Dark Horse (Mim and Grimoire)

[Madam Mim]

Autumn always bored Peeves. The worst he could do was track in mud from outside. Winter brought snow and he could pelt the students with slush or ice, spring brought the rains and soggy students looking to get dry only to find themselves pelted with water balloons. What did autumn have? Mud and leaves.

Still, beginning of term was always better than the middle of the summer with no one but dear old Dumbles here, and he didn't mess with the headmaster. No, Dumbledore commanded even Peeves's respect. So with only ghosts and Filch to harass for three long months, autumn was refreshing in that he had so many more potential targets.

Term begun nearly a month prior, and everyone seemed to be into the swing of things by now. The students had settled in; old friends reunited and new friends being made. Being a Monday morning, it was clear enough that Peeves's solemn duty was to help students start the week off right. The poltergeist was just trying to decide who to start with. Ickle firsties were always fun, but too easy. He wanted to start the year off with a bang (perhaps literally), but the Weasley twins had gone and he just didn't feel that he could yet do their memory justice. He was bobbing along the ceiling of a busy corridor when he spotted one of his favorites. With a grin he darted down three floors to the potions supply room.

Maggie pushed her way through the crowd toward her first class of the morning. She liked Charms and the kind professor who taught it. Of course, it was possible that being head of Ravenclaw that Professor Flitwick tended to favor her and a few of her friends, but Hermione Granger was a favorite too. People thought Hermione, who was in her year, to be naturally friends with most if not all Ravenclaws, but Maggie didn't actually know her that well.

Someone waving caught her attention. Looking up, Maggie smiled and waved at Anthony Goldstein. She frowned, unable to make out what he was saying at this distance. She moved closer, but Anthony started pointing upwards.

Slime. At the shock of the blow, Maggie had opened her mouth and got a mouthful of whatever it was Peeves had dumped on her. She understood a split second too late that Anthony had been trying to warn her. With a tired sigh, the sixth year wiped the slime out of her eyes and looked up to see Peeves cackle and blow a raspberry before zooming away. Shaking her head, she tried to wipe off as much as she could. What was this stuff, anyway? It smelled like it might be frog sputum...

 

[Grimoire]

Autumn -- when the Scottish air grew crisp and the first years burrowed themselves into thick piles of woolen knit in a vain attempt to keep the chill at bay. When the students hurried from class to class with a spring in their step and a playful bite to their words as they argued and quibbled over the most recent match of Quidditch. The fact that it was even Monday hadn't been able to dull the enthusiasm of the the lesser years, powered as they were by the limitless feasts that comprised a proper Hogwarts breakfast.

Cutting through the crowd, as a cloud might through the rays of a morning sun, Blaise Zabini cut a harsh contrast with the rest of the student body, for more reasons than the obvious. He wasn't a fresh-faced pale little Scot or Briton, but more than that he adopted a poise more expected of faculty than students. A crispness to his tie, a shine to leather shoes, every aspect of his presentation filed down to some grade of immaculate in the grand tradition of the vain. No buttons, no scarf even, and certainly no thick piles of woolen knit.

Blaise took a steady but measured pace through Hogwarts' halls toward early morning Charms -- a dual session between Ravenclaw and Slytherin. He supposed he had never minded them overmuch -- with certain exceptions, there was something of a dignity to the house that, say, Hufflepuffs had in minute amounts and with which Gryffindor could hardly be bothered and get five house cup points for their troubles.

The young wizard was about to step out into the hall just before charms when some unbidden thought stayed him -- just long enough for a splattering rain of some awful concoction or reagent to come pouring down on some poor soul, covering them in a green film of what could very possibly have been liquefied frog. Blaise curled a lip in distaste, and in the wake of the communal intake of breath -- as fresh first years leapt for cover and more seasoned veterans of the school merely acted to deflect the spray with their leather bags or the hems of their cloaks -- Blaise drew his wand. It was a fine dark oak construction, cored by the heartstring of a dragon, that leveled itself on Maggie and glittered brilliantly as only his voice was heard in that instant of silence.

"Scourgify," he said in a resonant basso, before he pocketed his wand as quickly as it had come.

He kept walking, trailing stares -- a fair few Slytherins had already gathered for Charms, and were about to engage in a communal guffaw (Peeves had to have his audience somewhere) headed by weaselly Draco Malfoy himself before the spell had silenced them -- he didn't want to be late for class.

 

[Madam Mim]

Maggie had been searching for her wand, trying not to spread the slime and make it worse, when suddenly she was clean again. With a blink of surprise, she signed -thank you- to her friend Adriana, who shook her head and jerked her thumb over her shoulder. She turned in time to catch Blaise Zabini's retreating back and a quick exchange confirmed his identity. They exchanged mildly surprised looks before heading inside.

Not that all Slytherins were the same, of course, but they generally laughed hardest and most often at Peeves's pranks on her. She was used to being made fun of, naturally, and the poltergeist's torment had become near-constant in her second year when he realized that he didn't have to sneak up on her to get one over on her. Though she secretly competed with him for top marks, Maggie otherwise didn't know Blaise from a hole in the ground and hadn't the foggiest as to why he might have an interest in helping her. This was the main topic of conversation until Professor Flitwick called on Adriana to answer a question she was unable to answer. With a stern look, but fortunately no points taken, he moved on and the girls fell silent.

Further back in the classroom, a similar conversation was taking place. Draco took a seat next to Zabini and fixed him with a curious look. He seemed almost offended.

"What was that about?" he demanded in a hushed tone, leaning his head closer. "Peeves was brilliant; what'd you go and ruin the fun for? She would've never been able to find her wand in the slime!" Draco knew her, as most others did, simply as "the deaf girl." He'd gone out of his way a few times to make her life harder, but mostly he let Peeves handle it. Retards were rarely worth his time unless he was bored.

 

[Grimoire]

For all his attention and devotion to his grades, Blaise still tended to sit a fair bit further back in the class than the average student. His chin settled in his hand, a quill held loose between two fingers, he was set for another round of casual note-taking when Malfoy fetched up beside him, forcing some other SLytherin girl a little bit down the way in doing so. Blaise pretended not to notice for a careful two seconds, before dark eyes swayed Malfoy's way right around word "brilliant".

Malfoy. Repulsive Draco Malfoy. Mr. "Blood Traitor", Lord "Mudblood". The spitting, sneering image of his father. Blaise couldn't even bring himself to disagree with some of those thoughts on principle; it's just that the Malfoys had to be so unseemly and unprofessional about the whole thing. He'd have chalked it up to age if his family's hall hadn't known the pleasure of the Malfoys' company in summers past. At least he was better than some of the others; Crabbe and Goyle came to mind. Mimicked malice was somehow worse than the genuine article.

"Mm. Her?" Blaise asked. He'd hardly paid any attention when he had cast his spell; in fact, it was only by idle glances and furtive whispers that he'd caught on that the one he had spared Peeves' trickery had been one Maggie Cartwright. One of the cleverer Ravenclaw girls, and frankly beautiful were he to be honest with himself. Appealing, were it not for unfortunate circumstance.

Dark eyes lighted briefly on the back of her head, trailing the length of her lovely golden braid before he followed inevitably back to Malfoy. Peeves' brand of humor had rotted in time with his corpse, but there were more diplomatic ways to say that.

"I thought I was doing a nicety for some second year; it doesn't hurt to set a good example, Draco. I thought that was why we keep losing our House Cup." Blaise didn't care about that -- no one in their right mind did, but a certain subset of each house seemed to be rather pissy about it. "I can't imagine why it matters, anyway. Social niceties to other fine families how we all get along, mm?" He spoke it as if reciting it.

 

[Madam Mim]

"Fine families?" Draco sputtered. He ducked his head a little as Flitwick looked up to see who wasn't focusing on practicing their spells. He leaned in and lowered his voice. "The Cartwrights? Surely you're joking."

The Cartwrights were a pureblood family. Not Sacred Twenty-Eight elite, sure enough, but still purebloods, and it was for that reason alone that those with pure blood mania like the Malfoys even bothered learning the name. But they were strictly middle-class and only incidental rather than deliberate purebloods. It was well-known that the mother had run off with a muggle co-worker some ten years prior. Families like the Malfoys and the Blacks looked down on the Cartwrights with a mixture of disgust and pity, the way one might watch a homeless man talking to a lamp post.

"It's not exactly like she comes from good stock," Draco added darkly after quickly casting his charm to satisfy Flitwick that he was indeed practicing. "I didn't take you for having a soft spot for flailing retards."

 

[Grimoire]

Blaise stilled himself before Flitwick's gaze, seamlessly transitioning back into his notes -- before entertaining Malfoy with another side-eyed look.

It was true that the Cartwrights were not well-regarded. And if one was being honest, at this stage of society... for a girl to have been born into such a family without something as basic as her ability to hear, something so fundamental to magic that many spells would simply backfire with the incorrect intonation... well, she might as well have been mudblooded to the grand majority of those that believed in blood purity. That her mother had gone and whored herself to a common Muggle had done little to endear her to others, and it had been a very popular rumor that Maggie wasn't a Cartwright by blood at all, that the cheating and cuckoldry had started well in advance of the Cartwright's most famous "divorce by mail".

These were all things taught under the patient auspices of Bianca Zabini.

At Draco's crass assessment of blood -- Blaise couldn't help but curl his lips at the Sacred Twenty-Eight nonsense, for he knew what lingered in the back of Malfoy's mind; no Zabini had ever graced that particular list -- Blaise shrugged one shoulder.

"Perhaps," Blaise allowed with a careless flick of his wand. "But then, that's the way of things these days. There are so many piecemeal pureblood families that it doesn't pay to be too petty. Having a match and seeing a bridge doesn't oblige you to burn it," Blaise said. "Besides, you know me better than that;" he said with a touch of amusement, "I can't hold everyone in as high regards as I do the Malfoys." A risky thing to say in response, but he was relatively certain Draco would miss that subtext. He wasn't a between-the-lines sort of man.

"But it cost me nothing to be kind."

 

[Madam Mim]

"It can cost you your reputation to be kind," Draco rebutted. They had in their conversation missed the bell signaling the end of class, but with his trademark Malfoy smirk he jerked his chin down the stairs where other students were making their way past to leave. "Perfect example."

Maggie was watching them, clearly intending to stop and talk on her way out. Well, what passed for talking for her. Draco had only heard her speak once, on accident when she and her friends had thought they were alone. It was loud and troll-clumsy, and he and his friends had gotten weeks of entertainment from it.

Maggie quickly signed something to Adriana, who nodded and waved goodbye but cast a doubtful glance at the over her shoulder. She gave Blaise a shy, awkward smile and waved hello before holding up a small slate board.

Words appeared on it with a flick of her wand. I just wanted to thank you for helping me earlier. It was very kind of you. The magical chalk words in tidy, spidery cursive handwriting stayed on the board for a moment before wiping themselves away and being replaced with a new sentence. I'm Maggie. She quickly tucked her wand behind her ear and held out her hand to shake.

Draco couldn't help but snicker and turned his face away from her so she couldn't see his mouth. "This is what kindness costs you," he said with a triumphant smirk, oblivious of Maggie's disapproving look. "Your dignity. See? She's got a crush on you now and you'll never be rid of her."

 

[Grimoire]

"I don't think my reputation so fragile," Blaise said with more than a hint of disdain. It was more of an issue to Malfoy than it ever would have been to Blaise, and it was of significant disappointment that he was sure he would be hearing about this all day long during group classes.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, side by side, Blaise halted in his steps. He opened his mouth to speak but was forestalled by a wave of lovely cursive, the sight of which provoked a small polite smile. He reached for her hand and took it firmly -- his grip was warm and smooth, firm but gentle as it subsumed her smaller hand. "Blaise Zabini," he said. He always spoke clearly and enunciated well, making his lips easier to read than those who preferred to mumble.

He turned his head, leaning just so toward Malfoy as the other boy snickered.

"Draco. Go on; I'll catch up," Blaise said within sight of Maggie's eyes, turning his attention back to her as he dropped his hand. There was a bit of spite in his heart, and it wasn't for her just then.

"It was no trouble. What is your next class? I'll see you partway; Peeves enjoys his encores."

 

[Madam Mim]

Draco arched an eyebrow, his face still turned away from Maggie. "Ten galleons if you ask her out," he challenged. "Fifty if you get her to put out. Double it if you do it before New Year." He patted him on the shoulder before turning back around when it wouldn't matter whether she could see his lips or not. "Think about it. I'll see you in Potions."

Maggie smiled when he dropped her hand and offered to walk her to class. Taking her wand out from behind her ear, it twitched the tiniest bit and the board began to write again. I couldn't ask you to do that, she insisted. I saw he said your next class is Potions. I've got Arithmancy up on the seventh floor. It would take ages; I don't want to make you late. Nevertheless, as she began to walk he walked with her. After some silence from the slate she held it up again. Not that I'm ungrateful...but why are you suddenly being nice to me? You

Slyth

She seemed to be having trouble thinking of how to phrase her question.

Draco Malfoy and his friends don't exactly have much sympathy for me when it comes to Peeves, and I thought you were friends with him.

Maggie hadn't wanted it to sound accusatory. He'd never been mean, exactly; he'd just never seemed to notice her existence before. If he had merely helped her clean up that would be one thing...but walking her to class? Unprecedented. A thought suddenly came to her, furrowing her brow briefly, and more words appeared. The handwriting was slightly thicker, as though she had pressed harder than was advisable on the chalk.

If it's a trick or a joke, get the punchline over with. A pause. Please.

It wouldn't be the first time someone, particularly a Slytherin, had shown her kindness as a joke. In first year Professor Flitwick had taught her to enchant her quill to transcribe the lecture long enough for her to take notes before disappearing, so that she would have the same advantage as hearing students and it wouldn't look like cheating. Before she had mastered this particular spell, Pansy Parkinson had volunteered to be her note-taker in the three classes Ravenclaw and Slytherin shared. She and Draco had been caught in uncontrollable giggle fits when Maggie nearly broke down crying after receiving three failed tests on the same day.

Blaise Zabini, arrogant though he seemed, also seemed to be above such pettiness and secretly she hoped he really was. Ravenclaws, believing strongly in pack bonding and recognizing the mental health benefits suggested by recent studies of bond-building between like individuals, had agreed as a house several years ago to dedicate the first Saturday of every month to a voluntary boys-only takeover of the common room, and the third Saturday to a girls-only takeover. The second Saturday was coed, and it had quickly become a tradition which many participated in when they could, resulting in a tight-knit house community. At least once a term on a girl's weekend the "if you had to do a Slytherin" game came up. There was no psychological benefit or team-building aspect to it; it was simply a slumber party type game that they played when it had gotten too late and too much butterbeer had been involved. Slytherin house to them seemed to be comprised of two groups: models, and those with troll ancestry, some more recent than others. Some girls considered personality and intellect in their choices--Millicent Bullstrode, for example, despite falling into the troll group appeared to be passably intelligent, perhaps even slightly above average--while others focused solely on physical traits. There were no wrong answers in the Slytherin Game, but one had to provide their reasoning.

While a good number of Ravenclaw girls were convinced that Draco Malfoy and a boy named Calen Pratchett were both part-Veela, Maggie's choice had always been Blaise.

He's easily the most intelligent, was her usual argument before adding with a sly smile, and you could cut yourself on his cheekbones if you aren't careful.

Not that she would ever tell him this, of course. A thrill of cold fear ran through her and she glanced sideways at him; what if someone else had? It was generally understood that Aerie Night was sacred, and nothing said in the common room ever left there, especially not the Slytherin Game. But they worked on the honor system, and Maggie's memory flashed back to Marietta, who had apparently told on the secret Defense Against the Dark Arts class Harry Potter had been teaching after hours. Just because they were fellow Ravenclaws didn't mean they couldn't be just as cruel as anyone else. Look at how much poor Luna got picked on. She glanced sideways at him, hoping he wasn't able to hear her heart thundering against her chest at the mortifying thought while waiting for his explanation.

 

[Grimoire]

“What--” Blaise had managed in reply to Draco’s challenge, but swiftly mastered his own shock, smoothing the very brief wrinkle in his poised expression. “Very well, Draco -- see you there.”


Money? To bed the deaf girl? Was that child out of his mind? The thoughts came. Blaise had always prided himself on keeping well above the muck that the Malfoys, the Parkinsons, the Averies, and more seemed to keep thrusting themselves into. These children, playing at a politic they were given secondhand, a hand-me-down status quo that rankled Blaise. The Zabinis were a higher class, his mother had always insisted.


But yet, Blaise could only rise so far above. On some level, even the brightest Hogwarts students were still just that: students. Children.


And how sweet it might be to make Draco that much poorer for a trifling endeavor?


He swept out of Charms with her, his hand touching very briefly on the small of her back as if to usher her through the thronging students just outside the room -- fourth year Ravenclaws, jockeying for front row seats. Once free of it, he turned dark eyes onto the blonde, catching the glow of her chalk against the slate.


-Draco Malfoy and his friends don't exactly have much sympathy for me when it comes to Peeves, and I thought you were friends with him.-


He had to be diplomatic. That was a key rule of Bianca Zabini.


But he could have a little fun. He opened his mouth to have his fun when--


-If it's a trick or a joke, get the punchline over with.- A pause. -Please.-


That was…


His eyes focused on hers briefly, struck by how… blue they were. Not touched by any special malice, but merely the softness of a Zurich sky, a meltwater blue.


He’d never noticed.


“Why, yes. He does seem to think that, doesn’t he?” Blaise asked, remembering in time to turn his face toward hers enough that she could read his lips. Lips that spread into a handsome smile -- she didn’t get to see that often, even admiring him from afar. In the Great Hall, perchance, at an occasional joke that trended more humorous than needlessly cruel.


“Our families are friends, Maggie,” he said, turning dark eyes her way briefly. “And though that may be, I'm not a part of his posse. I'm where I choose to be.”


They had made their way up a flight of stairs or two by now, and it was at the peak of one flight he paused, holding there as the two stood alone a moment.


“I apologize for their behavior. It's unbecoming of Slytherin,” he said. He liked to believe that… even if the Slytherin version of Aerie Night involved in depth discussions about which girls from other Houses they would fuck for fun, and which ones they would need to be drunk for. Cho sober, Maggie if very drunk, and Granger if she was drunk had been one consensus, a game Blaise was aware of but had refused participation.

 

[Madam Mim]

Blaise caught her gaze and she easily returned it. His eyes were a liquid black, like dark pools of ink or the gap in the sky where the moon ought to be when it had completed its cycle and was hidden again from view. Intelligence and good looks certainly weren't all that mattered in a man, but the comparison made him admittedly more appealing. She wondered briefly where his ancestors hailed from; the shape of his eyes spoke of Egypt and Mozambique, and though his mother had famously married an Italian trade goods magnate she wondered whether he had any connection to those roots. Her own people, she'd been told, were English and had always been English at least on her father's side, even before the Romans. She doubted they actually had proof of heritage from that far back; the druids hadn't had a writing tradition, after all.

She was distracted. Maggie blinked when she realized he was talking again and concentrated on the movement of his lips. It wasn't an unpleasant task. "--I'm not a part of his posse. I'm where I choose to be." She nodded. Given what little she knew of him as a person, and what she could glean from his general demeanor, it made sense. At the top of the stairs he paused and apologized for Draco's behavior. She smiled but waved a hand dismissively.

It's not yours to apologize for him, she insisted. We can control only our own actions, and therefore only apologize for our own. But it was very nice of you to say so anyway. She gave him another smile. It was at once a kind and cautious smile, hesitant, as though she was constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm all for intrahouse unity, she said, but I think after a certain point it divides us more than unites us. Malfoy's behavior is unbecoming a civilized person, not just a Slytherin. She shrugged and continued up the stairs. He's not the only one, and it certainly isn't behavior confined to Slytherins; it simply seems to be more common in them. I'm pleased to find that you appear to be an exception.

 

[Grimoire]

Her thoughts, spelled out as plain as day on the slate, gave Blaise a momentary pause. It wasn't lost on him how easy it was to say the right thing through the medium of text, to cultivate one's thoughts in such a way that they could appeal most greatly to the other's sensibilities. One could provide a window to one's best self or -- if sufficiently clever -- a mirror to the best self of the recipient. No impulsiveness, no misconstrued meaning, lest one was a poor writer. Calligraphy was a noble's game for many reasons, but... she didn't seem the type to treat it that way, not least of which because she did it as naturally as he would speak.

And yet, she said precisely the right thing to precisely the right person.

It wasn't spiteful, or petty, or vengeful -- many of the other houses had every reason to be any of the three when it came to Draco. It was just... refreshingly honest and blunt in a way he wasn't used to.

He laughed -- a warm and basso sound, full of richness. But she couldn't experience that -- no, she could but enjoy the crinkle on either side of his eyes, the whiteness of his teeth against the pleasant dark of his skin. The way his hands briefly resettled over his hips in a subconscious motion to keep from moving too much.

"I've never understood this concept of the Houses and their competition, I'll admit -- men into their sixties still carry their pennants with pride, and yet it hardly seems to matter. The connections we forge seem so much more important than the ones we're given. It's why I've always appreciated Ravenclaws; I assume that kernel of information is one bit of the knowledge so cherished. Had I learned it sooner, I might wear blue and bronze; though I do tend to prefer the brilliance of green, as a rule of fashion," Blaise said with a self-effacing little smile.

 

[Madam Mim]

Maggie paused on the stairs again when she caught the flash of brilliance and flutter of motion out of the corner of her eye. Did you just laugh? There was an unnameable quality to the handwriting that possibly indicated incredulity. Her lips pulled into a slow smile of her own, larger and less cautious than before. I don't think I've seen you laugh before, what little I've seen of you. No don't stop. Her eyes flicked to his hands at his hips and she gestured to them. Never try to control laughter. Bad for the soul and repression of the most powerful magic of all. She winked conspiratorially. Plus my Nan always says that if you try and control laughter you'll explode. We've almost made it to graduation without You-Know-Who blowing us up trying to get to Harry Potter; I wouldn't risk it if I were you. She didn't know what she had said that was so funny, but if it had made someone laugh she wasn't going to question it. When Blaise talked about the connections they forged she nodded.

There are even a good number of Ravenclaws who haven't figured this out yet, she wrote. At his joke about fashion she chuckled. It was more an exhale of air with slight vocalization on an inhale, but most definitely identifiable as laughter. You do look good in green, she agreed, before mentally kicking herself and working to keep her face still as though she hadn't realized too late that that could have come off sounding flirtatious. I like green too, and purple. They make a good combination. I think blue makes me look too pale, honestly, especially in combination with all of the black. But what can you do? Her shrugs were exaggerated, more out of habit in using them as punctuation than anything.

After a pause she chose to interpret as comfortable she looked at him. So do you know some secret passage to the dungeons from all the way up here? I can't imagine you're going to be on time.

 

[Grimoire]

"I wouldn't count on anything with Potter's luck," Blaise said as she brought up the ever-looming-specter of Voldemort. He couldn't bring himself to foreshorten the name, aloud or in the back of his head. It was a sticking point of personal pride, a bit of stubbornness that hadn't endeared him to certain Slytherins for his seeming lack of deference. "It does seem to be rubbing off on all of us as of late," Blaise said, his smile sobering a touch.

He walked with her in companionable silence for a moment or two longer, casting his dark eyes sideways to catch the script of her slate. It was an odd little quirk, one that reminded him of his days when he was younger -- nose stuffed in a book as he traipsed around the Zabini estate, so familiar with its myriad twists and turns that he didn't need to spare it so much as a glance as he followed the book wherever he went. Old skills died hard, and he seemed to have no real trouble at all in keeping pace with her in spite of it.

"It fits you, though. It goes well with your eyes," Blaise said, and he took no attempt to make that sound any less flirtatious than it was. Besides -- it was honest, juxtaposing meltwater blue with the deep navies of Ravenclaw--

They'd reached near the seventh floor now, and he chanced a glance down the stairwells toward the dungeon. He smiled faintly, drumming his fingers across the banister of the stairwell.

"I'll manage, Maggie. I always do. Professor Slughorn has something of a soft spot for me, so I'm certain he can let this slide once, mm?" He glanced back her way, his smile a handsome and warm one. "Though it would probably do for me to hurry along in a moment. We'll have to speak again soon, mm?"

 

[Madam Mim]

Maggie's own smile faded a little when Blaise mentioned that Harry Poter's luck seemed to be rubbing off on them all lately. She rubbed her neck and the smile turned nervous; they lived in dark times, and certainly had darker ahead. She knew there were a fair few people Blaise knew more than casually who wanted her dead, just for her family circumstances. Angry though she was at her mother--and her father--she would never wish either of them dead, not for all the world. And certainly not on the basis of an accidental circumstance of birth.

I guess I'm just grateful I'm safe, she replied at length. For now, anyway. And that people don't seem to take the rumors very seriously. She wasn't aware that most if not all of Slytherin house took them as gospel truth. It was the only way to accept anyone with Burke blood would have Muggle sympathies the way she did. But school is difficult enough as it is; let's set that aside. She waved a hand as though clearing the air and pulled on another smile. Knowing who he did and being who he was, it would probably be a touchy subject, should they ever become closer friends. No sense in starting off on the wrong foot now.

They turned to the topic of colors and Blaise complimented her eyes. Maggie tried not to blush, but it was unsuccessful. -Thank you- she signed, not trusting her board to be discreet and not having the presence of mind to remember that he didn't sign. She averted her eyes and chewed lightly on the inside of her bottom lip to give herself some time to gather her thoughts. Every now and then her hands fluttered in small motions, an equivalent of muttering to herself.

When she mentioned his getting down to the dungeons she followed his gaze over the edge of the banister before returning it to his lips. They were very nice lips, and she noticed that he had a funny little quirk of pursing them and raising his eyebrows very slightly whenever he asked a question. Well that was cuter than was absolutely necessary. I'd like that, she wrote with a smile. I'm glad we got to talk. Maggie gave him a little wave, but paused with her hand on the doorknob. Hey, um She flicked her wand and her board began to write and erase in very quick succession as she tried to settle on what to say. Maybe I'll see you in Hogsmede on Saturday. Or something.

She disappeared through the door with a little squeak she hadn't been aware was audible and the hope that he hadn't seen the many faces of pink she had turned. Boys never took an interest in her, unless it was as a joke. But if it had been a joke he was certainly taking his time getting to the punchline, and she supposed if it was a joke or if she had misread the situation, the worst that had happened was she'd embarrassed herself in the privacy of an abandoned corridor. That was a far cry from Peeves embarrassing her in a crowded one. Maggie pretended not to see Professor Sinistra's rebuke for being late as she took her seat next to a very curious-looking Adriana.

~*~

Down in the dungeons Blaise came sauntering in more than five minutes late. Draco arched an eyebrow and watched the curious swagger between desks. Slughorn swallowed his bullshit excuse, naturally. Anyone in that godawful "Slug Club" got a free pass to do whatever they wanted. And Saint bloody Potter could have just straight-up murdered a kid and Slughorn would have shrugged it off. Once Blaise was finally settled and they were left to their own devices again Draco drew nearer.

"So did you do it?"

 

[Grimoire]

It was a darkening of the conversation that was not necessarily unexpected. A shadow seemed to hang over Hogwarts, as much as people like Bianca Zabini seemed to be of the opinion that all one would need to do is play careful politic in these moments of stress and duress. She was the kind to solve problems with a cross word or uncrossed legs, though here at the school one could feel how the winds blew differently. It was no secret that Voldemort wanted the school for his own, a long-held obsession with halls full of memory, built by grand and old dead men.

She was right to be worried. He was just in the habit of making sure no one saw the same in him.

"I agree. The world can wait while we have N.E.W.T.s to prepare for, hm?" he asked, his eyebrows indeed raising slightly at the question, joking as it might have been.

He couldn't tell what sign she had made with her hands, but with the subtle shifts in her body language -- from the heat in her cheeks to the way in which her hands seemed a little jumbled, as if stuttering over her own words, he figured he could hazard a guess as to what she was saying.

When she was able to remaster herself enough to speak through the slate and proposed Hogsmeade, Blaise was already walking backwards away from her, his smile broadening.

"It's funny you should mention that. I was thinking a two PM lunch myself. I usually show up by the square around one," he said, making certain she could catch his lips before he turned. He could hear her depart into her class, and he paused a moment, dark eyes traveling sidelong until they alighted upon a window. It would take quite a bit of time to walk down to the dungeons, and he daren't do something as silly as sprint all that way.

He unlatched the window and held out a hand. He didn't need a wand with no one around to see him cast.

"Accio Air Wave."

----------------

Blaise walked into the dungeons with a smooth stride, running a hand through his close-trimmed dark hair. He didn't look terribly ruffled in spite of the speed with which he had descended the castle -- he might have been fifteen minutes late had he not taken the express way down, and his excuse was as smooth and silvery as it ever was to old Horace Slughorn.

Blaise took the seat Draco had reserved for him, and he settled his chin upon his hand.

"I believe that'll be one hundred galleons even, Draco," Blaise said without a hint of the dripping sarcasm in Blaise's soul. He liked getting reactions out of some of the other SLytherins, and Draco typically had the most amusing.

 

[Madam Mim]

Draco's eyes widened and eyebrows shot to his hairline. A noise escaped from his throat that was part scoff, part incredulous laugh, part mocking guffaw. He hadn't actually expected Blaise to do it. But at the same time he shook his head, leaning back in his seat.

"Unless you fucked her right there in the corridor, you've still got some work to do," he said. He dug into his pocket, extracted his clenched fist, then set a tidy stack of galleons on the desk.

"There's ten, for asking her out," Draco conceded. "I believe I said only fifty for fucking her, double if you get it done on or before Christmas. Oh and ah, I'll require proof." His lips settled into that smirk Malfoys had come to be so known for. "However you decide that is up to you, but a pair of knickers won't cut it. You could get them from anywhere, or just steal them from her."

With the terms of their wager, to his mind, settled, Draco leaned forward again. There was a keen interest in his gaze, studying Blaise's usually inscrutable expression for any hints that he was lying or withholding information. "So how did you do it?" he demanded. "I mean, I didn't think someone with your standards would stoop to snogging retards, so color me a little surprised. I suppose even I can be wrong every now and then."

 

[Grimoire]

At the mention of proof, Blaise made a show of leaning back in his seat and snapping his fingers quietly. "Bloody hell, I knew I'd forgotten something," he said evenly, reaching out to gather the handful of golden coins. He pocketed them cleanly, only turning his attention back to Draco.

He wasn't, Blaise reflected, the worst of all Slytherins. Occasionally the blonde twit could be persuaded to pull his head out of his arse. It wasn't often, and this certainly wasn't one of those times. He felt a twinge of anger at the other boy, something unexpected. He usually merely had a cool retort in the back of his mind (today's version was, "Are you really so surprised? I befriended you, after all."), but it was usually pushed aside with just a bit of irritation. He seemed to merely be more infuriating than usual today.

"Are you asking out of curiosity, or because you want to copy my methods? It was simple enough. We had a conversation about what's happening around the school, and I invited her out to dinner so that we could talk some more." A lie, but a smooth one and close enough to the truth to perhaps pass muster. He didn't need Draco poking his nose around come the weekend.

"She's surprisingly eloquent, in spite of having to write everything. Her grades aren't all that far behind mine," but a bit ahead of Draco's, and sometimes even his own -- not that he'd admit that outright, "so I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised that she's got a knack for conversation."

He shrugged a shoulder. "We'll see how it plays out."

 

[Madam Mim]

A minute twitch at the corner of his lip gave Blaise away. Draco wouldn't have even caught it if he hadn't spent the past six years learning Zabini's every tic, in case the day should come that he had reason to mistrust him. Not that they were particularly close or that he was going to be telling him all of his deepest, darkest secrets any time soon, but he had mentally classified Blaise as only mutinous when it suited him. So long as neither gave the other reason for it to suit them, they could be allies. When Blaise asked whether he wanted to copy his methods, Draco scoffed.

"Believe me, Blaise, I have no problem getting women," he assured him, "and I don't have to stoop to the disabled to do it." The world disabled took on the same inflection that retard had. When he insisted that Maggie's grades weren't too far behind his, Draco scoffed again. He didn't pay attention to the grades of other houses, Granger notwithstanding; they were below his notice. But Blaise had irritatingly bested him in nearly every subject since their first year, and this year he even had the upper hand in Potions, although Defense Against the Dark Arts was going better than usual for Draco. For her to be even close to either of them? It was inconceivable.

"A knack for conversation?" he repeated. One eyebrow arched again, suspiciously this time, and he folded his arms across his chest. "You know Blaise, if I didn't know any better I might think you were actually interested in her. A half-blood? Really, mate?" The term was used lightly, as very few Slytherins could call other Slytherins true friends these days; more out of a lack of any other way to define their complicated relationships than anything.

 

[Grimoire]

Blaise was still, at the end of the day, a young man. One who thought himself extremely clever which, while correct, stretched an inch or two further than was true, strictly speaking. Draco had done well to not let slip how well he had learned to read Blaise's tells, right down to the way his eyes angled upward by degrees -- not enough to be called a proper rolling of the eyes -- whenever he was divining some terribly amusing thought, insult or otherwise.

Blaise did, in fact, engage in that half of an eye roll right then. Something about "... but what of your associates, the Misters Crabbe and Goyle?"

"You've gotten me, mate. Head over heels. Once I invite her to the Slug Club, I can have the good professor tie the knot for us." Blaise settled his chin into the palm of his hand, and gave the other boy a sidelong glance. "It's just dinner, Draco. Would you believe I manage to get along decently with Granger, too?" Well, it was no secret that the two of them could at least be civil to one another, in a sort of tense "worthy opponent" way. He tended to be that way with the outstanding intellects of the other houses.

Save Lovegood. There was no saving that one.

"I've not gone soft, Draco, if that's what you're trying to insinuate. I'm not going to win this little bet by acting like a bastard."

 

[Madam Mim]

The week crawled by. It was as though now that something exciting was finally going to happen, the calendar was determined that it never would arrive. In the middle of class Adriana's hands had burst into a flurry of activity when Maggie had told her the news, and Professor Sinistra had looked suspicious when they explained that Adriana was simply explaining a concept she was particularly enthusiastic about. Neither girl had paid much attention in the rest of their classes, and Maggie was spirited away to the dorm for the rest of the evening to discuss clothing tactics. But all of this was on Monday, and by the time Friday arrived she found herself just wishing the week would get itself over with already.

Saturday she couldn't sleep in as she normally did. Maggie was up at 6, pacing and reading and pacing some more until it was time to get ready. Despite Adriana's insistence that she wow Blaise with a borrowed dress, she opted to keep it simple: jeans, black sweater, sage and lavender scarf, opal pendant and studs. Black boots. Blaise seemed to appreciate simplicity. Perfume, however, was another matter: in the absence of one sense, her others had been rather heightened and Maggie had spent the past four years perfecting the art of perfumery. She took great pride in the science, even moreso when the baffled Professor Snape had informed her in fourth year that yes, Forester's Everlasting Feculence Elixir (often used in shops as an anti-theft measure and said to be the inspiration for Muggle dye packs) could indeed be modified and yes, yes this was in fact the correct way to brew it Miss Cartwright. Given the lateness of the year, Maggie thought today as good a time as any to switch from summery honeysuckle-citrus-cedar, braided with after-storm cloud humidity and sunny fast-broom freedom, to something more seasonally appropriate.

When she met Blaise in the courtyard, she smelled of fallen forest leaves, of sunny-damp afternoons and nighttime fires, of baked apples and cinnamon and the somber wind of early November evenings, though it was not yet Halloween. Threaded into this particular scent was the magic of nostalgic childhood excitement she in particular associated with this time of the year, sprinkled with the eerie feeling of being indoors too late under the florescent lighting of Muggle office buildings--something which she had experienced exactly twice, and that was enough. It was a risky scent, but she had been so safe in her clothing choices for her first date ever that she figured a little risk was worth it.

She hoped she didn't look too nervous as the approached. I hope I'm not too early, she said with a self-deprecating smile. My friend was meeting her boyfriend and I didn't want to be a third wheel, but I didn't know where else to go. Adriana didn't have a boyfriend. She'd left five minutes earlier with a hug for good luck and a hopeful smile.

 

[Grimoire]

For Blaise, the week had passed nigh uneventfully.

The typical schedule of classwork, Quidditch practice, studying, and his hobby of musing at quillpoint into any one of the number of fine leatherbound journals that he owned. He had always made a point to not do so during class, as it was a sign that he wasn't paying attention (even if he wasn't, he typically was a little more subtle about it), but it was a hobby that Blaise had picked up along the way. Musing at length about the state of wizarding society, the way that muggleborns were working their way in, a preponderance of idle spell notes and potential potion creations, as well as notes about his fellow students and what he considered to be their likely futures.

His journals had stacked up over the years, a complex web of treatises that would hardly make an interesting read unto themselves, but which marked a substantial awareness that Blaise had constructed over time, an overactive imagination that was almost laughably practical rather than fanciful. They were chronicled ambition, the scribblings of a pre-Renaissance man, a web of introspection that suggested a politician, a magical scholar, a future teacher, a historian, a professional duelist, a poet, a sportsman, an alchemist--

It was a useful hobby, in its own way, but as the week had dragged by with nary a thought for the weekend passing Blaise's mind's eye... the notes had drifted to idle considerations. How might deafness affect one's magic? How might society be affected in the future as the Sacred Twenty-Eight found themselves dwindling in desirability in "mainstream" wizard society while "lesser" families were on the rise? With the common conception of "when one sense deadens, the others sharpen", what scents were palatable?

It was only on Friday that Blaise noticed any commonality in his recent thoughts, and so it was early on Saturday that Blaise awoke with a faint flutter in his stomach. He was... nervous. It was something that came to him implicitly, felt but hardly thought, and it made him put a little bit of extra thought into his attire for the day--

A black shirt with a sable diamond pattern worked subtly into the cloth, paired with dark slacks the color of the darker shade of his shirt. A leather belt with a silver buckle finished out that part of the ensemble, paired then with black leather shoes that were clean but hardly shiny. They were clothes of fine make, but they still seemed... well, practical and simple, the sort of clothes that he could actually go into town with rather than be constrained merely to the parlors of the well-to-do. That was the simple part -- what was more difficult was the rest of his grooming.

He'd experimented quite often with different grooming products, keeping his style rather high and tight, and while ordinarily he might have gone with some fine cologne or another... this time he opted for something subtler. A cream he had made himself, one that when applied smelled faintly of wood and dark coffee, a whiff of café that served to bring out the natural warmth of his skin, bringing out that undertone of gold in a way that drew the eye.

So styled, Blaise checked the time and departed the dungeons at a brisk pace -- running a circuit first to the library before heading down toward the front and thence to Hogsmeade.

Blaise was there well in advance of time, settling himself right near the heart of the cobbled town square. Students had already streamed in for some time, those that had gotten their permission earlier in the day to head down. He settled up on the edge of the street at one of the little shops -- this one a sort of café where he could get his morning coffee and while away the time with his nose buried in one of his leatherbound books, one of the very small ones that looked to be little more than a notebook. He set it down when he caught sight of Maggie at a distance, no more than five or so minutes after he had actually settled there.

A smile came to his lips, and it was with a little flourish that the book was closed and carefully slotted into one pocket.

"You're right on time -- I'd only just sat down," he said, raising the heavy ceramic mug as way of proof. He set it down, still steaming with a rich goodness that seemed to follow Blaise as he stood and took a step toward her. His nostrils flared briefly as the wind of the day carried that delightful mix of scents his way. A rush of odd emotion, liminal nostalgia for moments he'd scarce experienced himself in a way that made them seem alone with one another, in spite of the throngs of people all around them. It would have been odd, he thought, to comment, and so he settled on something else.

"You look lovely, Maggie. Care to join me for some coffee or tea? We can talk here a while before we go find what else Hogsmeade has in store for us today," he said, gesturing briefly at the outdoor table he'd taken for himself. Was it a trick of the eyes that the chair across from his scooted back just so, as if in invitation? It had to be.

 

[Madam Mim]

Thank you. Maggie took the proffered seat, wondering whether he had pulled it out for her but choosing not to comment.

The smell of coffee followed him more than it did his mug, and when she sat down and ordered her own she thought she could detect...was that mahogany? She wished she could ask. She had noticed the subtle tics in his features: the curl of his lip, the now-familiar crease between his eyebrows when he asked a question, and of course the momentary flare of nostrils at her approach. She could have sat and talked with him all day about personal scent concoctions but...well, that was weird. Was it weird? Was that why she was sitting here agonizing over how to start conversation on her very first date, because she was weird? How had she made it to sixteen without realizing her own weirdness?

Now he was staring.

No, he was just looking at her. He was allowed to look, and it had only been a few seconds anyway. But they still weren't talking. For the love of God say something!

So how was your week? Maggie hoped she hadn't cringed externally. I'm sorry. Small talk is awful and I ought to be stoned in the public square for it. Not that I'm not interested in how your week was, just that it's an awfully cliche way to start a conversation. Don't you think? No good. She set her wand on the table and folded her hands in her lap while she waited for her coffee. Couldn't talk if she couldn't use her hands. After a few slow, deep breaths she picked up her wand and tried again. Hopefully with less babbling this time.

So what are your usual haunts? Much better. A lot of people I know like Scrivenshaft's. It's a wonderful place of course, but I tend toward knee-jerk rebellion against any type of stereotype. And what's more stereotypical than a Ravenclaw in a stationary shop? Maggie shrugged, quietly glad to have gotten her thoughts in order enough to imitate some semblance of cleverness. Well, a Ravenclaw in a library I suppose. We'll ignore that I'm guilty of fitting the stereotype no matter how much I rebel. She raised her eyebrows slightly and grinned, adding a wink then regretting it instantly. What if he thought she was trying to flirt? What if he wanted her to flirt? She'd never flirted in her life!

Two minutes, twenty-three seconds in to her first date and it was already an unqualified disaster.

 

[Grimoire]

Well, Maggie got points on this one, even if she insisted on taking them away from herself; Blaise was staring, not that he terribly meant to. It was impolite, you know, but there was just something in those moments where a few thoughts came to him -- those that had been pursuing him all week.

What exactly was he going to do with this girl?

A damnably irritating question and one that he hadn't been able to come up with a satisfactory answer for. Especially as she launched into a ramble -- or was that a monologue? Perhaps an autobiography of awkwardness, when it was put to slate for his viewing pleasure. It drew a smile from his lips, once he attempted to quash behind the rim of his coffee.

"... well, we are right by the town square. Though I think from history, fire was more customary for witches," he said with an amused little smile. "Though I've gotten the feeling that you're a fairly nontraditional sort, so stones might do in a pinch. I think it's a little gauche, though. For posterity, however, my week was excellent, even if Quidditch practice has run a touch long recently. Our captain's gone mad with fury in wanting to bring down Potter at least once." He set down the cup of steaming, wafting coffee, leaning forward on his arms.

He kept that little smile on his lips, even as she settled into something more normal and then followed it up with... did she wink? Was that a wink? By God, she was unsubtle. The girl was a disaster, and this was precisely why he had wondered exactly how he was supposed to go about seducing her per the bet.

... perhaps by winking?

But the way she shrunk in on herself a little bit when abashed, or the way her fingers twined together in a particular way of being tongue-tied... it was just.

Cute.

"... so taking you to Tomes & Scrolls after this is out of the cards?" he asked at last, once he'd managed to get control of his tongue again.

 

[Madam Mim]

Oh, it wasn't always fire. One American Muggle was crushed with stones. In her head the tone sounded nonchalant, though she wasn't entirely certain it came off that way on slate. People who didn't know her often mistook dry humor or sarcasm for sincerity. She really needed to work on some sort of font for that. Blaise went on about Quidditch practice and she nodded. That's right, you're on the Slytherin team. Well, I think my public stoning is in particularly skilled hands then. As for Potter, we can just pop down to Dementors N More and see what they've got, hm? That was more like it. More normal. More her.

But then she tried too hard again. She winked. How to recover from it? Should she acknowledge it or would that make it worse? Surely he couldn't think she had missed that coy little smirk hiding behind the rim of his mug. Maggie smiled and thanked the waiter for bringing her tea before returning her attention to Blaise just in time to see him say something about Tomes & Scrolls. It was one of her favorite bookshops, not that he could've known.

I didn't say I was a very good rebel, she pointed out, recovering a bit of ease in her smile. And stop laughing at me. She gestured at him with the hand holding her mug and raised her eyebrows mildly. I know that I'm a mess; I'll be awkward enough for both of us without your help, thanks. The smile turned self-deprecating and she shrugged as though to indicate there was nothing she could do. So books, you say? Do go on. She put one elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand with purposefully exaggerated interest. Not many Slytherins that I know of are exactly readers, not to say there aren't any. What interests you, Blaise?

Nice and easy. No winking, no forced laughter or rambling. Just...conversation. Really it was just conversation. Just like talking to Adriana or Anthony or Luna. Well, nothing was quite like talking to Luna, but the point still stood. Blaise Zabini, regardless of attractiveness, was a mortal man just like any other and there was absolutely no need to be awkward about being here on a date with him despite knowing next to nothing about him. That was the point of dates, wasn't it? Get to know each other? Unless, of course, he didn't think this was a date in which case it would continue to be a disaster from start to finish. But they didn't have to address that just now, if ever. Easy does it.

Just don't let thoughts slip out onto the slate.