A/N: I've decided to let Blaise keep his position in Quidditch as seen on screen, though it doesn't happen in the books, in order to give Blaise and Ginny more in common.

Chapter 2: The Prefects' Bathroom

If there was anything Ginny Weasley loved – after a good, hard work-out on the Quidditch field – it was a nice soak in a hot bathtub. Just laying back in scented, soapy water, spooling away the sweat and grime and loosening up sore muscles.

At the moment, Ginny found herself taking full advantage of her status as Head Girl by enjoying and prolonging a relaxing bath in the Prefects' Bathroom, which was now filled with steam and bubbles. It was a late Sunday afternoon, the sleepiest time of Hogwarts, and she had just finished her usual training on the field. Her skin was buzzing from the warming soak of the water, smelling flowery from the bath salt she had put in, as she stood and wrapped a towel around herself.

Humming with content she went to the mirror, unpinning her hair from the practical bun she had made on the top of head, when she suddenly spotted something – or rather someone moving behind her in the mirror. Her eyes widened as she realized she wasn't entirely alone, after all.

Whipping around to face the intruder, she gasped when she came face to face with none other than a naked Blaise Zabini, former Slytherin and best mate to that ferret Malfoy!

Well, half-naked; he was clad in a towel, wrapped around his lean hips, but still...

She opened her mouth in shock, staring at him as he stared back equally astounded (though he kept it less flabbergasted), clearly not expecting to have had company as well.

About to tell him off and shout at him to get out, she suddenly remembered why he was able to be in there in the first place (since only Prefects and Quidditch captains knew the password to the Bathroom, though that certainly wouldn't be any hindrance for a Slytherin): Zabini had taken the post as one of the Prefects when they were all first elected at the beginning of the year!

She remembered having wondered why the older wizard had returned at all and scoffed at the thought of the lazy Slytherin hassling students around and pulling extra chores, since he always seemed as such a cold-hearted, haughty prick who couldn't be bothered with anyone or anything. Less pompous and mouthy than Malfoy and more enigmatic, but she'd been all the more suspicious of him because of that and thus found all the more reason for keeping a distance. She knew very little about him, besides the basic gossip about his mother's army of dead husbands and the usual gossip among the girls – even the Gryffindors! – of his apparently impressive, sexual prowess. She'd scoffed even louder at that fact. Of course, leave it to the cold, vain, Pureblood supremacist and Slytherin snake to be totally undiscriminating and advantageous when it came to the opposite sex who, for some reason, threw themselves at him. She bet he'd even taken Muggle-born students to his bed every now and then.

However, Ginny had never denied the fact that the Slytherin boy was good looking. Beyond good looking. And he knew it. He was much too handsome for his own good, and once she had even let him know just how vain he seemed, much to his displeasure. She had just never really bothered more than that, having been enamored with a certain, bespectacled, shaggy-haired wizard most of her school years. OK, she'd dated Michael Corner and Dean as well, but you can't blame a girl for taking the chances she gets (no parallel to Zabini whatsoever!). She'd never shied away from sexual matters in the same stand-offish ways as Hermione or the seemingly oblivious ways as Luna. Nor had she taken a perverse pleasure in discussing boys and conquests like Lavender or the Patil twins. She'd had her fair share of experiences with boys but wasn't one to break down when things didn't continue (Harry was the exception to this) or brag about her conquests.

Now, admittedly, she had never been faced with Zabini up close or as 'intimately' as right in this moment. As she stared at him from across the damp bathroom, she couldn't help letting her gaze take in his entire form, painfully aware of his state of undress (not to speak of her own). His dark skin had already started to perspire in the sauna-like atmosphere, glistening in a way that only enhanced his magnificent contours. No denial the guy had all the right genes! The older Slytherin stood several inches taller than her - he was just as tall as Ron, Fred and George - his dark-skinned chest well-defined from Quidditch, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, long, lean legs and arms that came together for a perfect cover model of Witch Weekly. A closely cut, polished haircut matched his face; all carved lines and strong nose, high cheekbones, smooth skin, full lips and those infamously shrewd, slanted eyes that observed her so coldly and inscrutably.

"Well," he drawled, finally breaking the silence, smirking as if he had just caught her in the act (of bathing? Ogling?), while his eyes swept over her scarcely clad form, partly arrogantly, partly lewdly. "I see I'm not the only one who came here for some recreational alone-time. Guess we'll have to fight for the best spot, huh, Weasel?" His stance took a more relaxed pose, back to his usual bored swagger, one thump resting in the dangerously low edge of his towel (which caught her attention, much to her annoyance). She realized she still stood with her mouth open and quickly closed it, scowling at him.

"I didn't think anyone would come here this late in the afternoon on a Sunday." She huffed defensively, crossing her arms. "Why are you here anyway, I might ask? Aren't you on duty?"

He lifted an eyebrow, sending her a cold glare. "Not that it is any of your business how I handle my Prefect business, Red, and by the way, the bathroom is for every Prefect at any time. As it so happens, I've just returned from Quidditch training after you lot finished, I need a bath, and I'm a Prefect. No other special rights here, no matter your 'war heroic status'," his voice tipped with sardonic vitriol.

Her jaw dropped. "I didn't say I just presumed privilege over the bathroom because of– ugh!" She bristled, balling her fists. Insufferable Slytherins!

He merely gave a smug tilt of his mouth at her riled up appearance, which irked her more. That and his state of undress which was way too distracting!

"No, I guess you were just hoping to get a glimpse of the goods. Not that I mind," he grinned devilishly at her, hooking both thumbs in the towel, provocatively jutting out his lean hips.

"Please!" she scoffed sarcastically. He truly was full of himself! If this was how he came on to girls, she wanted to laugh at his total and pathetic lack of originality! Not that he was coming on to her…

Or was he?

She couldn't make him out as he eyed her with an indefinable expression then gave a bored shrug and turned towards the bath.

"Well, then, I guess I'll leave you to your business if you'll leave me to mine." He started towards the edge of the bath and before she knew it he had loosened the towel around his waist, baring his entire naked back to her.

Her eyes practically jumped out of their sockets at his brazen behavior.

"What – what are you doing?" she spluttered and could only imagine the self-satisfactory grin forming on his face though she couldn't see it.

"Why, I'm taking a bath. I thought that was fairly obvious, witch," he spoke in a casual, typically Slytherin condescending manner, not yet looking at her. However, he didn't let go of the towel or descend into the water.

What is he playing at?

Ginny's eyes were unwillingly glued to his nude form in pure shock and despite her not being any virginal, frail, little Gryffindor, she still couldn't fathom why she was the one to endure the Slytherin Sex God's little game.

Did she just say 'Sex God'?!

She'd picked up waaay too much of the Patil twins' gossip, apparently, and shook herself mentally, willing herself to tear her eyes from his confident nakedness in front of her.

"So… You're not joining me?"

She whirled her incensed gaze back to him, and he was now looking over his shoulder at her; his face painted in sinister mirth, reminding her of a cat toying with a mouse. She huffed, wheeling her back to him, not taking his bait, and proceeded to unpin her hair, aggressively so, trying to control her temper.

Being the only sister to six older brothers she was used to their teasing, potty mouths and sometimes overly self-conceited masculinity; making way for her to build up a quick, dry wit that matched even that of McGonagall's. However, this was a different situation. She tried to tell herself it wasn't, but of course it was. In matters of romance, she was used to being the assertive, bold one, while the boys were less brassy, not quite able to match her more zealous nature. She knew she could scare some people off with her confident personality and passionate opinions; her strong sense of loyalty surfacing every so often, and her emotions sometimes clouding her judgment. She had, however, often been approached by guys who had taken a fancy to her, but she rarely took any serious interest in them. Michael certainly had been one of those instances. Dean, however, had been different. He had been sweet and level-headed; a long-time friend who had taken a position close to Harry's and the others during the war. However, her heart had always belonged to Harry and she couldn't give herself entirely to Dean. In the end, they had just been two hormonal teenagers who had taken an interest in each other and decided to fool around a bit. Whether or not they actually had crossed the line of seriousness wasn't something she'd had pondered further about once it was over. What was past was past. She had gotten together with Harry and her dream had come true. She and Dean continued to be friends. No hard feelings. That was how she liked it. She didn't like dancing around the bush or giving confusing signals. Oh, she didn't mind flirting, but she was usually just as willing a participant as her partner, knowing what to expect and what to give.

However, now, she was caught in a situation she'd never asked for, much less expected.

She had never in her life thought the cold Slytherin in front of her would ever deign her a look beyond mere disgust. And she never really had time to ponder much about the boy or form a bigger impression of him. She'd always thought of him as an arrogant, womanizing, Slytherin arse and that was it. And that may have been the error, she realized.

He confused the hell out of her right now, but still, she wasn't one to back down from a fight or come out the loser.

She turned back to him in defiance, eyeing him with narrowed eyes. She was relieved to see he had put on the towel again and turned towards her as if curious to see why she hadn't responded.

"Please, don't flatter yourself, Zabini," she sneered, giving him a cold once-over, reminding herself of the Ginny she used to be towards everything Slytherin.

Since when had she forgotten just how sleazy and untrustworthy they could be? Oh, yeah, the war.

No, now wasn't the time to become soft-hearted.

"You are so full of yourself," she continued mockingly. "Do you actually think I would throw myself at you of all people? You must be joking!" she gave a bitter laugh and glared with all the Weasley superiority she could muster.

However, she found his reaction not entirely what she had anticipated; Blaise was eyeing her with something close to admiration.

"Right little firecracker you are, huh?" he smirked, once again giving her a slow, patronizing once-over, holding his gaze a bit too long on her bared legs, making her suddenly shiver in the otherwise hot room.

She snorted, having none of his dirty tricks. "Yeah, tough. I bet you're used to girls giggling like silly school girls and falling right into your bed just from a single glance from you."

"Actually they do, but you're no silly school girl, are you now, Weasley?" he said, the last part spoken with a slightly more challenging note to his otherwise bored voice, as he stepped closer to her, a curious spark in his eyes.

She crossed her arms across her chest with equal defense and challenge but couldn't help wondering why he didn't just dismiss her with his usual cold attitude and let this one slide. Why the sudden interest? She wasn't even sure why they were having this conversation in the first place.

Oh, right, they were baiting each other … for some reason.

"You don't scare me, Zabini. Nor do your 'astounding' powers of seduction make me melt into your manly arms. You'd have to use Love Potion to get me even to look at you in that way," she spoke with exaggerated disgust.

He raised a skeptical eyebrow, his voice taking a harder edge, probably due to her consistent hostile attitude. "That can be arranged. Though, you certainly seemed persuasive only minutes ago without any … 'help'. And who said I was seducing you, Weaslette?"

"Oh, my bad. It's just how you are."

"Excuse me?" his eyes narrowed, all traces of the swaggering arrogance minutes ago wiped from his face. He stepped even closer to her. "You don't know me, so don't start to presume anything, little Weasel," he drawled in an unmistakable threatening tone.

She held her stance and gave a hard chortle in response. "Don't think I don't know how big of a superficial bigot you were back then and clearly still are!"

"And you were part of the same rambunctious pack of red-headed, hot-headed, self-righteous blood traitors," he growled back. "Clearly that hasn't changed either, though the pack seems to have narrowed down a great deal, huh, Red? Good riddance, I say! Damn rotten lot you Weasleys!" he grated out between his teeth.

Ginny's nostrils flared as she clenched her fists, unsuccessfully trying to will herself not to get too riled up by his disgusting words. How dared that conceited snob of a wizard say those things to her and her family when he had been on the wrong side, the losing side, all along – and yet he still acted like he was better than anyone else!

The words left her mouth before she could stop herself. "Don't forget which side you were on and which one actually won, Zabini! I've had no reason of rubbing it in your face, but if you want to, I could!"

Blaise's otherwise so cool exterior tensed at her words and his poker-face changed into a distorted grimace. "You bitch! You don't know shite about me or what happened! Stay the fuck out of business you know nothing of!" he spoke menacingly, eyeing her coldly.

Startled, her gaze jumped across his intense, dark face looming over her, mere inches from her own.

She didn't think she could set him off this quickly. Even for a Slytherin he was famous for keeping his cool in practically every situation. She had never seen or known him to throw a tantrum but then again: She didn't really know him that well. Her accusations were really rather unfounded and childish, a voice spoke in the back of her head, but she was too clouded by emotions to care. He was a bastard who had gotten away with way too much during the war and she decided to let him taste his own medicine.

She was about to open her mouth when he beat her to it, smirking icily down at her, apparently having gained his cool.

"Don't you think I know you're no innocent, little virgin, Weaslette?"

"What?!" Ginny screeched, rearing back her head.

"That's right. Your reputation precedes you around here. I know you're nothing but a whore!"

She froze open-mouthed, fiery indignation and shame bursting within her at his accusations, coloring her cheeks; her Weasley temper flaring into full-fledged rage.

"And you're nothing but a man-whore!" she spat back, then shot him an acid smile that rivaled his own. "I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree then, huh?"

Blaise clenched his jaw, his eyes flashing dangerously, and before Ginny was able to react she was pressed against the damp stone wall, a strong hand gripping her throat tightly.

"Don't you dare speak of my mother that way, Weaslette!" Blaise snarled down at her, his face looming darkly over hers.

Despite the initial shock of his closeness and strength, she struggled against his iron hold but in vain. Paralyzed against him and without her wand (which was hidden in her clothes on a bench a couple of feet from them) she was pretty much helpless. Physically, at least. Merlin, how she hated him in that moment! The Weasley temper once again got the better of her.

"Fuck off, Zabini!" Her throaty voice constricted painfully under the pressure of his hand. "I couldn't care less about you or your mother or any of that cowardly Death Eater scum you hung around with! I swear to you, if you do not let me go this instant, I'll hex your sorry Slytherin ass into oblivion!"

If Blaise was surprised by her passionate outburst, he didn't let it show. Instead, he stared down at her with an unreadable expression, and then a smile – which Ginny found positively disturbing – slowly formed on his handsome face, taking in her struggling, feisty state despite being imprisoned in his grip.

He had to admit she was as beautiful as ever, especially when she was riled up. After all, he had eyes and women were his weakness (he groaned inwardly at his unintentional admittance to the very accusation she had given just minutes ago). In that particular aspect, Houses didn't matter. He had always known Ginny Weasley was an unmatched beauty. With that long, sleek, flaming-red hair, heart-shaped, freckled face, cute, little button nose, a bit too fascinating mouth and then those fiery, syrupy-brown eyes that right now glared up at him and sparkling with something close to embers. A more than decent body, too; tall enough to not disappear in front of him, tomboyish with a hint of curves and with the tell-tale definitions of a Quidditch player. Everything on the outside only seemed upgraded by that passionate and loyal personality of hers (typical Gryffindor), witty comebacks and one hell of a Quidditch player (well, he had paid attention). And then there was the infamous Weasley temper, of course. He had never been given the chance to see Ginny Weasley's adamant outbursts up-close before, and he had to give it to her: The girl had spunk. He couldn't help but admire that in a girl, even though it was this girl who right now grated him in more than one way.

Right. Snap out of it, man! Girl or no girl, he was touching a Weasel!

Grimacing he slacked his hold on her throat and realized that in the heat of the moment he had ended up not only pressing his arm but his entire length against her, while both of them being half-naked. He could practically feel the knot in her towel loosening across her chest as he loosened his arm's pressure against her.

He gulped, feeling the anger still coursing through his veins, surprised by his own unusual display of brute force. He had never been as physical threatening as Draco, whose unchecked anger often came through such physical displays, his verbal tantrums less original, whereas Blaise regarded himself as less boorish and instead used his impressive physical, taciturn stature and cold, calculating eyes to enforce his power. He avoided touching people as much as possible, which was kind of ironic since his entire reputation was built on the physical matters happening in the bedroom.

He quickly backed away from her, both of them huffing and puffing from their angry spat while searching each other's faces with both distrust and surprise, their awkward position dawning on them both.

Blaise's head and body were racking with the confused thoughts and feelings their brief, sudden encounter had formed in him. He wasn't attracted to the Weasley girl now, was he? The cursing through his veins was merely from being riled by her words just now, wasn't it?

It was unusual for him to be riled by anything, yet he had thrown them right back at her as well. But he hadn't really been insulted had he?

Such insults would once have left him cool-faced, inwardly boiling with a malicious sense of revenge that he would have carried out subtly and brilliantly and leave the results all the more devastating for the wrongdoer. Now that the war was over and everyone were left mollified and out of place after having previously thrived on the natural animosity between the Houses, Mudbloods and Purebloods, etc., those old insults were either banned or left meaningless for either parts. Sure, you could still rub salt in old wounds and it stung like hell, but slinging out slurs like that couldn't really surpass the level of atrocity everyone had been through during the war. People had realized what those very slurs were really rooted in and those who had been on the wrong side, the losing side, realized that such slurs could backfire once you were in the minority; reversing the situation. Being called 'Death Eater scum' or 'Death Eater whore', literally spat at and publicly humiliated was no pleasant comeback from a life in illusion and fear from the ideology and regime prescribed by Voldemort. But it was just that: A reverse situation of one where he once had been on top, the mocking one. He couldn't feel sorry for himself. He knew Purebloods and Death Eaters who had joined up in pure fear of their family's safety; those he felt sorry for when treated thus, but the Zabinis had, after all, managed to stay out of most of the shit going down during Voldemort's battle for power. Blaise had stayed cool on the outside though it was a different matter on the inside. His mother had been fearful but, luckily, out of harm's way. He had, of course, worried about his closest of friends; Draco, most of all, but also Theo, who was more sensitive than he led on and had been in the claws of his deranged psycho of a father, who was now in Azkaban. The Greengrass sisters had been used as unwilling pawns in the war, too, and far from kindly. He had even felt sorry for Pansy, who never seemed to be able to go unnoticed of her brainwashed parents (who, ironically, were rumored to have Muggle-blood in their veins). He knew both Theo and Pansy regarded Hogwarts as their only true home and had only acted as they did during the Battle because they were scared to see the school, their home, ruined by the Death Eaters.

He shook himself from his digressions, focusing back at the still blistering red-head in front of him who was now shooting him a suspicious glare.

"What's your deal, Zabini?" she accused gruffly, massaging her sore throat.

He swallowed thickly. Had he been too rough?

He stared down at his hands and ran them over his head in pure frustration. Fuck! Was he losing it?! He needed to leave, to get out of there, before he lost it completely.

Turning around, grabbing his gear, he steered towards the door, not even daring the Weasley another look or word nor caring that he only wore a towel.

He left the seething, gaping girl by the wall in the dripping bathroom without seeing the questioning look forming on her face.

What just happened?

A/N: Ginny's observations about Blaise's undiscriminating preferences for women are somewhat prejudiced (well, she doesn't exactly know him, after all) and even a little ironic, since we know Pansy made that notorious comment in Year Six about Blaise actually finding Ginny good-looking (which he denied), despite how hard he is to please in reality, suggesting a rather selective preference for women. One that likely entail pretty red-heads..? But, of course, Ginny doesn't know this little fact, does she now? ;)