Blaise asked tentatively. "Because the deepest lash you can cut into me is being indifferent to me, Oliver."
"I don't know, Blaise." He said, and the girl drew herself into his embrace. "I don't know."
"I'm trying to be better."
"I know."
"It puzzles me as to why the three of you play dress up all day long." Oliver muttered, still a safe, nonsexual distance from Blaise as they both sauntered along a village path on that bright following Monday. Blaise had an ice cream in one hand and a folded, fresh copy of Witch Weekly in the other.
"Apparently, we had hot, hot, hot sex." Blaise announced with a none-too-innocent lick of her ice cream, and the fifteen-year-old Muggle schoolgirls exchanged a look and giggled.
"Well, Blaisie, I forgot to tell you, but it was pretty damned good." Oliver said, his voice a decibel lower and eyes slightly panicked as he rushed to catch up with Blaise as to not be left in the crowd of children going to school.
"I mean Saturday night." Blaise lifted up her magazine to show him a photo of her stretched over the table as Oliver whispered into her ear, both looking devilishly flirtatious. "I love how they use the Muggle way when they want to imply something."
"Recently entered Splitsville Oliver Wood appears to be divulging a secret into the ear of friend and ex-love Blaise Zabini as the two spent their last minutes among the other guests of a Ministry party late Saturday night at the Malfoy Mansion, where the nineteen-year-old Zabini is a resident, the ward of contemporary Draco Malfoy. Twenty-three-year old Wood disappeared with Zabini none too late into the post-supper festivities and did not appear until early morning when the party began to break up. The two flirted over dinner and were having such a time, with Miss Zabini characteristically smoking and both laughing, that they sparked rumors that a romantic reunion is in order between the platonic pals. If the handsome pair's new venture is anything like their old fling, a guarantee of hot, intimate moments are bound to play out for their spectators' amusement. Let's leave them to their private reverie in front of hundreds of the Ministry's best." Oliver spat on it. "What a crock of shit."
"Oh, but darling, didn't you hear? That Blaise Zabini's a real man-eater." Blaise drawled, grinning at him over her ice cream and taking the magazine away from him.
"Now, I never said that." Oliver defended himself hotly, and then he looked down at the brunette troublemaker. She tucked the magazine in his belt. "You're one confusing little nutter."
"I love the moor in autumn." Blaise whispered breathily, throwing her head back as the path turned into a stone edge of a hill that rose a good ten feet in the air above the next path.
"Merlin, Blaisie, you're going to kill yourself." Oliver rushed along the little stone balance and scooped her up. "Where exactly is it we're walking to?"
"Why, can't handle it?" Blaise taunted, as the path below them grew lower into oblivion. "There's a way to get to Hogsmeade from here, I know it."
"How do you?" Oliver muttered, dipping his head and stopping to get a lick of ice cream.
"Marcus got me lost out here once in sixth year before I started dating Robert…last time for us, I suppose." Oliver noticeably stiffened at the mention of his archrival, Marcus Flint.
"You're supposing then?" Oliver's lilt was a little harder than she had anticipated and she broke it to him gently.
"He's very happily married, supposedly, last time I heard from the papers, Oliver. And, harpy that I am, I still won't touch marriage with a Firebolt. Engagements come and go, but marriage…that should be forever." He trudged in silence for some time, and Blaise tossed her ice cream over his shoulder.
"That's an awfully old-fashioned sentiment for such a man-eater."
"Oh, not this again."
And so began the story of Oliver Wood trying to delve deeper into the enigma of one of the greatest girlfriends he had ever had.
She listed the old crowd for him. They had been, in order of graduation years, Higgs, Flint, Bole, Derrick, Bletchey, Montague, Bletchey, Pucey, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott and Malfoy.
"A great lot of bastards if I ever knew so many." Oliver had growled, trying to mask his distaste and his jealousy. Higgs had been the nicest of the bunch, he'd say. The pair played alongside each other now.
"Oh, Higgs wasn't too terrible. When he was in the reserve for Puddlemere, he'd usually try to hand me off a ciggy before Marcus tried to—well, you know." Blaise flushed like a little schoolgirl, her feet not hitting the floor as they both sat at the bar of the Three Broomsticks. She had been right in leading him through Scotland, smelling like the moor no matter how faintly it seemed.
"Do you remember this game you'd play with me when we were at my house for Christmas?" Oliver whispered, and when Blaise leaned into him, it comforted him to know that in the two days that they had spent together, her shoulders didn't jab him sharply anymore.
"Guess which color my knickers are?" Blaise asked with a bright smile, and Oliver nodded, slouched over. He pulled Blaise closer to him.
"Um…pink."
"Damn you." Blaise muttered, slapping a Knut down onto the counter, as was tradition.
"You are so simple when it comes to picking out your knickers." Oliver said with a laugh, pocketing the Knut.
"How do you mean?" Blaise asked, pulling away from his hand, somewhat insulted.
"You've always worn pink knickers on Mondays." Not always, Blaise silently retorted.
"Well, for a Sickle, guess what kind." She snapped, miffed.
"Give me some sort of word bank or something, like on good old Flitwick's tests." Oliver requested, and she thought about it slowly.
"Um…lace, mesh, satin, cotton, or silk?" Nice long, diverse list.
"Oh, today seems definitely like a pink lace knickers day. And for these very same indecently announced pink lace knickers, let me guess the cut…low-rise briefs." Blaise glared at him.
"How'd you know?"
"I peeked up your skirt when I scooped you up earlier."
Blaise grinned and stood, the bar empty, and slowly slid her pink lacy low-rise briefs down towards her ankles and gingerly stepped out of them, slapping them down on the bar with a Sickle. "Naughty, naughty Scotsman."
"Don't you know it." Oliver drawled, swigging back another sip of butterbeer.
"Ollie, you weren't a virgin when we—"
"God no!" Oliver interrupted harshly, gripping Blaise rather roughly by the hip and drawing her in. "Merlin, don't be directing the word virgin at any over-eighteen Scotsman near his hometown, don't you know what kind of reputation you'll give me?"
"You were probably sexually active before I was." Blaise said with a pout.
"Probably and don't you worry about it, alright? You were certainly no virgin by the time I got to you." The neutrality in his tone surprised both Blaise and Oliver.
"Who was your first?" Blaise continued, her tone lingering into curiosity.
"Patricia Stimpson…we dated my last year at Hogwarts and she was about two years my junior. It's kind of cheesy, but she took me up to my dorm really late after this party in the Gryffindor Common Room after we won the Cup and showed me she was very much worthy of having an older boyfriend…a little too worthy for my taste."
"And quite a few Quidditch whores after that." Blaise snipped, knowing she shouldn't have asked.
"No, just Katie Bell the year before you…and a few groupies, I'll admit—but you were quite the avid fan when you were chasing me, if I can recall." Oliver was surprised it didn't sting to talk about
"Katie Bell? Oh, she's…"
"Marcus Flint's ex-girlfriend; yes…seems everyone's had their way with Flint." Oliver joked, and Blaise's face fell.
"I never slept with him, you know." Blaise paused, and didn't know how to continue or quite how to phrase things. "I've…only had two partners, really…when it came down to the whole nine yards."
"Oh. Right then."
Blaise realized she hadn't asked him about his work—then again, he hadn't asked her about her own, which was infamously pretty futile. "So…" The air itched with discomfort. "How's Puddlemere?"
"Good. Strong. Happy." Seemed characteristically Oliver enough for her…monosyllabic but sincere grunts.
"Can I guess what kind of knickers you're wearing?" Blaise joked, scolding herself inwardly for finding her way back to that subject.
"I'll tell you." Oliver fingered the bright pink lacy low-rise briefs on the counter delicately, looking back at her poignantly. He hadn't forgotten how slim her legs had been.
"There's no fun in that." Blaise said flatly, shifting on her perch awkwardly.
"Oh, but there is." Oliver retorted and for a second there, he thought he was going to lose control and fall for this fiery riddle again.
"Let me guess." Quite fortunately for the both of them, Blaise recognized she needed to be the strength at this moment. "Bets on…just Knuts."
"Right then." Oliver didn't reach for his pants pocket.
"Um…cut or color first?"
"Your choice."
"What am I more likely to get?" Blaise didn't play risky with her bets when she wasn't confident, Oliver suddenly realized, and she unfolded to be even more complex every time he saw her.
It didn't please him that he struck her with such an awe that her confidence vanished. That sort of thing only stroked Malfoy's flames.
"I don't know, really…it's tough to say." Oliver smiled at her, almost deliriously lightheaded. There was no purpose to really thinking at the moment.
"Um…boxers?"
"Pay up." She slapped a Knut on the table, and Oliver realized how very rich he could become with this game.
"Boxer briefs?" Another Knut. "Briefs." Another Knut. "Long, frilly little things?" Another Knut. "Okay…moving onto color." 'I can buy myself a Daily Prophet soon.' He thought, the grin stretching across his face like a languid cat during a summer nap. "Prints in general?" Another Knut. Then he could read about himself in the society pages, which was a section he did not belong to. "Solids?" Oliver shook his head and pushed the sixth Knut back to the little brunette.
"You'll need it to eat."
Blaise frowned. "Well, if you're not bloody well wearing any underwear, this game's a bit over then, isn't it?"
"And here I thought you would be pleased at my daring." Oliver joked, and she reached for the Knuts. "Nuh-uh-uh…I need to buy myself a paper to find out that we're getting married next week."
Blaise shoved him angrily until he toppled to the floor. She stood up, crossing her arms."You are evil."
"And you are a brat." He answered, looking up at her with a very large grin, still gripping her pink lacy panties.
Blaise broke into a fit of laughter and smoothed her skirt over her hamstrings, sitting down on Oliver's chest and crossing her ankles modestly. "Heiress and Quidditch player find themselves in interesting gambling predicament near children's school."
"Hell, they're probably getting more in one dormitory than I'll be getting from you in three years." Blaise backed her ankle into the side of his ribs. "Alright, alright. Get up off of me and we'll go grab some real food at the home."
Blaise diffidently stood up, sniffing with distaste. "You have become a right pervert, Oliver Wood."
"If you were as starved for sex as all the papers claim a Quidditch player is right after off-season, you would have to." Oliver replied, standing up.
"Well, is it true?" Blaise asked, her cheeks coloring.
"Extended season because of the World Cup…then training…not so much…" Oliver answered, offering her his arm. "Would you like your knickers back, Blaise?"
"Keep them. Toss them down on the table at dinner tonight. Nonchalantly, of course." Blaise said vindictively. "Pansy would love the show."
"And I'm assuming the master of the house wouldn't?" Oliver inquired, a grin returning to the high corners of his lips.
"He wouldn't think it were appropriate." Blaise whispered back at him and Oliver found himself in a right predicament—at the strangest crossroads he'd ever been. The paths of happy but unfulfilling platonic friendship were in the very least; clear enough to see the rocks in the road. The physical and volatile return to a land he wasn't quite sure was ready for colonizing yet veered off course and would be a very consuming waste of time if she were only in it for vengeance. It wasn't even really a road—just an interruption in the platonic path that led up to some strange Mecca in the distance. He wasn't quite even sure that he'd quite forgiven her for leading him off course in the first place, even if he had ventured into a city of jewels and faded Oriental scents that blended into his of the moors so well.
"Right then." He answered, as she stared at him, his eyes reading ambiguously. His answer must have taken a minute or so too long, but Oliver pocketed the lacy pink panties despite his doubts.
If she were ready for a bit of fun, he was ready for some too. He deserved it, didn't he?