FIC: The Sophisticated Descent (Blaise/Ginny)
Title: The Sophisticated Descent
Character(s): Blaise Zabini/Ginny Weasley
Prompt: The Last Dinner
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 666
Summary: Blaise felt distantly shamed that the redhead could drink him under the table, as he was watching the walls blur and she was watching him watch them fade and sink into the filmy shadows of the room...
Author's Notes: Fourth of seven.
Blaise had found the much-needed confirmation that he’d chosen the right side.
Muggles obviously had something right, he decided, his thumb slipping against the thick glass of the Smirnoff bottle. Yes, old Voldemort couldn’t be allowed to win if it meant destroying lovely things like this.
“I think you’ve had enough,” Ginny said wryly, though she was watching him with a grim amusement. Blaise felt distantly shamed that the redhead could drink him under the table, as he was watching the walls blur and she was watching him watch them fade and sink into the filmy shadows of the room.
“Might as well have more than enough,” Blaise muttered, “Celebrate leaving this nightmare.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Ginny agreed, clinking her bottle against his, with an odd, relieved smile.
“’Course, we’re being pushed out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Blaise continued, a petulant edge to his voice. He was tempted to continue the conversation they’d finished a few hours ago, a tense, short talk which had gone like so:
“A kamikaze mission, I’m honoured.”
“It’s not suicidal.”
“Fine, it’s pointless.”
“It’s important.”
“Why?”
“It’ll help the Order.”
“To do what?”
“Win this war.”
“What happens if we win?”
“…look, do you want this assignment or not?”
Blaise idly stared as a gleaming spider scuttled around the corners of the ceiling, looking like a tangle of ink flying around the battered ceilings. That screeching about this house being ‘the most ancient’ was more than believable.
Not suicidal. It wasn’t suicidal at all to be sent to hunt out what Blaise knew was an absurdly dark artifact. He was sorely disappointed in this mess of do-gooders. The Order of the Phoenix was lucky its reputation was so intimidating.
He looked back at Ginny, who looked as strained as he felt. Her skin was horrendously pale, making the freckles vivid, and her blinding ringlets tumbled over her shoulders in a chaotic way. She had donned a frayed cotton nightgown, obviously a hand-me-down too big, as the neck was baring her shoulder, which Blaise noted bore an odd scar.
He thought she looked much too young to be about to embark on a (suicidal!) mission against one of the biggest lunatics of their time.
“What happens if we win?” Blaise asked her quietly, curiously.
“Well, first we go to a lot of fancy banquets and whatnot, and find it all disgusting,” Ginny teased, “Then we’ll all drift into our own lovely sanctuaries, worry-free.”
Her eyes had fluttered closed while she spoke, and Blaise frowned.
“You can’t really believe that,” Blaise chided her, “There’ll always be worries.”
“I know that,” Ginny shrieked, suddenly flushed with rage, “Don’t you think I know that? Know that we’re not going to come out of this war in one piece, Blaise? We’re suffocating in this madhouse, and we are never going to get our happily ever after no matter what happens next, Blaise, I know. This is pointless because we will never be foolish enough to survive, I know that, damn it all.”
Even through his vodka-induced haze, Blaise saw Ginny trembling, petite fists clenched, despair manifesting like hot smoke and shadow through her.
“Blaise,” she murmured, tumbling onto her knees before him, “I know I don’t want to know anymore.”
Ginny threw the last of the tangy drink over parched lips and slammed her mouth against his, tasting acid and stifled formality, wrapping her wrists over his neck, her spine clacking against the ancient floor as their bodies tip over, his ankles sharp against her slipping elbows, limbs like a flurry of new paucity, and an excruciating, exquisite fervor pillowing between them.
Character(s): Blaise Zabini/Ginny Weasley
Prompt: The Last Dinner
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 666
Summary: Blaise felt distantly shamed that the redhead could drink him under the table, as he was watching the walls blur and she was watching him watch them fade and sink into the filmy shadows of the room...
Author's Notes: Fourth of seven.
Blaise had found the much-needed confirmation that he’d chosen the right side.
Muggles obviously had something right, he decided, his thumb slipping against the thick glass of the Smirnoff bottle. Yes, old Voldemort couldn’t be allowed to win if it meant destroying lovely things like this.
“I think you’ve had enough,” Ginny said wryly, though she was watching him with a grim amusement. Blaise felt distantly shamed that the redhead could drink him under the table, as he was watching the walls blur and she was watching him watch them fade and sink into the filmy shadows of the room.
“Might as well have more than enough,” Blaise muttered, “Celebrate leaving this nightmare.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Ginny agreed, clinking her bottle against his, with an odd, relieved smile.
“’Course, we’re being pushed out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Blaise continued, a petulant edge to his voice. He was tempted to continue the conversation they’d finished a few hours ago, a tense, short talk which had gone like so:
“A kamikaze mission, I’m honoured.”
“It’s not suicidal.”
“Fine, it’s pointless.”
“It’s important.”
“Why?”
“It’ll help the Order.”
“To do what?”
“Win this war.”
“What happens if we win?”
“…look, do you want this assignment or not?”
Blaise idly stared as a gleaming spider scuttled around the corners of the ceiling, looking like a tangle of ink flying around the battered ceilings. That screeching about this house being ‘the most ancient’ was more than believable.
Not suicidal. It wasn’t suicidal at all to be sent to hunt out what Blaise knew was an absurdly dark artifact. He was sorely disappointed in this mess of do-gooders. The Order of the Phoenix was lucky its reputation was so intimidating.
He looked back at Ginny, who looked as strained as he felt. Her skin was horrendously pale, making the freckles vivid, and her blinding ringlets tumbled over her shoulders in a chaotic way. She had donned a frayed cotton nightgown, obviously a hand-me-down too big, as the neck was baring her shoulder, which Blaise noted bore an odd scar.
He thought she looked much too young to be about to embark on a (suicidal!) mission against one of the biggest lunatics of their time.
“What happens if we win?” Blaise asked her quietly, curiously.
“Well, first we go to a lot of fancy banquets and whatnot, and find it all disgusting,” Ginny teased, “Then we’ll all drift into our own lovely sanctuaries, worry-free.”
Her eyes had fluttered closed while she spoke, and Blaise frowned.
“You can’t really believe that,” Blaise chided her, “There’ll always be worries.”
“I know that,” Ginny shrieked, suddenly flushed with rage, “Don’t you think I know that? Know that we’re not going to come out of this war in one piece, Blaise? We’re suffocating in this madhouse, and we are never going to get our happily ever after no matter what happens next, Blaise, I know. This is pointless because we will never be foolish enough to survive, I know that, damn it all.”
Even through his vodka-induced haze, Blaise saw Ginny trembling, petite fists clenched, despair manifesting like hot smoke and shadow through her.
“Blaise,” she murmured, tumbling onto her knees before him, “I know I don’t want to know anymore.”
Ginny threw the last of the tangy drink over parched lips and slammed her mouth against his, tasting acid and stifled formality, wrapping her wrists over his neck, her spine clacking against the ancient floor as their bodies tip over, his ankles sharp against her slipping elbows, limbs like a flurry of new paucity, and an excruciating, exquisite fervor pillowing between them.