FIC: Scrutiny (Blaise/Ginny)
Title: Scrutiny
Character(s): Blaise Zabini/Ginny Weasley
Prompt: Concentric Ceilings
Rating: G
Word Count: 568
Summary: The tangles of writhing shadow would weave upwards, as if lacing the inside of a pyramid...
Author's Notes: First of seven.
If you stared at the floorboards long enough, Ginny was fairly sure, they shifted, ever-so-slightly. As she watched the shadows writhed, squirming between maple planks.
It was soothing, in a way, for Grimmauld Place was a jumble of eerie, sinister magic. Ginny would never have admitted it, but there was a part of her which felt a bit too comfortable around the Dark Magic.
Even she wasn’t fool enough to think she’d be a Death Eater-the thought of Tom made her murderous, and she dreamed of Harry’s victory-but Ginny had tasted a bit of Dark Magic at eleven, and it had left her curious.
It was strange, being at Grimmauld Place again. Surreal, really. Two summers ago her whole family had been there, and Harry and Hermione had arrived, as well as Lupin, Tonks, and numerous others.
And Sirius.
Ginny rolled over in her bed, immensely glad that she didn’t have Sirius’ room. Of course, being trapped in his house, somehow under Dumbledore’s protection still, plucked her heartstrings violently. Blaise Zabini, strangely enough, had been assigned to Sirius’ room.
Zabini’s presence made the summer even stranger. One thing at Order Headquarters remained the same: Ginny was not to receive much, or any, she felt, information. Zabini was suddenly at the table one morning when Ginny stumbled down to breakfast, and though she managed to hear whispers of ‘turning from the Dark Lord’ and ‘fortune’ she wasn’t too sure what the boy was doing here.
Out of sheer irritation-why, was she, again, shacked up here while the others were out saving the world?-Ginny had observed him, wanting to know Zabini’s story.
She attributed this to curiosity born of sheer boredom, of course.
The first time Ginny could remember even seeing Zabini was at Slughorn’s dreadful lunch on the train, at the beginning of her fifth year, and she’d caught glimpses of him at the parties which followed. She blinked, suddenly realizing she was a sixth-year, while astounded at how long ago that train ride seemed.
Would there be another train ride to school?
If you stared at the walls long enough, they seemed to quake, shrinking, darting, growing and closing in.
Ginny sighed. It seemed petulant, almost, to desperately miss the soft smoke of the Hogwarts Express when war was erupting around her, but she couldn’t quite discard the thought. Ginny blinked, distracted, and brought her mind back to Zabini.
They’d spoken once, and the conversation hadn’t been informative, Ginny thought with a frown, considering it had consisted of three words, two of them hers.
“Salt, please?”
“Here.”
Zabini was no chatterbox, but Ginny suspected six years in Slytherin-and an upbringing at the hands of possible Death Eaters-infused one with a certain caution.
She didn’t know much about him, really. He was in Slytherin. His mother was notorious for attracting successful men with an odd tendency to die young. His skin was supple but for a thin, jagged scar that ran from his jaw to the edge of his eyelid.
And sometimes she caught him scrutinizing her the way she did him, and Ginny was always first to look away.
If you stared at the ceiling long enough, Ginny was sure, the tangles of writhing shadow would weave upwards, as if lacing the inside of a pyramid, of concentric ceilings that rose far, far into the night, from the most surreal house in London.
Character(s): Blaise Zabini/Ginny Weasley
Prompt: Concentric Ceilings
Rating: G
Word Count: 568
Summary: The tangles of writhing shadow would weave upwards, as if lacing the inside of a pyramid...
Author's Notes: First of seven.
If you stared at the floorboards long enough, Ginny was fairly sure, they shifted, ever-so-slightly. As she watched the shadows writhed, squirming between maple planks.
It was soothing, in a way, for Grimmauld Place was a jumble of eerie, sinister magic. Ginny would never have admitted it, but there was a part of her which felt a bit too comfortable around the Dark Magic.
Even she wasn’t fool enough to think she’d be a Death Eater-the thought of Tom made her murderous, and she dreamed of Harry’s victory-but Ginny had tasted a bit of Dark Magic at eleven, and it had left her curious.
It was strange, being at Grimmauld Place again. Surreal, really. Two summers ago her whole family had been there, and Harry and Hermione had arrived, as well as Lupin, Tonks, and numerous others.
And Sirius.
Ginny rolled over in her bed, immensely glad that she didn’t have Sirius’ room. Of course, being trapped in his house, somehow under Dumbledore’s protection still, plucked her heartstrings violently. Blaise Zabini, strangely enough, had been assigned to Sirius’ room.
Zabini’s presence made the summer even stranger. One thing at Order Headquarters remained the same: Ginny was not to receive much, or any, she felt, information. Zabini was suddenly at the table one morning when Ginny stumbled down to breakfast, and though she managed to hear whispers of ‘turning from the Dark Lord’ and ‘fortune’ she wasn’t too sure what the boy was doing here.
Out of sheer irritation-why, was she, again, shacked up here while the others were out saving the world?-Ginny had observed him, wanting to know Zabini’s story.
She attributed this to curiosity born of sheer boredom, of course.
The first time Ginny could remember even seeing Zabini was at Slughorn’s dreadful lunch on the train, at the beginning of her fifth year, and she’d caught glimpses of him at the parties which followed. She blinked, suddenly realizing she was a sixth-year, while astounded at how long ago that train ride seemed.
Would there be another train ride to school?
If you stared at the walls long enough, they seemed to quake, shrinking, darting, growing and closing in.
Ginny sighed. It seemed petulant, almost, to desperately miss the soft smoke of the Hogwarts Express when war was erupting around her, but she couldn’t quite discard the thought. Ginny blinked, distracted, and brought her mind back to Zabini.
They’d spoken once, and the conversation hadn’t been informative, Ginny thought with a frown, considering it had consisted of three words, two of them hers.
“Salt, please?”
“Here.”
Zabini was no chatterbox, but Ginny suspected six years in Slytherin-and an upbringing at the hands of possible Death Eaters-infused one with a certain caution.
She didn’t know much about him, really. He was in Slytherin. His mother was notorious for attracting successful men with an odd tendency to die young. His skin was supple but for a thin, jagged scar that ran from his jaw to the edge of his eyelid.
And sometimes she caught him scrutinizing her the way she did him, and Ginny was always first to look away.
If you stared at the ceiling long enough, Ginny was sure, the tangles of writhing shadow would weave upwards, as if lacing the inside of a pyramid, of concentric ceilings that rose far, far into the night, from the most surreal house in London.