FIC: Satin Restlessness (Blaise/Ginny)
Title: Satin Restlessness
Character(s): Blaise Zabini/Ginny Weasley
Prompt: Ribbons
Rating: G
Word Count: 629
Summary: Blaise dreamed of Voldemort and the walls of Grimmauld Place burning with streams of infinite green, the same soft, petulant green of the ribbon strung above her collarbone just so...
Author's Notes: Second of seven.
Ginny walked like a woman with secrets, as if every footfall was to cover some past shame. He recognized her careful, somehow intimidating gait because his mother had walked the same way.
What are you hiding? Blaise longed to ask.
His first morning at Grimmauld Place he had sat in the kitchen, subtly examining every corner of the eerie
Ginny Weasley, a cautious fifth-year with more tact than half the Order and her family’s garish hair.
Truth be told, her tatty tresses were plaited in the same intricate way his mother’s had been. She was a reminder of the past, and he hated it. Hated her for it.
Ginny Weasley, Blaise had found, was as restless as he was. It was the ribbons that proved it. There were bright, different hues, and seemed even more vivid in the dim, odd lighting of the crumbling house. Satin strips wound through her braid, tied in elaborate knots at her neck, a pretty, simple necklace. Of course, Ginny appeared to be as simple, but Blaise saw something more complex within her, a coiling of something.
He knew she had somehow unleashed the legendary ‘Monster of Slytherin’ in his second year; Draco Malfoy couldn’t keep a secret, and most definitely not with the chance to brag about his father. He wondered what it indicated, an eleven-year-old somehow letting loose something so distinctly dark-there had been speculation in the hiss of Slytherin’s dorms, of course: was Ginny simply a lonely, pathetic maniac? Was she a powerful dark sorceress, trying for power?
Essentially the same rumors that had flown about when Potter had been thought to be The Heir. Apparently Slytherin had all the ambition without the innovation.
Whatever had happened, a girl this obviously determined-or deranged, perhaps? They hardly spoke two words to each other, after all-was something to consider, Blaise thought. Not the average Weasley.
Blaise considered this as they sat down to dinner. He observed her, and everyone who he encountered in this strange Headquarters, out of sheer boredom and Slytherin instinct. Observation is information is always useful.
The ribbons were tiny bits of color, and Blaise longed to see how they would shine in sunlight not filtered through the dusty windows. He knew she was going as stir-crazy as he was; Ginny, too, casts longing glances at the doors, the windows, the salad, wistfully. He was trapped, and Blaise was near ready to ask Ginny, the only other one confined (willingly, as Molly Weasley enjoyed running the house) to Headquarters. Forget danger at the hand of Voldemort, boredom would kill him before anything else here.
At dinner, Blaise popped sweet peas into his mouth as Ginny argued fiercely with her mother over his head. He listened as she raged about ‘house-arrest’ and being ‘stuck, helpless, and ready to jump ship’ curiously, unimpressed, though it was nice to know he wasn’t alone.
Letting the screaming match whir in the background, Blaise can’t help but be fascinated by the strip of cloth intense against skin that was paler everyday, though Blaise didn’t know if that was from lack of sunlight or the sheer feeling of uselessness, and he feels the urge to reach out.
To reach out and touch the satin, loose loop at the nape of her neck, gleaming in the candlelight like a hangman’s rope (Blaise dreamed of Voldemort and the walls of Grimmauld Place burning with streams of infinite green, the same soft, petulant green of the ribbon strung above her collarbone just so), black and deceptively subtle against milky skin, freckles peeking even there, everywhere, like the light will be-
Blaise wrapped his fingers coolly around the stem of a tarnished goblet and looked away when Ginny’s fingers toyed with the frayed edges of the ribbon.
Character(s): Blaise Zabini/Ginny Weasley
Prompt: Ribbons
Rating: G
Word Count: 629
Summary: Blaise dreamed of Voldemort and the walls of Grimmauld Place burning with streams of infinite green, the same soft, petulant green of the ribbon strung above her collarbone just so...
Author's Notes: Second of seven.
Ginny walked like a woman with secrets, as if every footfall was to cover some past shame. He recognized her careful, somehow intimidating gait because his mother had walked the same way.
What are you hiding? Blaise longed to ask.
His first morning at Grimmauld Place he had sat in the kitchen, subtly examining every corner of the eerie
Ginny Weasley, a cautious fifth-year with more tact than half the Order and her family’s garish hair.
Truth be told, her tatty tresses were plaited in the same intricate way his mother’s had been. She was a reminder of the past, and he hated it. Hated her for it.
Ginny Weasley, Blaise had found, was as restless as he was. It was the ribbons that proved it. There were bright, different hues, and seemed even more vivid in the dim, odd lighting of the crumbling house. Satin strips wound through her braid, tied in elaborate knots at her neck, a pretty, simple necklace. Of course, Ginny appeared to be as simple, but Blaise saw something more complex within her, a coiling of something.
He knew she had somehow unleashed the legendary ‘Monster of Slytherin’ in his second year; Draco Malfoy couldn’t keep a secret, and most definitely not with the chance to brag about his father. He wondered what it indicated, an eleven-year-old somehow letting loose something so distinctly dark-there had been speculation in the hiss of Slytherin’s dorms, of course: was Ginny simply a lonely, pathetic maniac? Was she a powerful dark sorceress, trying for power?
Essentially the same rumors that had flown about when Potter had been thought to be The Heir. Apparently Slytherin had all the ambition without the innovation.
Whatever had happened, a girl this obviously determined-or deranged, perhaps? They hardly spoke two words to each other, after all-was something to consider, Blaise thought. Not the average Weasley.
Blaise considered this as they sat down to dinner. He observed her, and everyone who he encountered in this strange Headquarters, out of sheer boredom and Slytherin instinct. Observation is information is always useful.
The ribbons were tiny bits of color, and Blaise longed to see how they would shine in sunlight not filtered through the dusty windows. He knew she was going as stir-crazy as he was; Ginny, too, casts longing glances at the doors, the windows, the salad, wistfully. He was trapped, and Blaise was near ready to ask Ginny, the only other one confined (willingly, as Molly Weasley enjoyed running the house) to Headquarters. Forget danger at the hand of Voldemort, boredom would kill him before anything else here.
At dinner, Blaise popped sweet peas into his mouth as Ginny argued fiercely with her mother over his head. He listened as she raged about ‘house-arrest’ and being ‘stuck, helpless, and ready to jump ship’ curiously, unimpressed, though it was nice to know he wasn’t alone.
Letting the screaming match whir in the background, Blaise can’t help but be fascinated by the strip of cloth intense against skin that was paler everyday, though Blaise didn’t know if that was from lack of sunlight or the sheer feeling of uselessness, and he feels the urge to reach out.
To reach out and touch the satin, loose loop at the nape of her neck, gleaming in the candlelight like a hangman’s rope (Blaise dreamed of Voldemort and the walls of Grimmauld Place burning with streams of infinite green, the same soft, petulant green of the ribbon strung above her collarbone just so), black and deceptively subtle against milky skin, freckles peeking even there, everywhere, like the light will be-
Blaise wrapped his fingers coolly around the stem of a tarnished goblet and looked away when Ginny’s fingers toyed with the frayed edges of the ribbon.