Chapter 20: Of reflections and flight
Unexpectedly, Ginny woke to an unusually docile hangover.
A long morning shower made her all the more awake and refreshed in that lethargic, well-rested sort of way that only Sunday mornings could inspire, and after slipping into a comfortable pair of jeans and a light jumper, she padded towards breakfast as the Scottish winter sun smiled down on her through the castle's tall windows, warming her limbs to the bone.
Sipping her coffee (plus a bit of hair of the dog, grateful for her brothers learning her a trick or two) and nibbling at her toast, she sat by herself in the basically empty Great Hall, only vacated by a couple of groggy-looking students, clearly descendants of last night's party, coming and – sometimes quickly – going again.
Thankfully, she didn't spot Zabini anywhere. She couldn't quite stomach facing him right now.
Parvati, on the other hand, had managed to catch her before breakfast finished; to ask where she went last night, and Ginny felt partly chagrined as well as relieved about it. She had thought about finding the twin to explain her abrupt departure but couldn't come up with the right lie without looking guilty or giving away more than she wanted. Luckily, Parvati didn't seem the least bit miffed by being ditched, if only concerned about the reason why.
"No, really, Parvati, it was nothing. Just a slight dizziness. I'm fine now, thank you," Ginny reassured her a second time with a ghost of a smile, unable to brush off the girl whose sincere face was currently painted in sympathy.
Straightening, Parvati darted her a slightly unconvinced glance before smiling in final acceptance of her answer. "Glad to hear, Ginny. Anyways, it was fun as long as it lasted." She gave a light-hearted grin and squeezed her hand. The corners of Ginny's mouth tugged upwards momentarily as she gave a light squeeze back.
Parvati then leaned in conspiratorially, a sly smile playing on her lips. "You know, the Professor," Ginny flinched slightly by his mentioning as the other girl continued, oblivious to her reaction, "He was rather peeved by your sudden departure."
"Really?" Ginny inquired, keeping her attitude nonchalant.
"Oh yes." The twin could no longer withhold a knowing grin from spreading on her face, as if she thought Ginny was eager to hear the gossip involving herself. "Actually, he continued to ask me a couple of questions about you."
Apprehension creeping under her skin, Ginny eyed her friend's smug expression. "What kind of questions?"
"Well," she drawled, "first of all, he wanted to know if you were usually like that at parties. You know; you were kind of snappy and then just stalked off," she chided good-naturedly. Ginny scowled at the audacity of the man's query. Who was he to ask? Parvati simply gave a coy, knowing smile. "Then he asked if you had any 'boy troubles'."
"What?!" Quickly composing herself, Ginny ducked her head and squinted at the other girl. "And what did you have to say to that?"
"Why, I simply said no, you weren't usually like that, and that I wasn't sure if it was because of 'boy troubles'," Parvati responded all too innocently.
Gnashing her teeth together, Ginny closed her eyes briefly. "And you didn't ask why he, a teacher, was suddenly so overly interested in my personal life?"
Gawking at her, Parvati bit her lip and looked down, having the grace to blush. "Um, no, I didn't think of it." Glancing back up, seeing Ginny's reaction, she proceeded apologetically, "Honestly, I didn't, Ginny! I– I guess I was pretty wasted by then myself. And he was just so – dreamy," she breathed with a sheepish shrug.
Ginny shot her a dubious look and harrumphed. Why was she even surprised that Parvati had been too entranced by some male specimen to pose any kind of inquisitive questions to his own?
"It's alright," she replied tersely. "It's not your fault."
Lightening up, Parvati gave a timid smile in return and Ginny huffed quietly, inadvertently smitten by her spirits. The girl was so easily pleased.
"Well, I better get back to the others," Parvati spoke, her cheery disposition back in place, and stood. Turning halfway towards her again, she said, "Let's hang out sometime again. You know, like we used to."
Taken somewhat aback by the kind offer, Ginny found her defenses up, ready to decline, but stopped herself and instead smiled wistfully. "I'd like to, Parvati. Very much so."
"Good. That's settled then. Just let me know when you want to catch up," she replied brightly and waved before she returned to her friends' table.
Sitting for a while, contemplating Parvati's word, Ginny chanced a speculative look to the High Table. Zelenko wasn't there.
Why was he so interested in her? It was unsettling to imagine, indeed. Was he simply a chauvinistic snob; needing to put his students (or just women in general) in place by the means of his 'higher intellects' and 'oh-so-charming looks'?
She gave an internal scoff. More like the charms of a snake!
Speaking of; it reminded her of another certain serpent-like charmer but one with significantly less intentional bite than the former.
That gave her pause. There had been something off about the new Professor, hadn't there? Former Slytherin or not, springing his saccharine condescension and backhanded compliments on her like that had seemed so inappropriate in the first place; almost too coincidental with her and Blaise's recent Dementor run-in and the Aurors' persistent misgivings simmering around them. She couldn't help wondering if there was a connection somehow...?
Oh, snap out of it, Gin! You need to let that caffeine work properly before you begin spouting out conspiracy theories!
Draining her mug, she pushed her empty dishes into the middle of the table and they immediately vanished from the surface, thanks to the continual efficiency of the school house-elves downstairs. Some things never did change, she smiled to herself and grabbed the Prophet and a croissant on her way out the Hall, exchanging a friendly nod with Parvati's group of friends that she had briefly met last night.
Still, as she left, and all through the day, the disquieting questions surrounding the new teacher kept flitting across her mind every now and then, on top of everything else; marring her brow with a permanent frown by the end of the day. She had otherwise set out to enjoy a relaxing Sunday, nursing her slight hangover and weary bones, and not let anything past get to her. She had even successfully managed to avoid a certain dark-skinned wizard all day and suspected he had done his utmost to avoid her for the same reasons as well.
If he even remembers, Gin.
Berating herself for her silly thoughts, she finished the last of a Transfiguration essay due to Monday and got to bed, having no energy to give any of the above 'gentlemen' any more thought.
Sleep came belatedly, like a slow-working drug that kept her half-afloat; not letting her heavy limps rest fully and turning her bed first too hard and then too soft. Her troubled mind gave away to restive dreams; a thick fog clouding and pushing through, making her skin and sheets damp as she fought through one haze, then another. She ran and ran and ran.
And then she saw him again!
So happy and carefree – her Fred! Turning towards her, arms opening and that wicked big brother grin in place that she missed terribly – that she loved so much – beckoning her closer, teasing her about her Quidditch team not measuring up but secretly showing his pride in her leader skills. She laughed and walked across the hazy shimmer towards his clear manifestation, getting closer and yet not close enough. Then, without blinking, she was before him as if having Apparated, without losing sight of his dancing eyes grinning back at her through their misty surroundings.
A mist, she noticed, that had turned from foggy-white to a troublesome grey and now gave a rumbling pull like a storm brewing, pushing her senses to a dreamlike, ominous awakening.
The smile turned stilted, like a doll's, in his face; bright, questioning eyes drawing downwards in a twisted frown.
'Ginny..?' She followed his gaze, 'Why do you have so much blood on your hands?'
Eyes widened in horror as she looked down and indeed saw fresh, red tendrils along her palms, dripping from her tips of her fingers; black-red splotches clotted under her nails. Then she heard her brother say next, just above a whisper and almost accusingly:
'Why do you no longer master your magic? Why are you no longer in control?'
'What? Fred? No! No. I am. I am I am I am! I– !'
Darkness, thick and tangled, swirled around them and before she had the chance to look up and get one full glimpse of him, he had been swallowed whole; the disappointment in his vivid eyes the last spectre lingering in her mind.
Gods no– nononono–
"NO!"
She screamed and bolted upright, soaked in cold sweat. With a strangled breath, she disentangled her legs from the covers and flung them over the side of the bed to brace herself. For a moment, she just sat there, squeezing her eyes shut and clutching the corners of the bed, dazedly waiting for the images to fade away. The feelings that came with them did not, however.
Looking down at her hands spread before her she saw the memory of blood still shimmering around them, before she blinked it away and rose, clumsily progressing towards the bathroom. The light crudely blinded her and she hunched over by the sink, heaving slightly. Ignoring the mirror until she had splashed generous dozes of icy water into her face, she begrudgingly looked up. What she saw was weariness itself staring back at her. Her porcelain skin looked translucent, with a greyish pallor that made her appear ghost-like in the artificial bathroom light and showed evident signs of her many restless nights. Her light-brown eyes were dull and glazed, the remains of a bonfire slowly ebbing away.
She closed her eyes again.
Sometimes she wanted to run. To run and skip and jump as fast as her legs could carry her until she sprouted wings and lifted from the ground, soared into the sky, and flew away, far away, to faraway places, never to return. Leave everything, and everyone, behind.
But she couldn't.
She couldn't leave those she loved and cared about behind, no matter how much her soul ached for it sometimes.
That was why she loved Quidditch. It was the closest thing she came to this feeling of freedom. Being in the air. The physical and mental control. The confidence. The rush. And where the only thing involving magic was the broom hovering in the air, letting her guide it wherever and however she wanted it. She couldn't envision herself in any other kind of profession for the rest of her life. Just the thought of it... It stifled her lungs.
Now nursing a slight headache from the rude awakening and lack of sleep, her pained thoughts still spinning around Fred, she decided to use her wakefulness to write a letter to George and go to the Owlery one of the coming days to post it. Hopefully, it would soothe her restless soul to console a bit with the twin; she knew he wouldn't see it as a show of pity since he must have nightmares of his own to battle with.
She so hoped they – all of them – would one day find a way together in their common grief and consolation. Some sort of peace. An aching peace, yes; the pain would likely never go away, but peace nonetheless.
Yes. One day.
X
It was only in the days following the party, when reality and dreams were carefully disentangled and separated, that Blaise really took in what had happened during that night and came to a daunting conclusion:
He wanted her. And she wanted him. Even through their alcohol-induced stupor that much was clear. After all, when it came to reading women and their desires in particular, his abilities remained unruffled. Why they shouldn't be unruffled, he had no idea–
OK, what's this? Get your arse back on track here!
Clearing his throat, he stared holes into the Potions essay he had been working on, sitting in the vacated Common Room of the Prefect quarters. However, just like before, he couldn't hold his concentration for long; his stream of consciousness slipping from perfecting a wound-cleaning potion to the generous sprinkle of freckles on clear porcelain skin.
The 'astute' fact that they were attracted to each wasn't such a surprise, really. In his case, he had likely known it long before last night; initially, in the usual and entirely shallow way and dismissed it as such. But not this. Not–
Wait. Hold your Hippogriffs for a second, mate, he staggered in his mind. You're definitely rambling. Like you were actually nervous. Insecure. Zabinis, most certainly, do not get nervous or, Merlin forbid, insecure!
He snarled at himself in disgust. What on earth was the matter with his brain?! Why go down these idiotic, useless lines of thought?
Now that he knew Ginny desired him, he could use that to his advantage. Yeah, that's right, he thought smugly to himself. The Slytherin in him couldn't wait to test the waters; to see just how much he could use it as his advantage.
What advantage? a small, moralizing voice piped up from somewhere inside his head (where the hell did that come from?!) and continued: To get what he wanted? Which was what, exactly? To get laid?
He was surprised by how a part of him, a deeper part, refused to correspond with the latter. Sure, he wouldn't mind getting to know her better in that particular way – no, sir, not at all – but it wasn't his first priority. Not even one of his highest.
He did a double take on that realization. Cripes. It might just have been the first time in his life he had ever considered something other than a quick lay with a girl.
His initial instincts recoiled from the sentimentality of such a notion. The change was almost too cliché. Like hell if he was getting soft about a girl! He was a Zabini, for crying out loud! No one could 'tame' (he spat the word in his head) a Zabini, much less come close enough to measure up to one. Zabinis did the taming.
But the girl in question wasn't just any person now, was she?
On the surface, an enthralling individual, for sure. She stood out from the crowd, in name and in presence. And he would lie if he said he didn't enjoy their little power play; she was a worthy competitor indeed, with a wit rivaling his own. He saw much of himself in her, actually, cringing slightly at the comparison but nonetheless continued down the line of observation. Famous, Pureblood, independent, attractive, sharp (she certainly possessed more brain cells than all those dopehead brothers of hers collectively). But what separated her from him on all accounts (ahem, besides the most obvious) was her unquestionable nerve, her (Merlin help him) 'loyal and caring Gryffindor nature' and the fact that she was unanimously beloved everywhere she went. Especially by the public, despite the buzzing rumour of her little break-up with Potty didn't sit well with them. Still, Blaise could not claim to have the same 'luxuries'.
And yet, there was something else about her, now that he had had the chance to see it up close, in a new light, a couple of times. A tension hiding in that otherwise fiery aura she exuded. Not unusual given what they've been through, but the way it lingered around her in unaware moments; casting a cloud over her countenance, told him its claws had sunk in deeper than expected. More than she was, most likely, able to deal with. Not easily rid off, either. So, she resigned herself with it, hid it to the best of her abilities and quietly, bit by bit, wrestled with every little trivial action where it manifested itself.
Now, he didn't particularly like to admit just how much he had noticed. Sometimes he could smack himself for his own perceptiveness. It had served him faithfully throughout many an ordeal, but it really did him no good when it took hold of his usually well-reserved emotions as well (some he vehemently denied he even had!).
But ... He did recognize the control with which she held this 'shadow' from general view. More than recognized. He could hardly deny it any longer. And he couldn't help but wonder if anyone else saw it in her. Especially, her closest ones. She seemed none the closer to betterment, if you could even talk about betterment, since he first recognized this 'mask' in the Prefects' Bathroom.
Strange.
Or, perhaps, not so strange.
Despite her Gryffindor gregariousness and unflagging popularity, given her statuses as Head Girl and Quidditch Captain, not to mention, her host of doe-eyed fans around the school, she did seem alone most of the time, now that her little, obnoxious gang of friends had mostly departed or sorted into new Houses. The Granger girl hung around her every now and then, he'd noticed. When she was around, that is.
Not that he had given it any thought prior to the school year, but if someone had said to him then that the Weaslette, of all the Gryffindor heroes, would be the one left more or less friendless and alone after the war, he'd have scoffed in their face.
As if unconsciously unlocking a box long buried, he was sent back to the previous school year and the terrorizing Carrows getting their hold on her and her little 'resistance' group time and time again. He had never intervened, of course, only observed her dazed and bloodied appearance emerging from being punished for her defiance. A defiance that was never beaten, however. None of them were. His House mates had chortled gleefully on the sideline, betting every time someone was pulled in on how much damage the deranged siblings would do, and as inwardly disgusted as he was of both deeds, Blaise had joined in on the betting every now and then; just to keep up appearances.
A lurch in the lower half of his stomach surged forward at the thought, suspiciously close to a sense of guilt, and guilt certainly wasn't a feeling that sat well with him.
He could have prevented it somehow... intervened... Couldn't he?
No. He shook his head in stubborn emphasis. There was no way of stopping any of them without giving himself away. Reticence wasn't merely just a part of his nature; he had carefully cultivated it and made use of it throughout the years, and there was a reason he had guarded any outward lenience or doubt he may have held from everyone. He had seen upfront the down-spiral when people chose sides, so, indirectly, he had picked neither and thus ensured his own survival. That was what he had told himself. To come out, more or less, unscathed. And blameless, guilt-free, he had convinced himself as well.
Huh, yeah right.
Still, he couldn't help wonder just how much damage the Carrows in fact did to her during those 'sessions'; the beginning nausea in his stomach turning over as his imaginations unwittingly took a more graphic nature.
Scrambling, he bolted for the small toilet of the Prefects' Common Room and barely managed to reach the bowl before he forcefully ejected whatever little breakfast he had consumed into it. After a second, the retching changed into a particularly nasty spell of dry-heaving. He failed to recall the last time he actually vomited like this.
Panting heavily, he turned his cold-sweated brow from the toilet seat and settled next to it, leaning his head back against the wall.
No, he couldn't rightly imagine what had gone on in there with the Carrows, but, knowing them and knowing Snape wasn't always there to curb them, he feared the worst.
The new, unwelcome feelings of shame and guilt swamped him and he hunched over as if in pain, placing his arms on top of his bent knees, trying to settle his emptied stomach from another spell of dry-heaving.
As he slowly started to catch his breath and banish the unpleasant images, he stood shakily from his undignified position on the floor and went to the sink to freshen up.
Staring into the mirror, he no longer felt the vain stirrings of self-importance, but, perhaps for the first time, in full admittance to himself, only felt disgust with what he saw.
Tearing himself from it, he went back out, still a bit queasy from the effects and a grim taste in his mouth; his darn curiosity wanting an answer – to free itself from the constant speculation and guilt weighing on him.
He thought about asking her. About the...interrogations.
No. No, he couldn't do that. It just seemed too – too personal to ask her about and give too much away about his own sudden interest in the matter. How was he supposed to explain that? And to her face even?
Maybe some of the others...
Huh. If only they were still around, that is.
He could also get the information from his former Slytherin 'mates' (of the few that were left) who had made those distasteful wages in the first place. It was quite possible they got some intel on the matter since they had been so keen to get the details to win their bets.
It would be simple enough to get their mouths to run. He just had to ease into the matter through some random conversation and drop a cursory comment about it somewhere. Appear utterly flippant. Yeah, that could work.
Of course, he could also just ask Theo who usually provided him with most of the intel and gossip of the school. However, never once had they talked about those particular instances. Like Draco, Theo had been strangely non-responsive when the rest of the group had howled with laughter as a struggling Longbottom was dragged in for the umpteenth by the slimy hands of Amycus Carrow and his heinous sister. Obviously, Blaise knew why. Well, with Draco, it became clear enough. And Theo? It must have reminded him of his own punishments at home. Every hex. Every beating. Every threat. Every foul word. And the fact that the little resistance group only got more defiant with every punishment was likely a stark reminder of Theo's own shame and cowardice at the hand of his father's twisted mercy. He never talked about it – no more than a sneer here and there directed towards Nott Sr. – but he didn't have to. The fact that he didn't talk told him everything.
It left Blaise to wonder how much Theo had wanted to notice or hear concerning what actually happened in there with the Carrows. Whereas both he and Theo had willingly joined in on the taunting of Potter and his little supporters the previous years, that year had been different on so many levels, Blaise could hardly describe them. Mind you, it couldn't rightly be compared to what that fool-hearted fan club of Scarhead must have gone through, inside and outside the school.
He shuddered slightly, glad that the Carrows and the rest of the still-breathing lot were firmly under lock and key in that hellhole of Azkaban.
Rolling his shoulders, working out the cricks in his neck, he went on with the letter he had finally set out to write to his Nonna.
She was always anxious to hear from him and though correspondence by letter wasn't one of his favourite things in the world (he found platitudes as objectionable as they were inescapable), he had been brought up according to what upper-class wizard decorum prescribed and was not one to deny his grandmother her monthly updates. He couldn't outright lie to her (well, he never could) when she all but pleaded for an insight in his emotional state time and time again, but couldn't rightly express himself either on that account. It ended up being an ambiguous mixture of the truth and whatever he could formulate that put her mind at ease.
He allowed himself a wistful smile at the thought of his Nonna in Italy, with her fierce personality and stern kindness. Hazy memories that seemed so long gone reappeared behind his retina; unaltered feelings of admiration welling up in him, unable to help himself. It wasn't often he admitted it to himself, but he missed her, not to mention the dry, sunny heat of Lombardy; the grand, open splendours of the sandy-white buildings; the scattering of elegant, majestic cypresses and pines. To be able to inhale the fragrant, salty air and feel the calm winds against his cheeks once more, sparking a note of escapism from his dark rumination of the past and its daily reminders at Hogwarts. To be free, if just for a while. And to actually eat proper food again (no disrespect to the food served at the school, but he honestly thought his taste buds had been numbed when he finally returned to Italy during vacations).
Yes, he missed it. So much sometimes, it was almost painful.
Of course, certain elements were less missed than others.
His Nonna had been the only one to bring any softness into his early life when his troublesome mother had toured cities and remarried again and again; breezing in and out of his life with one stranger after the other, leaving bodies behind in the same perfunctory way Draco discarded old brooms each new Quidditch season.
Mother.
He grumbled lowly, willing his suddenly gloomy, torn emotions away and quickly scribbled a couple of extra lines of white lies on the paper, folding it and headed towards the Owlery in the break between his early classes.
A clammy morning mist mixed with the rising sun gave the Scottish Highlands a peculiar cold-spiked warmth, both chilling and heating to the bones, as he trekked across the muddy path to the West Tower. Reaching it, he ducked his head as he quickly passed the two Aurors who stood guard outside of it. They shot him rigid, slitted stares as he did, but said nothing.
Taking the stairs two steps at the time, he came to the upper attic of the windswept tower; empty except for its winged inhabitants perched among the ceiling constructions or flying to and fro. He called for Sable and the rare black barn owl immediately descended from its post to land on his extended arm in a flutter of wings. Briefly nuzzling its feathered head in greeting, he fed it some snacks, attached the letter to its leg and went over to the large, unbarred window fazing south.
"It's going to be a long trip as usual, old friend, but you'll have the warmth of the destination to look forward to." I wish I could go with you.
The owl hooted appreciatively in response, basking its wings in ready anticipation. The corner of his lips curved upwards and he was just about to extend his arm out the window when he heard quick, light footsteps on the stairs behind him.
Turning his head, he saw none other than the Weasley girl coming up the top of the stairs to the attic floor.
She immediately spotted his tall form standing by the window as well and stopped short, momentarily as stunned by his presence as he was by hers.
How was it possible that they constantly ran into each at the most random, inconvenient of times and in the most random of places?!
He had been so careful to avoid her in the first days following their last interaction, though sharing the same space could not be totally prevented during the meals in the Great Hall and the fact that they had a couple of classes and Prefect meetings together. She had been of the same mind, it seemed. Every time they'd been in the same room, they steered to the opposite ends of it and studiously ignored each other's presence, acting as if they were as indifferent towards each other as they had always been. Not entirely true, though, and especially not now. Luckily, their shared duty of Quidditch introduction to the First Years had been postponed until further notice given the rogue Dementor, so he had not to worry about that, at least. That would have been awkward, indeed.
Though, why he dodged her, he wasn't entirely sure. He could sense her desperate need to evade awkwardness as well, but that should only give him leverage and delight to make her squirm under his gaze if he cornered her at the right time and the right place, throwing the facts of her obvious attraction back in her face for everyone to see.
Shouldn't it?
It used to matter. Hell, it had been his daily fuel when it came to girls; the little power displays of taking and discarding as he pleased, not caring one bit, only to have them moaning and sighing in his presence, beguile them, tease them, drop them, pin them with his gaze, his–
Well, it had been a right thrill back then, he'd say that much. However, it seemed a lifetime ago; what he used to feel about those particular little dramas did not hold much thrill any longer.
And... all that – all that faded in comparison to the intensity from the second their eyes met again; their last encounter ripped open and enfolding in blazing ripples between them. Like a punch in the gut; an all too empty stomach and all too beating heart. He felt his mouth go dry.
The pregnant silence that stretched in the rounded tower attic was only punctured by the soft hoots and flaps of wings above them.
Finally, she jarred her flustered face to the side and called out sharply "Achilles!" into the room, clearing her throat, and only then managed to tear her eyes from him. He blinked and watched in surprise as another barn owl, this one golden-white, flew down from above and landed on the girl's outstretched arm. She gave it a small smile and petted its feathers fondly, feeding it some nibbles she had brought with her. Briefly shooting Blaise a heedful look, she pressed her lips into a firm line and quietly set to attach her letter to the patient owl.
Blaise stood stock-still, staring at her concentrated mouth as he recalled just how close he had been that 'fatal' night to those gasping, questioning lips. So close. Breathing in her warm, sweet scent with undertones of grass and rain, of waxed broomsticks and worn leather that he distinctly coined with Quidditch. And something indecipherable her.
His stomach clenched. Registering the tumble of heat there, he vehemently tried to smother it as his eyes tracked her now wary approach to where he stood, both with owl on arm. Gulping, he took in her damp appearance as she drew nearer. The mist had turned her straight ginger hair dark-auburn, now clinging lightly to her face, drops of moist sliding down her freckled temples. The usually bright whiskey-colored eyes, he noted, had a queer dull shadow to them as they continued to dart him equally curious looks.
I wonder why she is sad, he found himself remarking before viciously clamping down on the thought and schooling his features, mortified by his sudden sappiness.
"Um... Hi," she said timidly, almost shyly (the Weaslette? Shy!?), placing herself at the other end of the south-fazed window opposite him.
"Hi." He stumbled briskly over the word before he could stop himself. Hi. Hi?! Why can't I come up with something more intelligibly myself? He clenched his jaw in consternation.
Diverting her attention from him, she swallowed visibly and busied herself with stroking the back of her owl and gazing out the window to the scenery stretching before them.
For a moment, they both just watched the mist slowly evaporating from the landscape as the sun rose; their owls quietly moving about on their arms, hooting and flapping their wings in pleasure of being petted and fed every now and then. The sustained silence felt neither relaxing nor uncomfortable and before Blaise had settled on an emotion, Ginny's hesitant, yet curious voice broke the silence.
"What's her name?"
His gaze flashed back to her, seeing her gesturing to his owl. How could she know it was a she?
"Er, Sable," he answered dumbly and was ready to smack himself for sounding so moronic.
Ginny didn't seem to notice his internal scolding however; she had her eyes trained on the bird perched on his lean arm, a small smile softening her features.
"She's beautiful."
Her eyes took the briefest of dips down to the letter attached to Sable, so brief he was unsure whether he'd seen it – and the odd shift in them – or not.
He followed her gaze and readily agreed, finding himself returning the sentiment in earnest. "So is yours."
Her smile grew slightly wider as her eyes turned back to the owl on her arm. "Yes, he is, isn't he?" she replied with fondness in her voice, lightly stroking the bushy trail of white feathers between its eyes. Another cooing hoot evoked a low titter from her.
His eyes inevitably drew from her down-turned face to the letter attached to the owl's leg. He caught the name on it and pointedly looked away again.
It wasn't his business who she was writing to, and why did it matter anyhow? It wasn't like it was going to answer the roaming questions in his head about the Carrows. She probably just missed her brother, that's all. Wanted to know how he was doing. It didn't have to have anything to do with the sombre expression in her eyes. Whatever she wrote to him; confided to him, it was private.
It wasn't his business.
Then why was this pressing and pulling sensation against his breast dangerously close to what one would call a shred of concern?
Swallowing thickly, he felt the urgent need to bolt and unconsciously shifted his feet, catching her attention with a puzzled frown on her face.
Bugger. He didn't fidget. She had noticed something was off.
He needed to get out of there.
"Um, I better get back. Prefect duties and all this shite, you know?" he inelegantly excused himself with a gruff voice, giving his owl one last pat and impatiently motioned for it fly. It did so with a hoot; soaring out through the window and into the morning air, but he didn't stick around to watch it go. He had already spun on his heels and stalked across the attic before Ginny had managed to fully register his departure, quickly scurrying down the flight of stairs and tried to ignore the two Aurors staring holes in the back of his head as he trudged resolutely back towards the castle.
With each hard step on the muddied ground and ragged rock, he tried to stomp down each feeling and thought connected to the redhead in the tower behind him, and with each hard step, every feeling and thought seemed only magnified, eluding him even further.
It was pointless.
Utterly pointless.