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christmasspirit31 December, 1998. Sadly yet another all too typical evening in the castle for Blaise. Lavender, on the other hand, is finally beginning to enjoy herself again.
Or: how other things began.
Let's face it, this is a full blown story now. Written with oodles of love formywitch.
Originally Published: 2021-03-05 on LJ / DW
Words: 9.7 k
Rating: Mature
Characters: Lavender Brown (8G), Blaise Zabini (8S), the Bloody Baron (Slytherin's House Ghost), Edgar Martins (7R, Prefect), misc 6th & 7th year Ravenclaws, Mentioned: Professor McGonagall (Headmistress), Hermione Granger (Transfiguration Apprentice, Lavender's erstwhile roommate), Neville Longbottom (Herbology Apprentice, Gryffindor Head of House), Parvati "'Vati" Patil (8G, Lavender's best friend and roommate), Fay Dunbar (8G, Lavender's roommate), Georgina Smith (8G, Lavender's roommate), Padma Patil (8R, Prefect, Lavender's friend), Seamus Finnigan (8G, long time friend of Lavender's), Dean Thomas (8G, Seamus' best friend), Hestia Carrow (7S, Chaser), Valerie 'Val' Vaisey (7S, Chaser)
01 September. "her (eighth) first day of school". (LJ / DW) Lavender has been struggling to come to terms with what she views as her disfigurement from Greyback's attack during the Battle of Hogwarts. She runs into Ron, who is able to reassure her somewhat. That chance meeting changes some things for both of them. (The culmination of those changes was revealed in "christmas spirit".)
24 December. "christmas spirit". (LJ / DW) Ron is discovered to be cheating on Lav. He's (wrongfully) accused of setting off a massive package of Weasleys' Whizzbangs in the school corridors, given detention and removed from the Gryffindor Quidditch team. More accurately, he was with Lav at the time of the incident, a fact she (somewhat understandably) neglects to mention in light of the news he'd been stepping out.
24 December. "christmas spirit". (LJ / DW) Headmistress McGonagall arranges a talk between the Bloody Baron and the Grey Lady. In return, she asks him to suggest in a roundabout fashion to both Lavender and Demelza that they could do better than a cheating Weasel.
30 December. "life goes on" (a couple of castle encounters part 1). (LJ / DW) Blaise ever so cleverly gives himself a bloody nose while Lav inopportunely laughs. While it wasn't exactly deliberate, she totally gets that the response was perhaps suboptimal, particularly as he'd been fairly decent.
30 December. "life goes on" (a couple of castle encounters part 1). (LJ / DW) At Headmistress McGonagall's behest, or so he took it, the Bloody Baron gives Lavender something of a literally lifeless pep talk on the subject of dating and appealing traits in suitors, and for lack of familiarity with the topic or the least bit of personal inspiration (to be fair, he hasn't courted in a millennium), proceeds to model it on the nearest wizard, an unsuspecting Blaise Zabini.
Lav is incredibly pleased with herself. Sure, she's not entirely looking forward to midnight, why would she? Increasingly people seem to be pairing off, and, yes, she's been avoiding the sight of Ron snogging Demelza as best she can. Now that it's out in the open, he's been just as flagrant about it as she'd ever feared. Hmm. But! Her research had been exceedingly productive, a few books from the Restricted Section fetched early this morning and a day spent curled up with them in bed - so much better than chilly, lonely alcoves - and she's found more information on the class of Healing Glamours, so promising, and even discovered a modifier that would make the charm she was so fond of using work for Zabini while she was about it. That seemed rather a better apology for her laughter than her clumsy words had been. At least she hopes so; Slytherins don't always see things the way she thinks they should.
Still.
Some of the Baron's whispered words of wisdom had served as inspiration - he'd seemed quite keen on manners, oddly enough - and she's feeling... invigorated, really, eager to show she can be just as considerate and - how had the ghost put it? - demand that others treat her in much the same fashion. 'A witch owes herself that, if nothing else.'
On reflection, she rather has to agree.
She's on her way to the Ravenclaw tower, where 'Vati had invited her to join Padma and a few friends to ring in the new year. There were so many Slytherins staying in the castle over the hols, people hadn't felt much like celebrating in the Great Hall with them as they'd done in years past, and most had withdrawn to their dorms for the festivities, the occasional friend from another House, such as 'Vati and herself, rounding out their numbers.
The bottle of Ogden's Firewhisky, a very nice Christmas gift from Seamus, shifts in her bag, pulling rather heavily on her shoulder, and she adjusts the strap. Thinking about it now, the timing of that present was sort of suspicious. It hadn't been there first thing with the other pressies, and she's beginning to think someone - probably Dean - had owled him about the blow out with Ron the evening before. Seamus has always been good to her like that. Which, she supposes, is yet another example of what the Baron had been saying. Decency. It's woefully undervalued.
Well, she's undervalued it. Possibly because she isn't always all that decent herself... Hmm. Well in her defence there was a lot to be said for an enticing smile, both on the having and receiving ends. Still. The ghost was quite right, that didn't mean one couldn't also treat people at least fairly. And the piece of parchment in her bag with the charm for Zabini feels like a nice start on her own decency front. Tomorrow is the beginning of a new year, and she means to make a fresh start.
Shouts in the corridor ahead of her quash those thoughts of a rosy future. The severity of the wounds Greyback had inflicted on her during the Battle of Hogwarts aren't limited to her body, her nerves had taken a hit as well. Her wand is in hand before she draws another breath, the reflex that honed. She hasn't decided whether she should run for help, or safety, or even towards the noise - although that last seems the least advisable of her options - when the Baron appears beside her.
"Miss Brown, the very witch. We could do with your assistance..." He whispers, and without waiting for a reply, turns back to float towards the cries.
Which leaves her blinking nervously after him.
Maybe she trusts him a little more after their conversation yesterday, or at least respects his judgment more. Or maybe the fact he knows her name has her hoping he has at least a passing acquaintance with her skills. Or just possibly it's the fact he seems to have faith in her that has her now following him around the next corner, wand ever so tightly gripped in a white-knuckled hand...
She hasn't a clue what she was expecting, but the sight before her seems almost anticlimactic, which says both something about how raw her nerves are, and how little of the abuse she's seeing applied to the Slytherin pressed against the wall in front of her she's had to deal with herself. Really, since the term began, none at all. No one would dare hex one of the 'defenders of the castle'.
Zabini, on the other hand, seems fair game.
A group of sixth and seventh year Ravenclaws have him surrounded. He's obviously got a bunch of Protegos in play, but something appears to have gotten through, for his lip is split and bleeding. He seems to make a habit of that.
Split lip snarling, he's hurling insults at the boys. Not what she'd consider the smartest of tactics, bringing sarcasm to a wandfight. Men. She doesn't wait long, two particularly fierce Stinging Hexes - years of friendship with Seamus have left their mark - directed at the bottoms of the two nearest Ravenclaws pull them up short, and a rather authoritative, "That'll be enough of that," does the rest. The four of them stand there blinking at her (five, if you count Zabini), she can't help noticing with some satisfaction, and then she recognises Edgar Martins, their seventh year Prefect. Her smile may have taken on something wolfish since the attack last May, it's definitely more than a little predatory when she rounds on him, starting in about a poor showing from someone in his position. (There's admittedly a non-zero chance she's projecting some of her frustration with Ron there as well, but Martins seems more than deserving.) There's enough feeling behind it that she has the lot suitably cowed before long.
It's better that way as it saves her from having to hex them all.
With no small degree of condescension, surprising how well that works, she sends them packing, only then turning to check on Zabini. Her Tergeo removes the blood from his lips; his "thank you," with a huff of humour - this is becoming a thing - is nearly immediate.
He applies a Healing Charm, and his split lip begins to knit together. It's not quite adequate to the task, but it helps.
"They got through your Protegos?" She asks, trying to understand how the Ravenclaws had managed that. Both seventh years are in the same N.E.W.T. DADA class with them this year, and being more than passingly familiar with their work, the damage on the Slytherin doesn't make much sense to her.
"Martins' opening volley," he explains, fingering his lip carefully. Off the stream of complaints from a couple nearby suits of armour, things had gone seriously downhill from there, but clearly the Snake had gotten a Shield Charm or two in place by then.
"Shall I send for the Headmistress?" The Baron asks, recalling his presence somewhat unexpectedly.
Lavender looks to the Slytherin, awaiting his answer. It's his decision really. Blaise merely shakes his head.
Well apparently it isn't entirely his decision, because at that she has to press, "Are you sure?"
There's another faint huff of amusement, almost immediately followed by a wince that now has her convinced he's in the wrong - wizards, too, too stubborn - but he answers, "It will only escalate. They have the attention spans of doxies. Give them a day, and it will have passed." Which isn't completely true, but their focus won't be directed solely towards him. That alone should prove helpful.
"Then I must thank you, Madam, for your assistance," the ghost now whispers before performing an elaborate bow and clanking off. He'll alert the Headmistress to the damage to the armour early tomorrow morning so she can set it to rights before the Caretaker should spot it on his rounds. There's little point in upsetting the man again so soon, and it would be a poor start to the new year. Or at least the Baron thinks so... He's probably right.
"Is he always that..." Lav's finding it difficult to put 'that' into words.
Zabini smirks and then winces again, before suggesting, "Formal?"
"Formal," she nods. Yes that seems polite enough. The Slytherin's eyes, a perfectly stunning liquid brown, twinkle with amusement.
"Yes," he answers, and it occurs to her she'd asked a question. Hmm.
He's still dabbing at his lip, the damage no longer as pronounced but clearly visible as yet, and it's a shame, really, in someone so pretty, and it jogs her memory and sets her to rummaging in her bag until she finds the parchment with the charm for him. A quick review of her notes, and she performs the spell on him.
He'd trusted her to do so, always a nice change, but wasn't prepared for the effects of the charm itself. His lip feels... much improved. It's stopped the sort of throbbing burn that had accompanied Martins' hex. It's not numb, it's just... better. His fingers return to the wound, and it hasn't gone, but the feeling is decidedly more pleasant.
"It's a glamour," she explains, and then taking the parchment performs the Perception Charm to turn it into a mirror. Only afterwards does it occur to her that she hasn't used that spell since she was attacked. She holds the reflective surface up for the Slytherin to see, and he's half expecting to discover the magical equivalent of whiteface, only to see the same subtle and perfect results he'd noted of her glamour the evening before. He's more than a little impressed.
"I wouldn't have expected it to work on me, too," he admits.
She smiles. It's a pretty smile, something that reaches her eyes in a very flattering way. "I wanted to apologise for laughing yesterday. I found the modifier in one of the books I got from the library." Which might help explain why he hadn't found anything despite his best efforts this evening... He hadn't expected this studiousness of her either.
To say nothing of the willingness to go to any effort on his behalf.
But then she'd just done it again when she'd chased off the Ravenclaws, hadn't she?
He's trying to recall how often someone has put themselves out for him in recent months. Especially someone from outside their House. Hmm.
The thought is disquieting.
She casts the appropriate Finite on the improvised mirror and hands him the parchment. "But like I said, the Glamour does have healthy properties. Given time, it might just be able to heal that lip of yours, although you might want to apply some Dittany when you get a chance." Unthinking, she's been staring at his mouth too long, her hand goes up to gently touch his lip, and her fingertips can still make out the torn flesh. Startled, he blinks, and she realises what she's done, but when she goes to pull her hand away, he catches her arm and holds it in place. Ever so gently she traces over his wounded flesh.
"It doesn't hurt," he tells her, sounding surprised.
She laughs. "Do you want me to press harder?" She's utterly facetious, because that sounds like a horrible way to test his limits. Better by far for him to do that himself if he so desperately wants to know...
Blaise half takes it as a challenge, his smile rakish under her fingers. "You can try."
This time she blinks, and the moment passes. He releases her arm and she removes her fingers from his person, both sort of surprised to find themselves missing the contact when she does.
Before the silence can grow awkward, Blaise strikes up conversation, ever so casual, ever so adept. In the days before the war, he used to be considered rather good at that sort of thing. "I didn't mean to keep you." For an instant, she wonders if that's a dismissal, until he continues, "I assume you were on your way somewhere to celebrate Hogmanay." At which point the bag slung over her shoulder reasserts itself, she recollects her plans for the evening, and something else suddenly becomes clear. She's just hexed a few of the boys - the effective hosts - of the party she'd meant to attend. Hmm. Well that shouldn't be awkward in the least. Especially as she's reasonably certain those two won't be sitting any time soon. She has to suppress a giggle.
"I'm not quite sure I'm still welcome," she tells him, smiling somewhat incongruously. "I was going to Padma's. They're having a do in the Ravenclaw common room." Ah. Well. That makes it a little clearer.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to scotch your plans." They've started walking, and it occurs to her she isn't sure where to go now. "Should I accompany you back to your tower?" He offers, every bit the gentleman the Baron had claimed, and this time she does giggle.
"As if I couldn't find the way after seven and a half years."
"I've heard Moggies aren't always the brightest Lumoses," he quips in return, and she takes a playful swat at his ribs that he has precious little trouble avoiding. His reflexes may even be better than Ron's, she can't help thinking. Smiling, he continues, "Well you should know there are hex-ready louts about; I shouldn't like to think you were unprotected."
She laughs that inclusive laugh of hers.
"Do I need to remind you who rescued whom?" She teases, but her aimlessness is clear, and the Slytherin just waits for her to explain. "Ron's there," she finally supplies, more sombrely now.
Blaise wrinkles his nose in distaste.
"I won't judge," he assures her, a lie if ever he told one.
"With Demelza." She tries to make that a little clearer.
"Ah. Then I'll judge most harshly," he offers, smarming, the old flirt. She laughs again. Yes, it's definitely growing on him. "So I've thoroughly ruined your evening is what you're telling me?"
It sounds almost over-smooth, Blaise is finding it nice to revisit to his pre-war persona, but there's something there that has more depth than he'd used to. A touch of gravitas about him that had come at some cost. The past year left none of them unscathed. Somewhat ironically, it helps her trust him. He's no longer the player he'd been.
"Rather looks like it," she answers, trying to pretend it doesn't matter, except that it sort of does. Right now she's seriously contemplating one of the castle's many alcoves and that bottle of Ogden's.
"Then would you permit me to suggest alternative plans?" As opposed to a lonely alcove? She needn't think twice.
"I suppose it depends how good they are..." She's not remotely serious. Shy of mucking out the Thestrals' paddock - which, come to think of it, might now be Ron's job - he'd be hard pressed to come up with worse plans.
"There's an excellent view of Hogsmeade from the Astronomy Tower. There'll be fireworks come midnight, and my Warming Charms are definitely sufficient for our needs..." 'Our needs' has a surprisingly nice ring to it, and when has someone last considered her needs?
"I've a bottle of Firewhisky," she reaches into her bag to display it, her agreement more than clear.
"So you do," and it's not a half bad one at that, he's pleased to note.
"We could go to the kitchens and fetch some snacks..." she fleshes out his plan. Frankly he hasn't the foggiest where the kitchens are - as far as he's concerned, it's the sole domain of house elves - but he's happy to let the pert blonde lead the way. He extends one arm in a sweep that reminds her of the Baron, forward towards the stairs, as though to indicate the way, fairly certain at least that wherever the kitchens are located, it's ultimately 'down'. His other reaches fleetingly behind her, an odd little gesture indicating he means to escort her to their goal. At first it's just the hint of a touch but the witch slows into it and soon his hand comes to rest briefly at the small of her back. She's probably too used to doing things like that with Ron - not that he'd done any escorting much of anywhere, really, with him it was more a question of leaning into his constantly seeking hands - but she can't say she minds the attention from the handsome young man beside her in the least. His hand is gone before either can say of a certainty it had been deliberate on either of their parts, and yet both smile faintly at the thought that perhaps it was.
At first they walk in surprisingly amiable silence. Eventually Lav plucks up the courage to enquire, "Can I ask... After years of Defence with you, I have to ask... Why were they able to get the drop on you like that? Martins? You can flatten him without a second thought. I know you can." Instead she'd arrived to find Zabini pinned to the wall, casting nothing but aspersions on the Ravenclaws' fairly questionable characters.
Blaise considers a moment. He's begun looking forward to their little celebration, and he has no desire to ruin things... But she was right and had assessed things properly, and something about the moment, or maybe it's the witch, has him answering her truthfully.
"We've got traces on our wands. Pretty much the whole House. Hexing doesn't end well for us."
She blinks, because that seems frightfully unfair.
And then she blinks again, "Are you seriously trying to tell me you couldn't come up with something that wasn't a hex?"
He smirks, rather liking that she's not a fool. "Easily. But with four witnesses from their side, one a prefect no less, what do you think the chances are I wouldn't land in detention? At the very least?"
"Are things really that bad then?" She seems genuinely concerned, and again it gets her an honest answer.
"Yes. They have been all term. You haven't noticed? When was the last time you saw someone land in detention that wasn't from our House?" Generally speaking, he has a point. Just at the moment, however...
She laughs. "Last week." Her grin is huge, and suddenly he realises that Weasley had managed that impossible feat just a week ago.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to rub salt in the wound..." He apologises, and she smiles at him winningly.
"Not at all. I seem to be warming to the memory." Not the part where she'd discovered Ron was cheating on her, but certainly the fallout. If she's honest - and she rarely cares to be about any of that evening - she could have easily kept him from detention. She could have kept him from being kicked off the Gryffindor Quidditch team. All she'd had to do was truthfully tell the others he'd been with her when the fireworks went off. Surprisingly she'd had no interest in admitting she was his bit on the side. Or maybe that was technically Demelza, she isn't really sure... Either way, shockingly, quite, she'd had no desire to do so. She's finding the punishment incredibly fitting, really.
When has a wronged witch last received that level of retribution?
There's something a little hard around her eyes and a touch of malevolence to her smile that Blaise finds appealing. Anything else makes one a victim in this world, anything else is a liability at his side.
Which is a strange way to think of the woman, and yet there she is, inarguably at his side, just as she'd been on it in the fight before.
He likes that in a witch as well.
Which means he finds himself enjoying the prospect of starting the new year with her even more than he'd been when he suggested it.
They stop in front of a portrait and she tickles one of the pieces of fruit depicted on it. The gesture has him thinking of the feel of her fingers on his lips. He is not and has never been envious of a portrait. Except for perhaps just now.
Brown sweeps into the kitchens, clearly very popular with the elves, and within moments they've a hamper of Merlin knows what that the little creatures were terribly eager to supply and are making their way back to the stairs and towards the Astronomy Tower.
That in itself speaks for the witch, Blaise thinks.
Since Dumbledore's... fall, students tended to avoid the Tower, in much the same way they tended to unfairly disparage the Slytherin Head of House. It had been a bit of a risk suggesting it, and Blaise isn't sure why he had. Maybe because he'd known they'd have it to themselves. Possibly it was a sort of test, he's become more cautious of late. Whichever, she'd acquitted herself... satisfactorily once again.
They speak a bit about their classes as they go, and the time passes quickly. He's in all but one of her courses, she's in all but two of his, and while they don't usually discuss that sort of thing with one another, they discover they easily can. In fact, she's a little surprised to realise - now that she thinks about it - that she shares two more classes with Zabini than she does with Ron. One of those classes is Astronomy, which is undoubtedly half the reason she was so comfortable with the Slytherin's suggestion to watch the fireworks from here. She's spent years on this tower with the wizard beside her. The only difference tonight is it's just the two of them.
That thought leaves her feeling a little warm, and by the time Zabini casts his Warming Charm (only seconds after they reach the roof, too considerate really), she isn't altogether certain she needs it.
Well there's no sense telling him that.
She deposits the hamper on one of the battlements, and Summons two folding chairs from the supply near the doors. Zabini is in N.E.W.T. Transfiguration, and he's soon made a squashy loveseat of them. He chooses a neutral black which strikes her as nice. She Summons one of the folding tables they sometimes use for coursework, and with another twitch of the Slytherin's wand, it becomes a rather stylish little couch table on which Lav arranges the contents of the hamper. Blaise raises a brow at the sight of the charcuterie, some of the meats more raw than cured. He recalls the rumours, Brown had been attacked by that... beast last spring...
And yet after something like that, she'd still had the courage to come to his rescue earlier.
Moggies, he thinks, a good deal more kindly than usual, taking the seat beside the witch. There were clearly good reasons she'd been sorted into her House.
"Will you be able to see from there?" He asks, gesturing towards the lights twinkling in the village beyond. The crenels aren't wide, and a merlon eclipses half her view.
"It's not ideal," she admits, not really willing to move.
"We could switch," he suggests.
She laughs. "It's hardly an issue of being a little taller or we could just raise the seat."
"I'm more than a little taller, witch, thank you very much." She laughs again, because that he very much is. She may just have a weakness for tall wizards. Her blush is rather flattering. "But there's no reason we couldn't either raise the couch sufficently with a Wingardium Leviosa or lengthen the legs with a Transfiguration..."
"The winds are far from pleasant up here this time of year," she objects, quite sensibly she thinks. He's gone on to suggest Protegos and more charms when she interrupts with a counterproposal, "We could just budge up closer together and I'd be able to see just fine." A suggestion which shines in its simplicity, and quite possibly has a few other aspects to recommend it. He swallows, atypically quiet, and she takes advantage of his silence to scoot closer. Now that she's pressed up against his side, he completely fails to come up with a better alternative. "You could conjure us a couple of glasses, though. The elves don't seem to have included any for the whisky..."
He shakes off his woolly-headedness and does as she asks, extending first one and then the other tumbler towards her to fill. He waits to hand her hers until she's put aside the bottle of Firewhisky - she doesn't bother to stow it in her bag once more, leaving it conveniently within reach on the table - but she shakes her head. "Hold it a moment, would you? I need to let 'Vati know I won't be coming." She concentrates, naturally it's a little more difficult now, but soon her Patronus appears before them.
She'd never managed a corporeal one in the years prior. Since returning to school, she'd worked at it, hard, unwilling to feel inferior to Ron (or maybe Hermione), and as luck would have it - or perhaps it's a question of xenobiology - it's now a wolf of all things. She's too biased to see the beauty of the animal, something that doesn't fail in the least to register with Blaise. The massive creature is absolutely breathtaking.
Particularly at this distance.
"A corporeal Patronus??" He can hardly believe his eyes, he doesn't even bother trying to disguise his surprise. He'd heard rumours, they all had, that some of Dumblebore's little army were able to do this, but he's never seen one before, and the books don't begin to do it justice. Half-automatically, he certainly isn't thinking about it, he places the whisky glasses on the table and extends a hand for the ethereal creature to scent, much as he might towards a Crup. The wolf doesn't disappoint, after a cautious sniff it nuzzles the young man's palm. The sensation is odd and unexpectedly warm, an exhilarating prickle of energy against his skin that leaves the fine hairs on his arm standing on end and him wanting more, and Blaise continues to stare in wonder. Lavender's grin is positively huge. It's nice having someone appreciate what she can do. Unsurprisingly in a tower where it sometimes seemed everyone could conjure the spectral forms, it hadn't impressed much of anyone.
She begins to give her wolf a message for her roommate. Briefly she explains how she'd hexed a few of the Ravenclaws and thought it best she not attend their soirée, when Blaise interrupts, "You can't say that. You can't give them that satisfaction."
"How's that?" She looks willing to take his advice on this, so he expands. The wolf tilts her head and looks at him expectantly as well, something he finds a touch disconcerting.
"Don't give them the impression you're avoiding them, they'll have won. Present it as your choice, not Zugzwang." In the pre-war days it's possible Ron's only claim to fame besides being their team's Keeper was his prowess at Wizarding Chess. She'd dated him long enough to understand 'Zugzwang' is a forced move. Blaise hadn't deliberately used the term to confuse her, it was simply the word he'd needed, but when he recognises the comprehension in her eyes he smiles a little more. Full of surprises, the witch nestled beside him. Now that he contemplates it, he shouldn't have thought she knew chess.
Lavender grins mischievously and starts her message again. In a tone that's unabashedly suggestive, she announces she'd had a more... compelling offer, details to follow on the morrow, and Blaise interrupts, "You certainly can't say that. They last saw you with me. That'll give them the impression..." He trails off, because her wolfish grin is back with a vengeance.
"And what would be wrong with that?"
Well.
Still.
"Trust me on this one, don't give them ammunition." He's firm. When she doesn't appear entirely convinced, however, he regroups, "These aren't nice people, or was there something about their attacking me - four to one - that led you to believe otherwise?" It sounds a touch defensive, and Lav softens.
"No, of course not." The velvety hand she instinctively rests on his arm to placate him is surprisingly warm, even through his robes and charms. When it slides down to touch the exposed skin on the back of his hand, it takes a conscious effort on his part not to take it in his. "But my wolf knows enough to wait until 'Vati's somewhere private to deliver the message. We do this rather a lot.
"I'm sorry, you couldn't have known."
Her tone is so conciliatory, he accepts they aren't in disagreement here, although he has to wonder, if this isn't being done for show, why she'd say such a thing... And in front of him, too. It does feel more like the time before the war, though, back before the Slytherins as a whole were personae non grata. He tamps that nascent hope back down, and permits himself to question the mechanics of this manner of messaging. "Can it really do that? Wait for her to be on her own to give her the message?"
Lav grins, "Sure. The Ravenclaws have all sorts of cupboards they use for privacy," as if that were the issue. But he recalls those cupboards well. He'd... seen an older Ravenclaw witch and wizard for a while nearly two years ago, regularly enough they could practically have been a thrupple, back when they still did things like that. When the Snakes were still welcome in other Houses. When things were normal...
"Why don't you try it?" Lav suggests. Blaise looks puzzled. "Go on. Hide. She'll find you." It's not quite the same set of circumstances, he'd been more curious about a Patronus' ability to apply logic, and he's a little reluctant to leave the witch's side, not entirely sure she'll allow him back. On the other hand, she'd been the one to suggest they snuggle in close for the better view, they've some time yet till the fireworks, and he isn't anxious to offend her... He unfolds himself from the couch - the curse of the long-legged - and with another look at the wolf, crosses to the other side of the tower, once he's out of sight taking position in a cupboard with supplies for the Astronomy class, mostly fur rugs for the younger students unable to magick themselves warm in the winter.
"Find him," Lav tells her wolf, and off the beast lops, her gait easy, her movements elegant.
It's the matter of moments before she half materialises through the doors to the cupboard, an odd sight beyond any doubt. Her grin is every bit as wolfish as the Gryffindor's, until she spots the furs which she greets with a derisive snarl. Blaise worries fleetingly that it wasn't the best considered of hiding places, it's not as though the Tower hadn't others on offer, but the wolf soon dismisses the furs with a disapproving snort, nudges him and then retreats from the cupboard.
When he apparently doesn't follow in a timely enough fashion, she sticks her head in once again, intent on fetching him, radiating impatience until he follows her out with a chuckle.
Her triumphant trot as she leads the way back to the little couch is nearly comical in a being - entity? manifestation? - of her size.
Frankly he'd assumed a Patronus must be able to at least find someone no matter where they were located - within reason anyway - or it wouldn't do for messaging at all, but it raises questions and he's naturally curious. A little undecided, he stands beside the loveseat, dithering, before he asks, "Can she find someone despite spellwork?"
After six and a half years of sharing a room with Hermione (and isn't she glad they don't anymore), Lavender is accustomed to hypothetical academic questions. She's far less accustomed to someone wanting her input, or greeting it, when supplied, with anything other than disdain, conscious or not, so it takes her a beat to respond.
She hasn't a definitive answer for him, and instead she hands him his glass of Firewhisky. "Drink up," she commands, "and then we can try it and see." The Ogden's truly is good, the company, too, and he throws it back, returning an empty tumbler. Lavender has the good sense to sip hers more slowly, but she has to give him credit for not succumbing to a fiery coughing fit. Apparently he has some practice with the stuff.
"Alright, give me thirty and send her after me," he calls over his shoulder as he runs off. It reminds her of the carefree hide and seek games she and Seamus and their friends had played as children and she smiles. She gives the Slytheirn another fifteen count and sends the wolf to find him once more. This time he takes refuge in a niche in the stairwell, Dissillusions himself, and then at the last second applies a Protego for good measure. That proves as fruitless as the Dissillusionment, for a moment later the Patronus is sticking her head through the Shield Charm and giving him a lick that sets his skin pricking.
"Good girl," he praises her. The wolf beams before he can decide it was foolish, the whisky may be getting to him, and for all her size she's really quite Crup-like. He's always liked Crups. Again he laughs and follows her back to her mistress.
"Disillusionment was a complete failure. Do you suppose it still works with more than a rudimentary Perception Charm?" He asks, taking the proffered glass of whisky once more and tipping it back with an appreciative gulp.
"I'm game to find out if you are," she smiles, silently impressed with how much whisky the wizard can put away. Not some rubber-legged, lightweight like some she could name. But won't. Because this is all rather fun, and why should she ruin her evening? "Go on, off you tot. How much of a head start do you need?"
"Give me a couple of minutes to do the spells..." They're harder to do without a wand, and it will necessitate somewhat more concentration. He disappears again around the small structure at the top of the stairs.
Lav nips at her whisky as she continues the count and then a bit gleefully unleashes her wolf once more. "Drag him back." The spectral canid seems only too happy to comply, and a few moments later reappears at her side with a slightly breathless Zabini. He hasn't had this much fun since his Ravenclaws graduated.
"I think I know one that's stronger..." He proposes.
"Be my guest," she invites.
This time he combines his strongest Perception Charm with a Notice-Me-Nott and a Protego Duo - belts and braces, sometimes it helps in the sum - and still no joy. He returns bearing a couple of the rugs having come to an understanding about them with the wolf.
"Maybe something that covers one's magical signature..." He seems unsure. Anything else really would require the use of his wand anyway. With the trace on it... He shouldn't like to have to explain what he was doing.
"Do you know anything that would?" She asks.
Shaking his head, he finally flops back onto the seat beside her draping the furs over both their laps and then gratefully accepts the whisky from her, pausing before he drinks to ask, "How much have you had?"
"Keep going, I'm rather enjoying watching you," she tells him and he finds himself again comparing her grin to the wolf's, now curled beside their seat. He decides he likes the toothiness of both ladies, and then that if he's thinking things like that, he should probably slow his consumption some until the witch catches up.
"I've got nothing at all along those lines," he admits, but there's no trace of frustration. His brain is clearly at work despite alcohol. He means to budge up next to the witch again, then ducks in front of her to check her view and pulls her to him instead. "Don't tell me you could see from there," he justifies the witch-handling, and Lav snuggles in closer deciding she really rather likes the position. Before he can withdraw his arm from around her shoulders again, she snares his hand in hers and holds it in place.
"It's warmer that way," she explains. He gives her a somewhat speculative look (as if saying he was a more compelling way to spend her evening than a party and suggesting she wouldn't be available to provide details before the morning hadn't been plain enough, wizards) and she flashes that hungry grin of hers. There's a full moon in less than 48 hours and she's begun to feel it.
"Maybe an Unplottable..." Blaise muses, back to his thoughts on the functioning of Patronuses.
Lavender laughs. This was why she'd been certain that Martins couldn't beat Zabini in a fair fight. He's something of a natural at this sort of thing. If Malfoy weren't so frightfully clever... Well, and Nott, too, she supposes, but if it weren't for those two, Zabini would have been his year's Prefect she's sure. It was frightfully unfair, really. They'd both faced some terribly stiff competition, whereas others...
"Weasley had absolutely no competition whatsoever," the Slytherin readily agrees, and briefly Lav thinks she should defend Seamus, except he really wasn't particularly studious, and then has to realise she'd voiced those thoughts out loud...
"Can you do Legilimency?" She asks, just to be sure.
It's Blaise's turn to laugh. "I guess you've been keeping up after all," he indicates the Ogden's. He pours them both a little more whisky, inspecting the bottle to determine they've put quite a dent in it. "Remind me I owe you one, would you?" He asks, making a mental note he hopes he'll remember to gift her a bottle of Blishen's Premium.
Financially things are a little tight, and she won't say no. It's nice of him to think of it though, especially as she'd volunteered the bottle, hadn't she?
"Do you fancy your chances of finding an Unplottable Spell in the library?" She asks, melting into his side.
Oh, he fancies his chances alright - whatever else, she certainly isn't known as a tease - but not of discovering a spell like that. "Not on your life," he replies. He's definite. "There's no way they have that in there, not even in the Restricted Section. It's far too useful."
An arc of his hand draws the wooden board with their meal closer and with the twitch of a finger, he drapes a slice of raw beef on a thin bit of baguette which he holds out for her. She imagines that's as delicate an acknowledgment of his acceptance of her... condition as she could get. That was very kind of him, she decides, and takes a hungry bite. Realistically, there's little doubt the morsel was meant exclusively for her, and she soon finishes it off. It's sort of nice being fed, playful in a way that appeals.
He licks his fingers once his hand is free again, and Lav finds herself licking her lips reflexively. Another sip of whisky helps with her suddenly dry throat. There's a small arrangement of carpaccio on the tray and Blaise prepares himself a piece of bread with that next. She takes his consumption of raw meat as another deliberate sign of acceptance, and she's truly grateful. It's a conversation she's desperately eager to avoid.
Blaise knows a thing or two about what it means to have survived a lycanthrope's attack. Having been deemed 'blood traitors', Hestia Carrow and Valerie Vaisey had both literally been thrown to the wolves last year as punishment for their families. They'd survived, obviously, presumably in much the same state as the Gryffindor. It wasn't spoken of much, but there had been a few adjustments. Ultimately it had helped everyone better come to terms with their conditions when they discovered it made the witches a good deal more aggressive on the pitch. Even more so when they'd gleefully annihilated the Moggies several weeks ago. Silver linings.
Lavender Summons their glasses handing him his when he's eaten his food. Somehow the glass is full again. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" He asks, wondering if he isn't already, at least a bit.
Lav has much the same thought, but only smiles, "And what if I am?"
He's not sure what the best answer to that is. Things aren't as simple as they used to be. Explaining that, especially in any detail, seems like a really bad idea of mood-ruining proportions, and so he holds his tongue, keeping those thoughts to himself. His face hides it well, but his eyes aren't quite up to the job, and Lavender can't help feeling a little sorry for him. She has the good sense not to remark on it, instead nestling herself further into his side. Apparently it does the trick, because his demeanour lightens once more. He catches himself sniffing her hair as a gust of wind blows it into his face, and he almost regrets it when she puts up a charm to shield them from the draught. The witch smells good.
"Say, weren't you going to send your Patronus to Patil?" He asks, suddenly recalling why she conjured the wolf.
"Oh! Damn!" Lavender rights herself, composes a message and soon dispatches her Patronus off to 'Vati. "Thank you, it escaped my mind entirely." Blaise tries to flatter himself that he's just that distracting, but suspects the whisky had more to do with it.
"Fantastic creature," he sighs almost wistfully as it disappears in the direction of the Ravenclaw tower. It occurs to Lav that he's probably interacted with it more in the past fifteen minutes than she has all term, and that as it's unquestionably an extension of her magical self, she should take his reaction to it as a compliment. That leaves her feeling a little flushed once more. Wand still in hand, she makes them a couple more opened faced sandwiches. She polishes her own off rather quickly, thankful when he doesn't comment on it, and then holds the other out for him to eat.
"Your hand was full," she indicates his tumbler of Firewhisky. And if this kept him from removing the arm around her shoulders? Even better.
"'Language', by the way," he adds between bites, changing the subject. "'Completely unbefitting a prefect'," he repeats her earlier words to Martins back to her and she giggles. Yes, the Ogden's is definitely having an effect.
"I'm not a prefect," she reminds him.
"You could be," he replies. "Someone has to fill Granger's position, why not you?" Lav blinks, surprised. She hadn't really thought about who was going to take over for Hermione now she'd graduated, assuming they were even going to put someone else in her robes, and Lav is quite certain no one else had considered her the right person for the job anyway. It's unexpected to hear the Slytherin suggest it.
"I'm not sure I stand a chance. Fay's more ambitious. Merlin, she wanted to be an Auror..."
"I've played Quidditch against her, trust me she hasn't a patch on you." Again the witch looks unconvinced, she's really making him work for things. "Look, Dunbar will most likely need five N.E.W.T.s to be an Auror, and what is she taking? She only has four N.E.W.T.s, only three are core courses, and two of those are History of Magic and Astronomy..."
"We're both taking Astronomy..." Lav objects.
He chuckles, "Well I'm not stupid and neither are you; an advantage is an advantage, an easy N.E.W.T. is an easy N.E.W.T. But you've five N.E.W.T.s total, four of them in core courses." She's surprised he knows what she's taking. "Don't look at me like that. We're in most of them together," he points out.
She laughs, "Do you honestly think I have a chance, or are you just trying to get in my knickers?"
"Is acknowledgment of academic prowess the way into your knickers?" He rejoins. There's a gravelly quality to his voice that her wolf seems to like.
The suggestion is greeted by more laughter. It hadn't previously been the way to win her over, and without any question no one has ever tried that tack with her before, but she's finding she rather likes it. She doesn't have to answer as her smirk does the job for her.
"Look, Smith only has three N.E.W.T.s., so Patil will be your biggest competition, and she hasn't got your drive. Seriously, you should talk to McGonagall..."
"Professor McGonagall," Lav corrects absently, too many years of living with Hermione have left an impression.
"See? Prefect material if ever there were some. Put yourself forward, make sure she has you on her mind when she's making the decision." He smirks, and then suddenly appears horrified when another thought occurs, "Please tell me Longbottom isn't supposed to appoint someone???"
Lav laughs, "I think Professor McGonagall is still doing things like that. It's a little unfair to ask Neville to choose amongst his peers..."
"All the more reason he should never have been made Head of House. You know that's ridiculous don't you? He's only barely an apprentice. The very idea of it..." Zabini isn't the first to voice those objections, not even this week. She's plenty used to hearing them and may even have agreed from time to time.
"He hasn't been half bad really." At the latest since he'd given Ron detention for practically ev-er, she'd warmed to the idea of having Neville in that position.
"Or you know, if you don't want to be Prefect, point out to Dunbar how much better qualified for the job you are, and ask her what it would be worth to her not to have to compete. Tell her prefecthood might improve her chances of becoming an Auror, it could help compensate for the missing N.E.W.T."
"Oh, that's clever," she allows, her admiration clear. "I'm pretty sure I won't need it on my C.V. later... But on the other hand, I think it might make Ron squirm if I were his counterpart..."
"Well then by all means, there's your answer. It's practically decided," he grins, which is nice. Most people tend to make her feel guilty when she voices less than generous thoughts like that. This has been very refreshing.
His wand buzzes with a Tempus she hadn't noticed him cast - in fact, with the almost unavoidable exceptions of the furniture Transfiguration and tumbler Conjuration, he hasn't really used it much all evening - and she looks at him enquiringly. "One minute to midnight," he tells her, reaching for the Ogden's to top them both off.
In the distance she can hear the faint sounds of people counting down, Zabini joins in in the final seconds. She nibbles her lip a little nervously, and as soon as midnight strikes and they've toasted the new year against a backdrop of perfectly phenomenal pyrotechnics, gives him a shy kiss full on the lips. There's a moment of bafflement she can't quite account for - because she sort of thought it was all leading to this - before he responds in kind, and it soon becomes an energetic snog. When she comes up for air, she tells him, "You're very good at that."
A huff of amusement answers - he used to be anyway, he hopes he still is - and then adds a "Thank you."
"I'm seeing fireworks," she adds breathily.
"That's literally the reason we came up here," he replies. She half pounces, eager for more, but he gets the hand holding his tumbler between them and nudges her gently away. "Watch the fireworks, Lavender..." His head indicating the display over Hogsmeade.
"I'm not contagious!" She blurts, immediately wishing she hadn't, thoroughly mortified she'd brought it up, but if that's the reason he's suddenly running cold...
"Of course not. Look, the rockets are excellent..." He tries to reason with her. He'd watched them often enough in years past, and the first Hogmanay after the war? They were most assuredly going to be better than ever. When he accepts he probably isn't going to make any headway convincing the witch, he quietly adds, "And you're far less likely to regret that in the morning."
Somewhat sullenly she leans back in her seat. She's no longer tucked in at his side, and he knows for a fact there's a merlon obstructing half her view. He misses her warmth, and considering his Warming Charms are still going strong, he's knows it isn't simply a question of thermal units. He misses the cuddling. There hasn't been much of that in recent months... It's closer to years, in fact. He'd tried to be galant, and here the stubborn woman is going to ruin her evening with her petulance. And possibly his too.
"Don't be like that," he pleads. "Come back here where you can see the display." When that fails to do the trick, he offers, "If you'd rather not, we can still switch places so you won't miss it." Her pout may just be growing more pronounced. Somewhat frustrated he asks, "What do you want from me?"
"I'm not contagious," she mutters again.
"I didn't think you were." She thaws slightly. "I know you're not, Lavender. Now don't be a numpty and come here and watch the show with me. Please." He holds his arm out to make room for her and grins roguishly, something she finds rather inviting, and despite his clear enthusiasm for the fireworks, he doesn't spare them a second glance. She begins to feel guilty about making him miss them the longer he sits there like that and finally relents, folding herself back into the spot at his side. His arm rests almost naturally across her shoulders, and she wonders if she'd gotten the wrong end of the wand. He certainly doesn't seem to object to her, and she knows she's a little oversensitive about her... condition.
"Good girl," he whispers in her hair as she nestles in beside him, and she finds she likes that, too.
The fireworks really are very good, certainly a good deal more enjoyable when one isn't battling them in an all too narrow corridor, and she does appreciate his insistence on enjoying the show.
"Worth it, wasn't it?" He huffs into her hair when the last rocket has been fired and the show comes to an end, and she nods, distracted. She trails the tip of her nose along his neck, pleased to note it makes a vein pulse and his jaw tense, but he pulls back again. "Are you really sure that's what you want?"
"I thought you were supposed to be smart," she answers impatiently and now also becoming somewhat frustrated. "How much more obvious do I need to be?"
"You don't have to you know. I hadn't any expectations..." Not at the outset anyway. He's since revised his opinion. Still, this was far from a foregone conclusion, and he's far from convinced it's advisable. In addition to all the other reasons, and they were manifold, he has more than a passing suspicion that she isn't over her ex. Aside from any ethical ramifications - frankly he's reasonably good at overlooking those if a situation is sufficiently favourable - that's a construct more likely to blow up in his face should she come to regret it.
"Zabini, less talking."
"'Blaise'..." he manages and that's about all before she begins kissing him again. She's not half bad at this herself. Exceptionally passionate even, ravenous, and it occurs to him there's a full moon soon. Merlin. He's still trying to decide if that makes this a better idea than it otherwise would be or not... But he's only human, and finally he surrenders and leans into the turn.
She has a suspicion that it's not his first time doing this, and here at that, when a wandless Mobilicorpus suspends them briefly, another charm spreads the rugs evenly beneath them - it could be a simple Bed-making Charm, but she's never applied it this way - and a third fluffs the fur. A Cleansing Charm - if she's any judge, and she think she is - but still it makes her giggle as they gently come to rest on the now extra fluffy fur. Very circumspect, the wizard.
The kisses soon turn to groping, there's thankfully no fumbling here. They just seem to 'click' and she's grateful for it; it's better that way than having to question the wisdom of this all over again. She deserves a spot of fun. Why should it always be everyone else? Why shouldn't she just enjoy herself?
She straddles one of his muscular legs and puts it to good use. Her thigh and not so subtle gyrations in turn seem to make an impression on him as well. As he nibbles on her earlobes, one of his hands does the best it can through the thick seams of her denims, before he accepts he'll need to attempt the squeeze into the tight garment. It's better, so much better, his fingers skimming over her knickers, but still doesn't seem enough. Those jeans do rather flattering things for her arse, but as that's virtually invisible under her winter cloak and completely immaterial here, she's beginning to sincerely regret her sartorial choices for the evening. And she isn't faring all that much better with his. His trousers have become so tight, at this rate he's apt to do himself a serious mischief.
Eventually they reach the natural limits imposed by their winter wardrobes. Warm clothing is rarely ideally suited for this sort of thing. He's teased her to distraction but his reach is too restricted and truthfully hers isn't much better. Determined to rectify the situation, she launches a frontal assault on his trouser placket when his hand on hers arrests her advance.
"Are you sure you want this?" He asks again, his breath hot against her neck. She manages not to sigh in frustration (although it may help that she's busy panting), and nods, but he seems determined not to move his hands, those very talented hands, again until she actually says 'yes' and so she does. If it sounds a bit short, she thinks that's perfectly understandable at this juncture. He grabs his wand and performs a Divesto and she nearly laughs as her shoes, trousers and knickers vanish heavens know where.
For that he'd needed his wand?
From the smooth way he'd negotiated them into position, she'd have thought he was an old hand at that particular spell. But the fur is incredibly soft against her thighs and the wizard above her is too, too warm, and soon that wand is the furthest thing from her mind.
The story is mirrored on Dreamwidth and LiveJournal.
Other works by gingerbred can be found on Dreamwidth and LiveJournal.
ADDITIONAL STAND ALONE ONE SHOTS PLANNED FOR THIS UNIVERSE.
Or: how other things began.
Let's face it, this is a full blown story now. Written with oodles of love for
mywitch.Originally Published: 2021-03-05 on LJ / DW
Words: 9.7 k
Rating: Mature
Characters: Lavender Brown (8G), Blaise Zabini (8S), the Bloody Baron (Slytherin's House Ghost), Edgar Martins (7R, Prefect), misc 6th & 7th year Ravenclaws, Mentioned: Professor McGonagall (Headmistress), Hermione Granger (Transfiguration Apprentice, Lavender's erstwhile roommate), Neville Longbottom (Herbology Apprentice, Gryffindor Head of House), Parvati "'Vati" Patil (8G, Lavender's best friend and roommate), Fay Dunbar (8G, Lavender's roommate), Georgina Smith (8G, Lavender's roommate), Padma Patil (8R, Prefect, Lavender's friend), Seamus Finnigan (8G, long time friend of Lavender's), Dean Thomas (8G, Seamus' best friend), Hestia Carrow (7S, Chaser), Valerie 'Val' Vaisey (7S, Chaser)
Previously:
01 September. "her (eighth) first day of school". (LJ / DW) Lavender has been struggling to come to terms with what she views as her disfigurement from Greyback's attack during the Battle of Hogwarts. She runs into Ron, who is able to reassure her somewhat. That chance meeting changes some things for both of them. (The culmination of those changes was revealed in "christmas spirit".)
24 December. "christmas spirit". (LJ / DW) Ron is discovered to be cheating on Lav. He's (wrongfully) accused of setting off a massive package of Weasleys' Whizzbangs in the school corridors, given detention and removed from the Gryffindor Quidditch team. More accurately, he was with Lav at the time of the incident, a fact she (somewhat understandably) neglects to mention in light of the news he'd been stepping out.
24 December. "christmas spirit". (LJ / DW) Headmistress McGonagall arranges a talk between the Bloody Baron and the Grey Lady. In return, she asks him to suggest in a roundabout fashion to both Lavender and Demelza that they could do better than a cheating Weasel.
30 December. "life goes on" (a couple of castle encounters part 1). (LJ / DW) Blaise ever so cleverly gives himself a bloody nose while Lav inopportunely laughs. While it wasn't exactly deliberate, she totally gets that the response was perhaps suboptimal, particularly as he'd been fairly decent.
30 December. "life goes on" (a couple of castle encounters part 1). (LJ / DW) At Headmistress McGonagall's behest, or so he took it, the Bloody Baron gives Lavender something of a literally lifeless pep talk on the subject of dating and appealing traits in suitors, and for lack of familiarity with the topic or the least bit of personal inspiration (to be fair, he hasn't courted in a millennium), proceeds to model it on the nearest wizard, an unsuspecting Blaise Zabini.
Thursday, 31 December, 1998
Lav is incredibly pleased with herself. Sure, she's not entirely looking forward to midnight, why would she? Increasingly people seem to be pairing off, and, yes, she's been avoiding the sight of Ron snogging Demelza as best she can. Now that it's out in the open, he's been just as flagrant about it as she'd ever feared. Hmm. But! Her research had been exceedingly productive, a few books from the Restricted Section fetched early this morning and a day spent curled up with them in bed - so much better than chilly, lonely alcoves - and she's found more information on the class of Healing Glamours, so promising, and even discovered a modifier that would make the charm she was so fond of using work for Zabini while she was about it. That seemed rather a better apology for her laughter than her clumsy words had been. At least she hopes so; Slytherins don't always see things the way she thinks they should.
Still.
Some of the Baron's whispered words of wisdom had served as inspiration - he'd seemed quite keen on manners, oddly enough - and she's feeling... invigorated, really, eager to show she can be just as considerate and - how had the ghost put it? - demand that others treat her in much the same fashion. 'A witch owes herself that, if nothing else.'
On reflection, she rather has to agree.
She's on her way to the Ravenclaw tower, where 'Vati had invited her to join Padma and a few friends to ring in the new year. There were so many Slytherins staying in the castle over the hols, people hadn't felt much like celebrating in the Great Hall with them as they'd done in years past, and most had withdrawn to their dorms for the festivities, the occasional friend from another House, such as 'Vati and herself, rounding out their numbers.
The bottle of Ogden's Firewhisky, a very nice Christmas gift from Seamus, shifts in her bag, pulling rather heavily on her shoulder, and she adjusts the strap. Thinking about it now, the timing of that present was sort of suspicious. It hadn't been there first thing with the other pressies, and she's beginning to think someone - probably Dean - had owled him about the blow out with Ron the evening before. Seamus has always been good to her like that. Which, she supposes, is yet another example of what the Baron had been saying. Decency. It's woefully undervalued.
Well, she's undervalued it. Possibly because she isn't always all that decent herself... Hmm. Well in her defence there was a lot to be said for an enticing smile, both on the having and receiving ends. Still. The ghost was quite right, that didn't mean one couldn't also treat people at least fairly. And the piece of parchment in her bag with the charm for Zabini feels like a nice start on her own decency front. Tomorrow is the beginning of a new year, and she means to make a fresh start.
Shouts in the corridor ahead of her quash those thoughts of a rosy future. The severity of the wounds Greyback had inflicted on her during the Battle of Hogwarts aren't limited to her body, her nerves had taken a hit as well. Her wand is in hand before she draws another breath, the reflex that honed. She hasn't decided whether she should run for help, or safety, or even towards the noise - although that last seems the least advisable of her options - when the Baron appears beside her.
"Miss Brown, the very witch. We could do with your assistance..." He whispers, and without waiting for a reply, turns back to float towards the cries.
Which leaves her blinking nervously after him.
Maybe she trusts him a little more after their conversation yesterday, or at least respects his judgment more. Or maybe the fact he knows her name has her hoping he has at least a passing acquaintance with her skills. Or just possibly it's the fact he seems to have faith in her that has her now following him around the next corner, wand ever so tightly gripped in a white-knuckled hand...
She hasn't a clue what she was expecting, but the sight before her seems almost anticlimactic, which says both something about how raw her nerves are, and how little of the abuse she's seeing applied to the Slytherin pressed against the wall in front of her she's had to deal with herself. Really, since the term began, none at all. No one would dare hex one of the 'defenders of the castle'.
Zabini, on the other hand, seems fair game.
A group of sixth and seventh year Ravenclaws have him surrounded. He's obviously got a bunch of Protegos in play, but something appears to have gotten through, for his lip is split and bleeding. He seems to make a habit of that.
Split lip snarling, he's hurling insults at the boys. Not what she'd consider the smartest of tactics, bringing sarcasm to a wandfight. Men. She doesn't wait long, two particularly fierce Stinging Hexes - years of friendship with Seamus have left their mark - directed at the bottoms of the two nearest Ravenclaws pull them up short, and a rather authoritative, "That'll be enough of that," does the rest. The four of them stand there blinking at her (five, if you count Zabini), she can't help noticing with some satisfaction, and then she recognises Edgar Martins, their seventh year Prefect. Her smile may have taken on something wolfish since the attack last May, it's definitely more than a little predatory when she rounds on him, starting in about a poor showing from someone in his position. (There's admittedly a non-zero chance she's projecting some of her frustration with Ron there as well, but Martins seems more than deserving.) There's enough feeling behind it that she has the lot suitably cowed before long.
It's better that way as it saves her from having to hex them all.
With no small degree of condescension, surprising how well that works, she sends them packing, only then turning to check on Zabini. Her Tergeo removes the blood from his lips; his "thank you," with a huff of humour - this is becoming a thing - is nearly immediate.
He applies a Healing Charm, and his split lip begins to knit together. It's not quite adequate to the task, but it helps.
"They got through your Protegos?" She asks, trying to understand how the Ravenclaws had managed that. Both seventh years are in the same N.E.W.T. DADA class with them this year, and being more than passingly familiar with their work, the damage on the Slytherin doesn't make much sense to her.
"Martins' opening volley," he explains, fingering his lip carefully. Off the stream of complaints from a couple nearby suits of armour, things had gone seriously downhill from there, but clearly the Snake had gotten a Shield Charm or two in place by then.
"Shall I send for the Headmistress?" The Baron asks, recalling his presence somewhat unexpectedly.
Lavender looks to the Slytherin, awaiting his answer. It's his decision really. Blaise merely shakes his head.
Well apparently it isn't entirely his decision, because at that she has to press, "Are you sure?"
There's another faint huff of amusement, almost immediately followed by a wince that now has her convinced he's in the wrong - wizards, too, too stubborn - but he answers, "It will only escalate. They have the attention spans of doxies. Give them a day, and it will have passed." Which isn't completely true, but their focus won't be directed solely towards him. That alone should prove helpful.
"Then I must thank you, Madam, for your assistance," the ghost now whispers before performing an elaborate bow and clanking off. He'll alert the Headmistress to the damage to the armour early tomorrow morning so she can set it to rights before the Caretaker should spot it on his rounds. There's little point in upsetting the man again so soon, and it would be a poor start to the new year. Or at least the Baron thinks so... He's probably right.
"Is he always that..." Lav's finding it difficult to put 'that' into words.
Zabini smirks and then winces again, before suggesting, "Formal?"
"Formal," she nods. Yes that seems polite enough. The Slytherin's eyes, a perfectly stunning liquid brown, twinkle with amusement.
"Yes," he answers, and it occurs to her she'd asked a question. Hmm.
He's still dabbing at his lip, the damage no longer as pronounced but clearly visible as yet, and it's a shame, really, in someone so pretty, and it jogs her memory and sets her to rummaging in her bag until she finds the parchment with the charm for him. A quick review of her notes, and she performs the spell on him.
He'd trusted her to do so, always a nice change, but wasn't prepared for the effects of the charm itself. His lip feels... much improved. It's stopped the sort of throbbing burn that had accompanied Martins' hex. It's not numb, it's just... better. His fingers return to the wound, and it hasn't gone, but the feeling is decidedly more pleasant.
"It's a glamour," she explains, and then taking the parchment performs the Perception Charm to turn it into a mirror. Only afterwards does it occur to her that she hasn't used that spell since she was attacked. She holds the reflective surface up for the Slytherin to see, and he's half expecting to discover the magical equivalent of whiteface, only to see the same subtle and perfect results he'd noted of her glamour the evening before. He's more than a little impressed.
"I wouldn't have expected it to work on me, too," he admits.
She smiles. It's a pretty smile, something that reaches her eyes in a very flattering way. "I wanted to apologise for laughing yesterday. I found the modifier in one of the books I got from the library." Which might help explain why he hadn't found anything despite his best efforts this evening... He hadn't expected this studiousness of her either.
To say nothing of the willingness to go to any effort on his behalf.
But then she'd just done it again when she'd chased off the Ravenclaws, hadn't she?
He's trying to recall how often someone has put themselves out for him in recent months. Especially someone from outside their House. Hmm.
The thought is disquieting.
She casts the appropriate Finite on the improvised mirror and hands him the parchment. "But like I said, the Glamour does have healthy properties. Given time, it might just be able to heal that lip of yours, although you might want to apply some Dittany when you get a chance." Unthinking, she's been staring at his mouth too long, her hand goes up to gently touch his lip, and her fingertips can still make out the torn flesh. Startled, he blinks, and she realises what she's done, but when she goes to pull her hand away, he catches her arm and holds it in place. Ever so gently she traces over his wounded flesh.
"It doesn't hurt," he tells her, sounding surprised.
She laughs. "Do you want me to press harder?" She's utterly facetious, because that sounds like a horrible way to test his limits. Better by far for him to do that himself if he so desperately wants to know...
Blaise half takes it as a challenge, his smile rakish under her fingers. "You can try."
This time she blinks, and the moment passes. He releases her arm and she removes her fingers from his person, both sort of surprised to find themselves missing the contact when she does.
Before the silence can grow awkward, Blaise strikes up conversation, ever so casual, ever so adept. In the days before the war, he used to be considered rather good at that sort of thing. "I didn't mean to keep you." For an instant, she wonders if that's a dismissal, until he continues, "I assume you were on your way somewhere to celebrate Hogmanay." At which point the bag slung over her shoulder reasserts itself, she recollects her plans for the evening, and something else suddenly becomes clear. She's just hexed a few of the boys - the effective hosts - of the party she'd meant to attend. Hmm. Well that shouldn't be awkward in the least. Especially as she's reasonably certain those two won't be sitting any time soon. She has to suppress a giggle.
"I'm not quite sure I'm still welcome," she tells him, smiling somewhat incongruously. "I was going to Padma's. They're having a do in the Ravenclaw common room." Ah. Well. That makes it a little clearer.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to scotch your plans." They've started walking, and it occurs to her she isn't sure where to go now. "Should I accompany you back to your tower?" He offers, every bit the gentleman the Baron had claimed, and this time she does giggle.
"As if I couldn't find the way after seven and a half years."
"I've heard Moggies aren't always the brightest Lumoses," he quips in return, and she takes a playful swat at his ribs that he has precious little trouble avoiding. His reflexes may even be better than Ron's, she can't help thinking. Smiling, he continues, "Well you should know there are hex-ready louts about; I shouldn't like to think you were unprotected."
She laughs that inclusive laugh of hers.
"Do I need to remind you who rescued whom?" She teases, but her aimlessness is clear, and the Slytherin just waits for her to explain. "Ron's there," she finally supplies, more sombrely now.
Blaise wrinkles his nose in distaste.
"I won't judge," he assures her, a lie if ever he told one.
"With Demelza." She tries to make that a little clearer.
"Ah. Then I'll judge most harshly," he offers, smarming, the old flirt. She laughs again. Yes, it's definitely growing on him. "So I've thoroughly ruined your evening is what you're telling me?"
It sounds almost over-smooth, Blaise is finding it nice to revisit to his pre-war persona, but there's something there that has more depth than he'd used to. A touch of gravitas about him that had come at some cost. The past year left none of them unscathed. Somewhat ironically, it helps her trust him. He's no longer the player he'd been.
"Rather looks like it," she answers, trying to pretend it doesn't matter, except that it sort of does. Right now she's seriously contemplating one of the castle's many alcoves and that bottle of Ogden's.
"Then would you permit me to suggest alternative plans?" As opposed to a lonely alcove? She needn't think twice.
"I suppose it depends how good they are..." She's not remotely serious. Shy of mucking out the Thestrals' paddock - which, come to think of it, might now be Ron's job - he'd be hard pressed to come up with worse plans.
"There's an excellent view of Hogsmeade from the Astronomy Tower. There'll be fireworks come midnight, and my Warming Charms are definitely sufficient for our needs..." 'Our needs' has a surprisingly nice ring to it, and when has someone last considered her needs?
"I've a bottle of Firewhisky," she reaches into her bag to display it, her agreement more than clear.
"So you do," and it's not a half bad one at that, he's pleased to note.
"We could go to the kitchens and fetch some snacks..." she fleshes out his plan. Frankly he hasn't the foggiest where the kitchens are - as far as he's concerned, it's the sole domain of house elves - but he's happy to let the pert blonde lead the way. He extends one arm in a sweep that reminds her of the Baron, forward towards the stairs, as though to indicate the way, fairly certain at least that wherever the kitchens are located, it's ultimately 'down'. His other reaches fleetingly behind her, an odd little gesture indicating he means to escort her to their goal. At first it's just the hint of a touch but the witch slows into it and soon his hand comes to rest briefly at the small of her back. She's probably too used to doing things like that with Ron - not that he'd done any escorting much of anywhere, really, with him it was more a question of leaning into his constantly seeking hands - but she can't say she minds the attention from the handsome young man beside her in the least. His hand is gone before either can say of a certainty it had been deliberate on either of their parts, and yet both smile faintly at the thought that perhaps it was.
At first they walk in surprisingly amiable silence. Eventually Lav plucks up the courage to enquire, "Can I ask... After years of Defence with you, I have to ask... Why were they able to get the drop on you like that? Martins? You can flatten him without a second thought. I know you can." Instead she'd arrived to find Zabini pinned to the wall, casting nothing but aspersions on the Ravenclaws' fairly questionable characters.
Blaise considers a moment. He's begun looking forward to their little celebration, and he has no desire to ruin things... But she was right and had assessed things properly, and something about the moment, or maybe it's the witch, has him answering her truthfully.
"We've got traces on our wands. Pretty much the whole House. Hexing doesn't end well for us."
She blinks, because that seems frightfully unfair.
And then she blinks again, "Are you seriously trying to tell me you couldn't come up with something that wasn't a hex?"
He smirks, rather liking that she's not a fool. "Easily. But with four witnesses from their side, one a prefect no less, what do you think the chances are I wouldn't land in detention? At the very least?"
"Are things really that bad then?" She seems genuinely concerned, and again it gets her an honest answer.
"Yes. They have been all term. You haven't noticed? When was the last time you saw someone land in detention that wasn't from our House?" Generally speaking, he has a point. Just at the moment, however...
She laughs. "Last week." Her grin is huge, and suddenly he realises that Weasley had managed that impossible feat just a week ago.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to rub salt in the wound..." He apologises, and she smiles at him winningly.
"Not at all. I seem to be warming to the memory." Not the part where she'd discovered Ron was cheating on her, but certainly the fallout. If she's honest - and she rarely cares to be about any of that evening - she could have easily kept him from detention. She could have kept him from being kicked off the Gryffindor Quidditch team. All she'd had to do was truthfully tell the others he'd been with her when the fireworks went off. Surprisingly she'd had no interest in admitting she was his bit on the side. Or maybe that was technically Demelza, she isn't really sure... Either way, shockingly, quite, she'd had no desire to do so. She's finding the punishment incredibly fitting, really.
When has a wronged witch last received that level of retribution?
There's something a little hard around her eyes and a touch of malevolence to her smile that Blaise finds appealing. Anything else makes one a victim in this world, anything else is a liability at his side.
Which is a strange way to think of the woman, and yet there she is, inarguably at his side, just as she'd been on it in the fight before.
He likes that in a witch as well.
Which means he finds himself enjoying the prospect of starting the new year with her even more than he'd been when he suggested it.
They stop in front of a portrait and she tickles one of the pieces of fruit depicted on it. The gesture has him thinking of the feel of her fingers on his lips. He is not and has never been envious of a portrait. Except for perhaps just now.
Brown sweeps into the kitchens, clearly very popular with the elves, and within moments they've a hamper of Merlin knows what that the little creatures were terribly eager to supply and are making their way back to the stairs and towards the Astronomy Tower.
That in itself speaks for the witch, Blaise thinks.
Since Dumbledore's... fall, students tended to avoid the Tower, in much the same way they tended to unfairly disparage the Slytherin Head of House. It had been a bit of a risk suggesting it, and Blaise isn't sure why he had. Maybe because he'd known they'd have it to themselves. Possibly it was a sort of test, he's become more cautious of late. Whichever, she'd acquitted herself... satisfactorily once again.
They speak a bit about their classes as they go, and the time passes quickly. He's in all but one of her courses, she's in all but two of his, and while they don't usually discuss that sort of thing with one another, they discover they easily can. In fact, she's a little surprised to realise - now that she thinks about it - that she shares two more classes with Zabini than she does with Ron. One of those classes is Astronomy, which is undoubtedly half the reason she was so comfortable with the Slytherin's suggestion to watch the fireworks from here. She's spent years on this tower with the wizard beside her. The only difference tonight is it's just the two of them.
That thought leaves her feeling a little warm, and by the time Zabini casts his Warming Charm (only seconds after they reach the roof, too considerate really), she isn't altogether certain she needs it.
Well there's no sense telling him that.
She deposits the hamper on one of the battlements, and Summons two folding chairs from the supply near the doors. Zabini is in N.E.W.T. Transfiguration, and he's soon made a squashy loveseat of them. He chooses a neutral black which strikes her as nice. She Summons one of the folding tables they sometimes use for coursework, and with another twitch of the Slytherin's wand, it becomes a rather stylish little couch table on which Lav arranges the contents of the hamper. Blaise raises a brow at the sight of the charcuterie, some of the meats more raw than cured. He recalls the rumours, Brown had been attacked by that... beast last spring...
And yet after something like that, she'd still had the courage to come to his rescue earlier.
Moggies, he thinks, a good deal more kindly than usual, taking the seat beside the witch. There were clearly good reasons she'd been sorted into her House.
"Will you be able to see from there?" He asks, gesturing towards the lights twinkling in the village beyond. The crenels aren't wide, and a merlon eclipses half her view.
"It's not ideal," she admits, not really willing to move.
"We could switch," he suggests.
She laughs. "It's hardly an issue of being a little taller or we could just raise the seat."
"I'm more than a little taller, witch, thank you very much." She laughs again, because that he very much is. She may just have a weakness for tall wizards. Her blush is rather flattering. "But there's no reason we couldn't either raise the couch sufficently with a Wingardium Leviosa or lengthen the legs with a Transfiguration..."
"The winds are far from pleasant up here this time of year," she objects, quite sensibly she thinks. He's gone on to suggest Protegos and more charms when she interrupts with a counterproposal, "We could just budge up closer together and I'd be able to see just fine." A suggestion which shines in its simplicity, and quite possibly has a few other aspects to recommend it. He swallows, atypically quiet, and she takes advantage of his silence to scoot closer. Now that she's pressed up against his side, he completely fails to come up with a better alternative. "You could conjure us a couple of glasses, though. The elves don't seem to have included any for the whisky..."
He shakes off his woolly-headedness and does as she asks, extending first one and then the other tumbler towards her to fill. He waits to hand her hers until she's put aside the bottle of Firewhisky - she doesn't bother to stow it in her bag once more, leaving it conveniently within reach on the table - but she shakes her head. "Hold it a moment, would you? I need to let 'Vati know I won't be coming." She concentrates, naturally it's a little more difficult now, but soon her Patronus appears before them.
She'd never managed a corporeal one in the years prior. Since returning to school, she'd worked at it, hard, unwilling to feel inferior to Ron (or maybe Hermione), and as luck would have it - or perhaps it's a question of xenobiology - it's now a wolf of all things. She's too biased to see the beauty of the animal, something that doesn't fail in the least to register with Blaise. The massive creature is absolutely breathtaking.
Particularly at this distance.
"A corporeal Patronus??" He can hardly believe his eyes, he doesn't even bother trying to disguise his surprise. He'd heard rumours, they all had, that some of Dumblebore's little army were able to do this, but he's never seen one before, and the books don't begin to do it justice. Half-automatically, he certainly isn't thinking about it, he places the whisky glasses on the table and extends a hand for the ethereal creature to scent, much as he might towards a Crup. The wolf doesn't disappoint, after a cautious sniff it nuzzles the young man's palm. The sensation is odd and unexpectedly warm, an exhilarating prickle of energy against his skin that leaves the fine hairs on his arm standing on end and him wanting more, and Blaise continues to stare in wonder. Lavender's grin is positively huge. It's nice having someone appreciate what she can do. Unsurprisingly in a tower where it sometimes seemed everyone could conjure the spectral forms, it hadn't impressed much of anyone.
She begins to give her wolf a message for her roommate. Briefly she explains how she'd hexed a few of the Ravenclaws and thought it best she not attend their soirée, when Blaise interrupts, "You can't say that. You can't give them that satisfaction."
"How's that?" She looks willing to take his advice on this, so he expands. The wolf tilts her head and looks at him expectantly as well, something he finds a touch disconcerting.
"Don't give them the impression you're avoiding them, they'll have won. Present it as your choice, not Zugzwang." In the pre-war days it's possible Ron's only claim to fame besides being their team's Keeper was his prowess at Wizarding Chess. She'd dated him long enough to understand 'Zugzwang' is a forced move. Blaise hadn't deliberately used the term to confuse her, it was simply the word he'd needed, but when he recognises the comprehension in her eyes he smiles a little more. Full of surprises, the witch nestled beside him. Now that he contemplates it, he shouldn't have thought she knew chess.
Lavender grins mischievously and starts her message again. In a tone that's unabashedly suggestive, she announces she'd had a more... compelling offer, details to follow on the morrow, and Blaise interrupts, "You certainly can't say that. They last saw you with me. That'll give them the impression..." He trails off, because her wolfish grin is back with a vengeance.
"And what would be wrong with that?"
Well.
Still.
"Trust me on this one, don't give them ammunition." He's firm. When she doesn't appear entirely convinced, however, he regroups, "These aren't nice people, or was there something about their attacking me - four to one - that led you to believe otherwise?" It sounds a touch defensive, and Lav softens.
"No, of course not." The velvety hand she instinctively rests on his arm to placate him is surprisingly warm, even through his robes and charms. When it slides down to touch the exposed skin on the back of his hand, it takes a conscious effort on his part not to take it in his. "But my wolf knows enough to wait until 'Vati's somewhere private to deliver the message. We do this rather a lot.
"I'm sorry, you couldn't have known."
Her tone is so conciliatory, he accepts they aren't in disagreement here, although he has to wonder, if this isn't being done for show, why she'd say such a thing... And in front of him, too. It does feel more like the time before the war, though, back before the Slytherins as a whole were personae non grata. He tamps that nascent hope back down, and permits himself to question the mechanics of this manner of messaging. "Can it really do that? Wait for her to be on her own to give her the message?"
Lav grins, "Sure. The Ravenclaws have all sorts of cupboards they use for privacy," as if that were the issue. But he recalls those cupboards well. He'd... seen an older Ravenclaw witch and wizard for a while nearly two years ago, regularly enough they could practically have been a thrupple, back when they still did things like that. When the Snakes were still welcome in other Houses. When things were normal...
"Why don't you try it?" Lav suggests. Blaise looks puzzled. "Go on. Hide. She'll find you." It's not quite the same set of circumstances, he'd been more curious about a Patronus' ability to apply logic, and he's a little reluctant to leave the witch's side, not entirely sure she'll allow him back. On the other hand, she'd been the one to suggest they snuggle in close for the better view, they've some time yet till the fireworks, and he isn't anxious to offend her... He unfolds himself from the couch - the curse of the long-legged - and with another look at the wolf, crosses to the other side of the tower, once he's out of sight taking position in a cupboard with supplies for the Astronomy class, mostly fur rugs for the younger students unable to magick themselves warm in the winter.
"Find him," Lav tells her wolf, and off the beast lops, her gait easy, her movements elegant.
It's the matter of moments before she half materialises through the doors to the cupboard, an odd sight beyond any doubt. Her grin is every bit as wolfish as the Gryffindor's, until she spots the furs which she greets with a derisive snarl. Blaise worries fleetingly that it wasn't the best considered of hiding places, it's not as though the Tower hadn't others on offer, but the wolf soon dismisses the furs with a disapproving snort, nudges him and then retreats from the cupboard.
When he apparently doesn't follow in a timely enough fashion, she sticks her head in once again, intent on fetching him, radiating impatience until he follows her out with a chuckle.
Her triumphant trot as she leads the way back to the little couch is nearly comical in a being - entity? manifestation? - of her size.
Frankly he'd assumed a Patronus must be able to at least find someone no matter where they were located - within reason anyway - or it wouldn't do for messaging at all, but it raises questions and he's naturally curious. A little undecided, he stands beside the loveseat, dithering, before he asks, "Can she find someone despite spellwork?"
After six and a half years of sharing a room with Hermione (and isn't she glad they don't anymore), Lavender is accustomed to hypothetical academic questions. She's far less accustomed to someone wanting her input, or greeting it, when supplied, with anything other than disdain, conscious or not, so it takes her a beat to respond.
She hasn't a definitive answer for him, and instead she hands him his glass of Firewhisky. "Drink up," she commands, "and then we can try it and see." The Ogden's truly is good, the company, too, and he throws it back, returning an empty tumbler. Lavender has the good sense to sip hers more slowly, but she has to give him credit for not succumbing to a fiery coughing fit. Apparently he has some practice with the stuff.
"Alright, give me thirty and send her after me," he calls over his shoulder as he runs off. It reminds her of the carefree hide and seek games she and Seamus and their friends had played as children and she smiles. She gives the Slytheirn another fifteen count and sends the wolf to find him once more. This time he takes refuge in a niche in the stairwell, Dissillusions himself, and then at the last second applies a Protego for good measure. That proves as fruitless as the Dissillusionment, for a moment later the Patronus is sticking her head through the Shield Charm and giving him a lick that sets his skin pricking.
"Good girl," he praises her. The wolf beams before he can decide it was foolish, the whisky may be getting to him, and for all her size she's really quite Crup-like. He's always liked Crups. Again he laughs and follows her back to her mistress.
"Disillusionment was a complete failure. Do you suppose it still works with more than a rudimentary Perception Charm?" He asks, taking the proffered glass of whisky once more and tipping it back with an appreciative gulp.
"I'm game to find out if you are," she smiles, silently impressed with how much whisky the wizard can put away. Not some rubber-legged, lightweight like some she could name. But won't. Because this is all rather fun, and why should she ruin her evening? "Go on, off you tot. How much of a head start do you need?"
"Give me a couple of minutes to do the spells..." They're harder to do without a wand, and it will necessitate somewhat more concentration. He disappears again around the small structure at the top of the stairs.
Lav nips at her whisky as she continues the count and then a bit gleefully unleashes her wolf once more. "Drag him back." The spectral canid seems only too happy to comply, and a few moments later reappears at her side with a slightly breathless Zabini. He hasn't had this much fun since his Ravenclaws graduated.
"I think I know one that's stronger..." He proposes.
"Be my guest," she invites.
This time he combines his strongest Perception Charm with a Notice-Me-Nott and a Protego Duo - belts and braces, sometimes it helps in the sum - and still no joy. He returns bearing a couple of the rugs having come to an understanding about them with the wolf.
"Maybe something that covers one's magical signature..." He seems unsure. Anything else really would require the use of his wand anyway. With the trace on it... He shouldn't like to have to explain what he was doing.
"Do you know anything that would?" She asks.
Shaking his head, he finally flops back onto the seat beside her draping the furs over both their laps and then gratefully accepts the whisky from her, pausing before he drinks to ask, "How much have you had?"
"Keep going, I'm rather enjoying watching you," she tells him and he finds himself again comparing her grin to the wolf's, now curled beside their seat. He decides he likes the toothiness of both ladies, and then that if he's thinking things like that, he should probably slow his consumption some until the witch catches up.
"I've got nothing at all along those lines," he admits, but there's no trace of frustration. His brain is clearly at work despite alcohol. He means to budge up next to the witch again, then ducks in front of her to check her view and pulls her to him instead. "Don't tell me you could see from there," he justifies the witch-handling, and Lav snuggles in closer deciding she really rather likes the position. Before he can withdraw his arm from around her shoulders again, she snares his hand in hers and holds it in place.
"It's warmer that way," she explains. He gives her a somewhat speculative look (as if saying he was a more compelling way to spend her evening than a party and suggesting she wouldn't be available to provide details before the morning hadn't been plain enough, wizards) and she flashes that hungry grin of hers. There's a full moon in less than 48 hours and she's begun to feel it.
"Maybe an Unplottable..." Blaise muses, back to his thoughts on the functioning of Patronuses.
Lavender laughs. This was why she'd been certain that Martins couldn't beat Zabini in a fair fight. He's something of a natural at this sort of thing. If Malfoy weren't so frightfully clever... Well, and Nott, too, she supposes, but if it weren't for those two, Zabini would have been his year's Prefect she's sure. It was frightfully unfair, really. They'd both faced some terribly stiff competition, whereas others...
"Weasley had absolutely no competition whatsoever," the Slytherin readily agrees, and briefly Lav thinks she should defend Seamus, except he really wasn't particularly studious, and then has to realise she'd voiced those thoughts out loud...
"Can you do Legilimency?" She asks, just to be sure.
It's Blaise's turn to laugh. "I guess you've been keeping up after all," he indicates the Ogden's. He pours them both a little more whisky, inspecting the bottle to determine they've put quite a dent in it. "Remind me I owe you one, would you?" He asks, making a mental note he hopes he'll remember to gift her a bottle of Blishen's Premium.
Financially things are a little tight, and she won't say no. It's nice of him to think of it though, especially as she'd volunteered the bottle, hadn't she?
"Do you fancy your chances of finding an Unplottable Spell in the library?" She asks, melting into his side.
Oh, he fancies his chances alright - whatever else, she certainly isn't known as a tease - but not of discovering a spell like that. "Not on your life," he replies. He's definite. "There's no way they have that in there, not even in the Restricted Section. It's far too useful."
An arc of his hand draws the wooden board with their meal closer and with the twitch of a finger, he drapes a slice of raw beef on a thin bit of baguette which he holds out for her. She imagines that's as delicate an acknowledgment of his acceptance of her... condition as she could get. That was very kind of him, she decides, and takes a hungry bite. Realistically, there's little doubt the morsel was meant exclusively for her, and she soon finishes it off. It's sort of nice being fed, playful in a way that appeals.
He licks his fingers once his hand is free again, and Lav finds herself licking her lips reflexively. Another sip of whisky helps with her suddenly dry throat. There's a small arrangement of carpaccio on the tray and Blaise prepares himself a piece of bread with that next. She takes his consumption of raw meat as another deliberate sign of acceptance, and she's truly grateful. It's a conversation she's desperately eager to avoid.
Blaise knows a thing or two about what it means to have survived a lycanthrope's attack. Having been deemed 'blood traitors', Hestia Carrow and Valerie Vaisey had both literally been thrown to the wolves last year as punishment for their families. They'd survived, obviously, presumably in much the same state as the Gryffindor. It wasn't spoken of much, but there had been a few adjustments. Ultimately it had helped everyone better come to terms with their conditions when they discovered it made the witches a good deal more aggressive on the pitch. Even more so when they'd gleefully annihilated the Moggies several weeks ago. Silver linings.
Lavender Summons their glasses handing him his when he's eaten his food. Somehow the glass is full again. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" He asks, wondering if he isn't already, at least a bit.
Lav has much the same thought, but only smiles, "And what if I am?"
He's not sure what the best answer to that is. Things aren't as simple as they used to be. Explaining that, especially in any detail, seems like a really bad idea of mood-ruining proportions, and so he holds his tongue, keeping those thoughts to himself. His face hides it well, but his eyes aren't quite up to the job, and Lavender can't help feeling a little sorry for him. She has the good sense not to remark on it, instead nestling herself further into his side. Apparently it does the trick, because his demeanour lightens once more. He catches himself sniffing her hair as a gust of wind blows it into his face, and he almost regrets it when she puts up a charm to shield them from the draught. The witch smells good.
"Say, weren't you going to send your Patronus to Patil?" He asks, suddenly recalling why she conjured the wolf.
"Oh! Damn!" Lavender rights herself, composes a message and soon dispatches her Patronus off to 'Vati. "Thank you, it escaped my mind entirely." Blaise tries to flatter himself that he's just that distracting, but suspects the whisky had more to do with it.
"Fantastic creature," he sighs almost wistfully as it disappears in the direction of the Ravenclaw tower. It occurs to Lav that he's probably interacted with it more in the past fifteen minutes than she has all term, and that as it's unquestionably an extension of her magical self, she should take his reaction to it as a compliment. That leaves her feeling a little flushed once more. Wand still in hand, she makes them a couple more opened faced sandwiches. She polishes her own off rather quickly, thankful when he doesn't comment on it, and then holds the other out for him to eat.
"Your hand was full," she indicates his tumbler of Firewhisky. And if this kept him from removing the arm around her shoulders? Even better.
"'Language', by the way," he adds between bites, changing the subject. "'Completely unbefitting a prefect'," he repeats her earlier words to Martins back to her and she giggles. Yes, the Ogden's is definitely having an effect.
"I'm not a prefect," she reminds him.
"You could be," he replies. "Someone has to fill Granger's position, why not you?" Lav blinks, surprised. She hadn't really thought about who was going to take over for Hermione now she'd graduated, assuming they were even going to put someone else in her robes, and Lav is quite certain no one else had considered her the right person for the job anyway. It's unexpected to hear the Slytherin suggest it.
"I'm not sure I stand a chance. Fay's more ambitious. Merlin, she wanted to be an Auror..."
"I've played Quidditch against her, trust me she hasn't a patch on you." Again the witch looks unconvinced, she's really making him work for things. "Look, Dunbar will most likely need five N.E.W.T.s to be an Auror, and what is she taking? She only has four N.E.W.T.s, only three are core courses, and two of those are History of Magic and Astronomy..."
"We're both taking Astronomy..." Lav objects.
He chuckles, "Well I'm not stupid and neither are you; an advantage is an advantage, an easy N.E.W.T. is an easy N.E.W.T. But you've five N.E.W.T.s total, four of them in core courses." She's surprised he knows what she's taking. "Don't look at me like that. We're in most of them together," he points out.
She laughs, "Do you honestly think I have a chance, or are you just trying to get in my knickers?"
"Is acknowledgment of academic prowess the way into your knickers?" He rejoins. There's a gravelly quality to his voice that her wolf seems to like.
The suggestion is greeted by more laughter. It hadn't previously been the way to win her over, and without any question no one has ever tried that tack with her before, but she's finding she rather likes it. She doesn't have to answer as her smirk does the job for her.
"Look, Smith only has three N.E.W.T.s., so Patil will be your biggest competition, and she hasn't got your drive. Seriously, you should talk to McGonagall..."
"Professor McGonagall," Lav corrects absently, too many years of living with Hermione have left an impression.
"See? Prefect material if ever there were some. Put yourself forward, make sure she has you on her mind when she's making the decision." He smirks, and then suddenly appears horrified when another thought occurs, "Please tell me Longbottom isn't supposed to appoint someone???"
Lav laughs, "I think Professor McGonagall is still doing things like that. It's a little unfair to ask Neville to choose amongst his peers..."
"All the more reason he should never have been made Head of House. You know that's ridiculous don't you? He's only barely an apprentice. The very idea of it..." Zabini isn't the first to voice those objections, not even this week. She's plenty used to hearing them and may even have agreed from time to time.
"He hasn't been half bad really." At the latest since he'd given Ron detention for practically ev-er, she'd warmed to the idea of having Neville in that position.
"Or you know, if you don't want to be Prefect, point out to Dunbar how much better qualified for the job you are, and ask her what it would be worth to her not to have to compete. Tell her prefecthood might improve her chances of becoming an Auror, it could help compensate for the missing N.E.W.T."
"Oh, that's clever," she allows, her admiration clear. "I'm pretty sure I won't need it on my C.V. later... But on the other hand, I think it might make Ron squirm if I were his counterpart..."
"Well then by all means, there's your answer. It's practically decided," he grins, which is nice. Most people tend to make her feel guilty when she voices less than generous thoughts like that. This has been very refreshing.
His wand buzzes with a Tempus she hadn't noticed him cast - in fact, with the almost unavoidable exceptions of the furniture Transfiguration and tumbler Conjuration, he hasn't really used it much all evening - and she looks at him enquiringly. "One minute to midnight," he tells her, reaching for the Ogden's to top them both off.
In the distance she can hear the faint sounds of people counting down, Zabini joins in in the final seconds. She nibbles her lip a little nervously, and as soon as midnight strikes and they've toasted the new year against a backdrop of perfectly phenomenal pyrotechnics, gives him a shy kiss full on the lips. There's a moment of bafflement she can't quite account for - because she sort of thought it was all leading to this - before he responds in kind, and it soon becomes an energetic snog. When she comes up for air, she tells him, "You're very good at that."
A huff of amusement answers - he used to be anyway, he hopes he still is - and then adds a "Thank you."
"I'm seeing fireworks," she adds breathily.
"That's literally the reason we came up here," he replies. She half pounces, eager for more, but he gets the hand holding his tumbler between them and nudges her gently away. "Watch the fireworks, Lavender..." His head indicating the display over Hogsmeade.
"I'm not contagious!" She blurts, immediately wishing she hadn't, thoroughly mortified she'd brought it up, but if that's the reason he's suddenly running cold...
"Of course not. Look, the rockets are excellent..." He tries to reason with her. He'd watched them often enough in years past, and the first Hogmanay after the war? They were most assuredly going to be better than ever. When he accepts he probably isn't going to make any headway convincing the witch, he quietly adds, "And you're far less likely to regret that in the morning."
Somewhat sullenly she leans back in her seat. She's no longer tucked in at his side, and he knows for a fact there's a merlon obstructing half her view. He misses her warmth, and considering his Warming Charms are still going strong, he's knows it isn't simply a question of thermal units. He misses the cuddling. There hasn't been much of that in recent months... It's closer to years, in fact. He'd tried to be galant, and here the stubborn woman is going to ruin her evening with her petulance. And possibly his too.
"Don't be like that," he pleads. "Come back here where you can see the display." When that fails to do the trick, he offers, "If you'd rather not, we can still switch places so you won't miss it." Her pout may just be growing more pronounced. Somewhat frustrated he asks, "What do you want from me?"
"I'm not contagious," she mutters again.
"I didn't think you were." She thaws slightly. "I know you're not, Lavender. Now don't be a numpty and come here and watch the show with me. Please." He holds his arm out to make room for her and grins roguishly, something she finds rather inviting, and despite his clear enthusiasm for the fireworks, he doesn't spare them a second glance. She begins to feel guilty about making him miss them the longer he sits there like that and finally relents, folding herself back into the spot at his side. His arm rests almost naturally across her shoulders, and she wonders if she'd gotten the wrong end of the wand. He certainly doesn't seem to object to her, and she knows she's a little oversensitive about her... condition.
"Good girl," he whispers in her hair as she nestles in beside him, and she finds she likes that, too.
The fireworks really are very good, certainly a good deal more enjoyable when one isn't battling them in an all too narrow corridor, and she does appreciate his insistence on enjoying the show.
"Worth it, wasn't it?" He huffs into her hair when the last rocket has been fired and the show comes to an end, and she nods, distracted. She trails the tip of her nose along his neck, pleased to note it makes a vein pulse and his jaw tense, but he pulls back again. "Are you really sure that's what you want?"
"I thought you were supposed to be smart," she answers impatiently and now also becoming somewhat frustrated. "How much more obvious do I need to be?"
"You don't have to you know. I hadn't any expectations..." Not at the outset anyway. He's since revised his opinion. Still, this was far from a foregone conclusion, and he's far from convinced it's advisable. In addition to all the other reasons, and they were manifold, he has more than a passing suspicion that she isn't over her ex. Aside from any ethical ramifications - frankly he's reasonably good at overlooking those if a situation is sufficiently favourable - that's a construct more likely to blow up in his face should she come to regret it.
"Zabini, less talking."
"'Blaise'..." he manages and that's about all before she begins kissing him again. She's not half bad at this herself. Exceptionally passionate even, ravenous, and it occurs to him there's a full moon soon. Merlin. He's still trying to decide if that makes this a better idea than it otherwise would be or not... But he's only human, and finally he surrenders and leans into the turn.
She has a suspicion that it's not his first time doing this, and here at that, when a wandless Mobilicorpus suspends them briefly, another charm spreads the rugs evenly beneath them - it could be a simple Bed-making Charm, but she's never applied it this way - and a third fluffs the fur. A Cleansing Charm - if she's any judge, and she think she is - but still it makes her giggle as they gently come to rest on the now extra fluffy fur. Very circumspect, the wizard.
The kisses soon turn to groping, there's thankfully no fumbling here. They just seem to 'click' and she's grateful for it; it's better that way than having to question the wisdom of this all over again. She deserves a spot of fun. Why should it always be everyone else? Why shouldn't she just enjoy herself?
She straddles one of his muscular legs and puts it to good use. Her thigh and not so subtle gyrations in turn seem to make an impression on him as well. As he nibbles on her earlobes, one of his hands does the best it can through the thick seams of her denims, before he accepts he'll need to attempt the squeeze into the tight garment. It's better, so much better, his fingers skimming over her knickers, but still doesn't seem enough. Those jeans do rather flattering things for her arse, but as that's virtually invisible under her winter cloak and completely immaterial here, she's beginning to sincerely regret her sartorial choices for the evening. And she isn't faring all that much better with his. His trousers have become so tight, at this rate he's apt to do himself a serious mischief.
Eventually they reach the natural limits imposed by their winter wardrobes. Warm clothing is rarely ideally suited for this sort of thing. He's teased her to distraction but his reach is too restricted and truthfully hers isn't much better. Determined to rectify the situation, she launches a frontal assault on his trouser placket when his hand on hers arrests her advance.
"Are you sure you want this?" He asks again, his breath hot against her neck. She manages not to sigh in frustration (although it may help that she's busy panting), and nods, but he seems determined not to move his hands, those very talented hands, again until she actually says 'yes' and so she does. If it sounds a bit short, she thinks that's perfectly understandable at this juncture. He grabs his wand and performs a Divesto and she nearly laughs as her shoes, trousers and knickers vanish heavens know where.
For that he'd needed his wand?
From the smooth way he'd negotiated them into position, she'd have thought he was an old hand at that particular spell. But the fur is incredibly soft against her thighs and the wizard above her is too, too warm, and soon that wand is the furthest thing from her mind.
A/N:
The next chapter is NSFW. Anything crucial to the story will be recapped in the chapter that (eventually) follows it (I'll add the link here later when I post it), so feel free to skip it if that isn't your thing.The story is mirrored on Dreamwidth and LiveJournal.
Other works by gingerbred can be found on Dreamwidth and LiveJournal.
ADDITIONAL STAND ALONE ONE SHOTS PLANNED FOR THIS UNIVERSE.
(no subject)
Date: 2021-03-05 01:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2021-03-09 05:21 am (UTC)Blaise, as a war-time Slytherin — of course he would notice Lavender and what classes she is in and when he suggested going for Prefect it was the most awesome thing. Here is someone who sees her from a completely different point of view and likes what he sees. I can't get over how much I love this. Thank you so much, my dear, it is the best gift in the world. 💚❤️💚❤️💚
(no subject)
Date: 2021-03-09 05:23 am (UTC)Speaking of leaps and bounds, the FUN of her patronus and how tickled Blaise was by the whole thing! So playful and impressed and wow it was just so much fun to enjoy!
(no subject)
Date: 2021-09-26 02:41 pm (UTC)Also, I really like the way she makes him a happier person. A happier Blaise is a far more accessible Blaise. (And Weasley is an ass. Every bit of that happiness could have been his if he'd just continued as he started, someone helping her be better, but too much of it was inadvertent, incidental. Mindfulness pays.)
(no subject)
Date: 2021-09-26 02:37 pm (UTC)Sometimes you need someone outside of your bubble to see what *is* and not what *was*. People you've known you forever often cast you into old roles; Blaise just sees the woman before him and takes her for that. (Plus he's actually applying that tactical thinking and not just sitting around like a miserable ball of personified envy.) She's not "yesterday's Lav" anymore, and not just because of her wolf. (None of them are, tbf. War and all that. The question is what do you *do* about it?)
While I don't think it's necessary for her to make a complete cut with her past (that would be sad), having some new people around her will help her blossom. And once the older friends have "proof of concept", they're a lot more likely — most of them anyway — to accept the new version.