FIC: The Importance of Being Untitled (Blaise/Ginny)
Title: The Importance of Being Untitled
Character(s): Blaise Zabini/Ginny Weasley
Prompt: Electric Shock
Rating: G
Word Count: 490
Summary: Myriads of hexes, months of adrenaline streaming through her veins, nightmares of shadows wringing air, but never was she ready for this...
Author's Notes: Fifth of seven. A bit more experimental.
The thing about war, she muses, is that you never are prepared.
Tangles of hexes, months of adrenaline streaming through her veins, nightmares of shadows wringing air, but never was she ready for this.
Ready to forget.
Displacement, she thinks, is a weapon of more grandeur than anything. Intricate, complex displacement.
She thinks about a muggle-what’s a muggle?-story she read, once, where a soft little girl darted through a forest with a faun, where neither could remember their names, and once the path left the forest, the faun shrieked, finding its companion to be identifiable as a young girl and darted away.
She reckons this other one with her is the faun, and she’s tempted to wrap her arms about the supple muscles of his neck as the young girl did to the faun.
It’s odd, that she falls in and out of knowing. And even when she remembers something about war, all she knows is she knows not of it.
She looks at the boy again. He is taller than her by a head, with buttery skin and scars criss-crossing about him, thick-lashed eyes and a tatty look to him.
The canopy of murky leaves is spread over them like midnight, dusty light seeping through, proving the sun is rising and setting somewhere too far away. She feels as if this ought to intimidate her, as if it means weeks are falling away when she ought to grab at them, but she can’t really remember.
So, with the only clear world she remembers, she wraps her milky arms over his shoulders, and he is unperturbed. She wonders why her heartstrings quiver intensely at this, excruciatingly, agony and bliss fusing and blurring.
There is no sound here. She wonders if perhaps she simply has no way of hearing anymore, but footfalls give no noise, neither of them can speak-what is there to say?-and so it doesn’t truly matter if there’s no sound.
But even so, she runs a dry thumb over the velvety curve of his earlobe, raking her nails against his jawline, almost wanting to trace the scars upon his cheek, reawaken sound and heat in this glass globe of silhouettes of silhouettes.
Light pours in, from every direction, as the trees shrink into the edges of Somewhere Else, where the forest is behind and defined, and Ginny staggers as memory and severe knowledge nearly throttle her, an electric shock of realignment.
‘I’m a witch!’ she cries, grinning, ‘And, dear me, you’re a wizard boy!’
Blaise blinks and embraces her, as tension and rusty words swell from them, as Ginny squints into the sky and remembers that those were elbows she was watching, why she is here, emerging from vulnerability exposed.
And suddenly she frowns, wishing she was back, back in the darkness where there is only Blaise and nothing else.
A/N: bonus points to anyone who recognized the muggle story as Through the Looking-Glass.
Character(s): Blaise Zabini/Ginny Weasley
Prompt: Electric Shock
Rating: G
Word Count: 490
Summary: Myriads of hexes, months of adrenaline streaming through her veins, nightmares of shadows wringing air, but never was she ready for this...
Author's Notes: Fifth of seven. A bit more experimental.
The thing about war, she muses, is that you never are prepared.
Tangles of hexes, months of adrenaline streaming through her veins, nightmares of shadows wringing air, but never was she ready for this.
Ready to forget.
Displacement, she thinks, is a weapon of more grandeur than anything. Intricate, complex displacement.
She thinks about a muggle-what’s a muggle?-story she read, once, where a soft little girl darted through a forest with a faun, where neither could remember their names, and once the path left the forest, the faun shrieked, finding its companion to be identifiable as a young girl and darted away.
She reckons this other one with her is the faun, and she’s tempted to wrap her arms about the supple muscles of his neck as the young girl did to the faun.
It’s odd, that she falls in and out of knowing. And even when she remembers something about war, all she knows is she knows not of it.
She looks at the boy again. He is taller than her by a head, with buttery skin and scars criss-crossing about him, thick-lashed eyes and a tatty look to him.
The canopy of murky leaves is spread over them like midnight, dusty light seeping through, proving the sun is rising and setting somewhere too far away. She feels as if this ought to intimidate her, as if it means weeks are falling away when she ought to grab at them, but she can’t really remember.
So, with the only clear world she remembers, she wraps her milky arms over his shoulders, and he is unperturbed. She wonders why her heartstrings quiver intensely at this, excruciatingly, agony and bliss fusing and blurring.
There is no sound here. She wonders if perhaps she simply has no way of hearing anymore, but footfalls give no noise, neither of them can speak-what is there to say?-and so it doesn’t truly matter if there’s no sound.
But even so, she runs a dry thumb over the velvety curve of his earlobe, raking her nails against his jawline, almost wanting to trace the scars upon his cheek, reawaken sound and heat in this glass globe of silhouettes of silhouettes.
Light pours in, from every direction, as the trees shrink into the edges of Somewhere Else, where the forest is behind and defined, and Ginny staggers as memory and severe knowledge nearly throttle her, an electric shock of realignment.
‘I’m a witch!’ she cries, grinning, ‘And, dear me, you’re a wizard boy!’
Blaise blinks and embraces her, as tension and rusty words swell from them, as Ginny squints into the sky and remembers that those were elbows she was watching, why she is here, emerging from vulnerability exposed.
And suddenly she frowns, wishing she was back, back in the darkness where there is only Blaise and nothing else.
A/N: bonus points to anyone who recognized the muggle story as Through the Looking-Glass.