A/N: Now you get to hear some of Blaise's POV, as promised ;)

Chapter 6: A ball of fire

He was going mad. It was a simple as that. Or rather, it wasn't.

He had managed to distract himself somewhat from the unwilling thoughts about the Weasley girl ever since Theo (the oaf!) had planted them in him, by tending to his Prefect duties more vigorously – which, of course, was wholly uncharacteristically for him. He had even managed to pick up previous 'arrangements' with a former Hufflepuff lady friend of his, thinking getting his kinks out would somehow calm the disturbing feelings swirling in him. He had not gotten laid in like forever and he thought his sudden 'frustrations' from the little encounter with the Weaslette were only a sign that he was good and proper horny. However, it didn't work. Even in the blissful trysts, from which he usually got what he needed in the past, he now seemed even more out of focus, leaving him with a bitter taste in his mouth and simply more confused. He was not used to being confused. Certainly not with the ladies! He was used to not feel anything. He had gotten numb during his school years and the war; making himself care little for anyone other than his mother and his friends occasionally. He never even put that much feeling into the hatred he proclaimed to have towards anything Muggle and Gryffindor. It was all just a pretense to keep people at bay, never letting them see anything that could make him look vulnerable or weak. He had to protect himself from the worst of gossip (though his mother didn't actually help in that department) and used his – in his eyes – harmless bedroom endeavors as a distraction from anything else that might arise. As a rule, he never ever got emotional or confessional with the girls he slept with, unless, of course, it was for purely beneficial reasons. He could easily put on a show to get what he wanted. He was a cynical, emotionally detached lover. Of course, he had gotten himself a decent reputation as a good shag. He knew he was good; the girls didn't need to fake anything in that department. It was all a matter of practice and talent – and he was a Slytherin and a Zabini. Everything he truly felt or battled with, he channeled through his demonstrations in bed. The girls certainly got more than they bargained for; he made sure of that, though it was all purely selfish and sometimes that wasn't even enough. He was still left with a hollow feeling; like he only consisted of an empty shell built of cold pretense. He even felt used at times when the girls had left – which was ironic because he really just sold himself in the end. Cheaply. Huh. Maybe not that far from his mother, after all.

Back then, during the war when everything went bat-shit-crazy, he had chosen not to ponder further about this fact – a fact that should disturb him more than it did – but instead threw himself into further extracurricular activities … and blissful oblivion. It had been so easy. Girls were practically flocking to his bed. It seemed the near-death occurrences and yearly threats surrounding Hogwarts in those days had a way of heightening the female libido. And he certainly wasn't one to complain. However, as the danger of You-Know-Who and his followers increased and especially after Dumbledore died, the nerves took over and the girls became more moody, skittish and even subdued in bed. They, too, seemed to have their minds someplace else and the pleasure was short-lived.

Lady troubles had never really been an issue with him. Whenever there was trouble with them, he seduced and bedded them. Simple as that. Distraction like that he discovered proved the best remedy for whatever – usually petty - worries they for some reason chose to bring to him. He didn't like complications in any form. He didn't (or chose not to) see faults in his behavior and if the girl(s) had a problem with that, they could just give him what he wanted or fuck off! He didn't have time for trivial dealings like that.

However, dealing with the Weasley girl was another matter entirely. He couldn't just bed her to distract her or get matters over with her; that much was clear. Not that he was that interested, anyway. Sure, she was an obvious beauty and a right firecracker, he couldn't help but admit that, but then again, no one could deny that. It wasn't like she could really be categorized as 'girl trouble'. He'd just happened to run into her in the most inconvenient of times in his life; when he'd wanted nothing more but a final, quiet school year where he could stay in the shadows as much as possible and avoid any further hatred thrown his way for his past mistakes. She'd said some pretty nasty things (well, so had he) which had set him off, but it wasn't like he hadn't heard them before. It was just … coming from her mouth it had seemed all the more hard-hitting for some reason. He couldn't figure out why exactly.

It hadn't helped to encounter (make that 'bodily collide with') the Weasley girl once again – and in the crowded hallways no less! – while he was in the company of his numero uno tormentor on the subject: Theo! Great. Terrific. And then the Weasel-girl had the audacity to snarl at him when it was she who had walked right into him! And it only got better when Theo started butting his big, fat nose into the entire ordeal (Blaise should never have told him about the incident in the Bathroom!) and getting the red-head all confused and riled up by his weird, smirking banter (seriously, what was he playing at?!). When Theo suddenly started throwing out serious compliments to the girl, Blaise had had about enough of his untimely intrusion and secretive hints, wanting strongly to wipe that bloody smirk off his face with the floor. He knew Theo wanted him to respond somehow and talk about the awful Bathroom encounter with the girl, but Blaise would rather have The Fat Lady scream him deaf than going into that topic in front of those two!

So Blaise settled for sending death glares at the boy, blistering over the fact that Theo seemed totally unfazed by his silent warnings and kept on going, baiting the girl. The last straw came when Theo made so obvious, lewd suggestions about the Bathroom incident that the Weaslette practically grew horns, going into a dangerously vengeful game-face and chose to re-use the undoubtedly worst parts of the 'dialogue' from that very encounter. It hit him right where she'd wanted and he hadn't been able to stay cool in this one! Not for all the gold in Gringotts!

Everything - ever since that first, fatal meeting – ever since the war, really – had been built up inside him and grown into an uncontrollable ball of fire that she for some reason managed to set off every-bloody-time they collided. That feisty, little, red-haired Weasel-girl who had been so harmless and insignificant to him before all this; meant nothing really, but then again nothing had meant anything back then. Who'd had thought? He certainly wouldn't have only months ago. But months ago everything was different and he didn't wish for those times to return.

Was he fated to have this thrown upon him? He'd never wished for this, never asked for any of it. He just wanted to keep a low profile and stay out of trouble. That's what he'd always wanted.

But then McGonagall had shown up before everything had exploded and dropped a bigger and even more unwanted bomb: Introducing the First Years to Quidditch – together! It made perfect sense in theory and for once he had no quick comeback or laid-back excuse for skipping duty. This was a face-to-face request from McGonagall, the Headmistress herself, and he couldn't possibly refuse. No getaway. There was no longer any favoring among the Houses or the Heads, now with the new no-prejudice policy that had been inaugurated at the school. No Snape to argue with McGonagall on his behalf. No gang of Slytherins to hide behind. No looming threat of war to make the necessary distractions. It was a new age in a post-war Wizarding World where he had been on the losing side (well, he'd made a pragmatic choice); this was a part of his new duty as a Prefect to comply and, in a sense, restoring whatever good reputation he had left as a Zabini; former Slytherin, blood purist and friend to the kids of most of the Death Eater members during the war. Huh. Not much to restore.

Blaise grumbled, then sighed in defeat. It just wasn't his year, was it? Had any year ever been, really?

He'd gotten the Weaslette's note, setting the date and course of the Quidditch introduction, and he had almost chuckled at the forced formality oozing through the tiny note. Well, two could play that game. He wanted nothing more than to take his mind off that uncontrollable ball of fire, coiling and uncoiling, within his body - along with all the 'why's and 'how's tumbling around in his head, making him positively mad. And though taking the bull by its horns might not seem like one of his brightest ideas (it sounded disgustingly Gryffindor and the mere thought made him gag), he already felt powerless against whatever powers that were pressing upon him, no matter what he did. He was caught between a rock and a hard place and might as well do something - whatever it was - than sit around and go crazy over nothing.

So, he had shown up that early morning on the field as it lay covered in the usual, lousy Scottish weather; dutifully and on time in full Quidditch gear, making the Weasel girl raise her eyebrows higher than what seemed humanly possible.

It had proved to be less awful than he'd thought once the kids started questioning about previous games, and he couldn't help throwing a sly, nasty smile towards the unknowing red-head as she steered the dewy-eyed crowd of admiring youngsters around the Quidditch field. He'd show her how to capture the students' attention alright! This was a perfect opportunity to grate her nerves for once. He felt more than saw how his slightly subjective tales of the victories and losses on the field affected her from a distance. She had no chance to interrupt him with any of her feisty interjections and it only spurred him further as the little heads grinned up at him whenever he relayed a particularly nasty detail about one of Gryffindor's many embarrassments on the field.

Then that dim kid had asked about the war; a possibility he – in his vengeful scheming - hadn't foreseen, and his plan had been skewered. Brutally.

He had been impressed by her collected reaction to the questions, though, given that all of it had happened only months ago, on this very field among other places, and that she had been amidst of that burning, bloody inferno, facing the worst of wizard kind and with no guarantee of survival. He'd gulped down his confident pride as the prodding continued. Why couldn't they shut up? Why did they have to point out how brave Gryffindors were? And yet she managed to throw him completely off course with her astute, wise, however hesitant answers on the tender subjects of previous House traits and how who's good and evil in war was far from a black-and-white matter.

He hadn't been able to look at her then, seeing as she began to trail off; so enraptured by explaining it in an understandable manner to the kids that she'd seemed to have almost forgotten who was present as well. Turning his back to her as she suspiciously cheerily pronounced the end of the lecture, he picked up some of the Quidditch gear and mechanically guided the hoard of chatting kids through the misty, chilling mountain rain towards the castle, not checking to see if she was following. He felt entirely too conflicted, and he didn't know what to make of that feeling!

It had been several days since then and they hadn't spoken a word; only managed to throw each other careful, somewhat curious glances every now and then when they were in the same room. He felt uncomfortable in the tension between them, having no clue why it was there, really, and wondered why he couldn't just let it go. It shouldn't be that hard, yet it was. If the higher powers saw fit to make them 'collide' yet again, he wouldn't know how he'd react and he hated not knowing, not being in control.