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Dark Horse (Mim and Grimoire)

"But that's the American tradition. And they're dreadful," Blaise said with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Though if it's strictly necessary, I am a chaser. You'll at least be in good hands when I manage to marshal enough of a crowd," he said. She didn't have to hear him to see just how sarcastic Blaise could really be. There was a darkly amused glimmer in his eyes, a slyer curl to his lips on certain syllables. The kind of thing you didn't notice when only his truly flat delivery was there to scrutinize.

It was a peculiar sort of insight they got on one another -- the tone wasn't too hard to suss out even through the slate; blunt, wielding sarcasm and humor more like a cudgel than the silvery glint of a knife, but charming in its simplicity. And in spite of being simple in such a way... certainly not an idiot, which was a refreshing change of pace.

"Regardless, I think that public executions are really more third date material, but it has been a while since I've courted someone. You're doing just fine," Blaise said. And there it was. He'd called it what it was, with a casualness that put other fumbling high school romantics to shame, even if it had been spoken in the same sentence as a joke.

At her questions however, Blaise did feel a sudden ping of idle awkwardness. Just enough -- he always had one answer for other Slytherins, jockeying as they often were for social stratification, as well as an answer for friends of his mother, or adults such as Slughorn.

... he'd never really thought how to answer that for a cute Ravenclaw girl, looking at him with such big blue eyes.

"Ah... sports, obviously. There's nothing quite like flying." It was a rare treat to find someone who felt as joyful on the back of a broom as he did; he couldn't even overly hate a few Gryffindors, such as Potter or that Weasely girl. People whose soul thrummed when they were airborne and racing along at speed--

He couldn't have caught it, but there was a lightening of his expression. Something softer that rounded out his sharper features for a scant second or two. "Reading is a favorite, being the rare literate Slytherin. I guess overall... experience. Traveling, reading, exploring, competing. It's all a part of it." He settled back comfortably in his seat, that glimmer of open honesty feeling surprisingly... good. He gestured at her with his coffee cup.

"What about you, Maggie?"
 
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Maggie felt her face turn hot but managed to push the blush back down with another deep breath. So he did think it was a date. Well, at least that was out of the way. Still at his word choice she grinned wryly and arched an eyebrow.

Oh, courting are we? You did say courting, didn't you? Well, perhaps I'll let you burn me at the stake after all seeing as you're that old school. But I agree: definitely something for a third date. Get to know each other a little first. She nodded and sipped her tea. The topic turned to books, and to interests, and though she had feigned keen interest at being taken to a bookshop, it wasn't feigned at Blaise's interests and hobbies.

Maggie went to set down her mug but never quite made it. Instead she held it, hovering half an inch or so from the tabletop, while she watched him talk about flying. There was a Blaise Zabini she had never seen before. The keen glint in his eye, the sharpness of his gaze dulled ever so slightly. Just for a few seconds a muscle pulled the far corner of his lip up just a fraction and the firm line of his lips--not that she paid much attention to his lips in that way of course, no that would be silly--softened. Tension in his brow released and his tongue moved differently around his teeth as he spoke, as though pronouncing the word flying would let him taste the sensation he got from actually being on a broom. She was under no illusions: Blaise presented a carefully crafted front to the world and always had, that much had been apparent even from afar. But for a man so full of carefully constructed (and well-executed) charm, he had accidentally let slip a real part of himself that was infinitely more charming than anything he could concoct on purpose.

Experience is good, Maggie agreed with a slight nod when he turned the question back on her. She knew enough to realize his slip likely hadn't been intentional, and so left it alone. She'd tease him about it when he knew her well enough to know she meant no harm in it. If he decided he wanted to know her that well. I like traveling too, when we can manage it. You'll have to take me up on a broom some time, though; I've never actually flown. Dad's convinced that being deaf means I'll not hear the predatory honks of geese coming to devour my soul if I'm on a broom by myself. Or at least, that's as much as I can figure. He's got a second cousin who's a squib, who taught me how to drive a car. So I can rocket about in a 1.5 tonne metal weapon at 80kph, but I can't get a broom higher than five feet off the ground or I'll plummet to my death. She rolled her eyes. The issue had been a lifelong fight and Mr. Cartwright seemed to have no intention of letting up. Maggie sighed and pursed her lips momentarily, then shook the complaint away.

So I stay earthbound. I distance run. I actually did a 15k over the summer; working my way up to a marathon. She smiled brightly, proud of the achievement. Reading, obviously, is another interest, as well as potions. I think Snape's disgruntled that I actually ask him questions, but I make my own perfumes and colognes and stuff, see. Not sure he realizes that I'm not too pleased about having to talk to him, either. Maggie set her wand down again, using the same hand to pick up her mug and slide the other one off of the table and into her lap; a one-handed way of stopping herself from talking. Interesting as she had found his cologne or aftershave or whatever it was, she realized it likely wasn't of interest to him. It was hardly of interest to people she was already friends with.

Sorry, she said finally with a sheepish smile. I know I can prattle on sometimes. I like to get into the minutiae: potion chemistry, spell theory, wandlore and the like. Just tell me to shut up if I start rambling. Or, y'know...break the board. She chuckled--a clipped, conservative sound low in her throat born of years learning what vibration frequency was least disruptive--but it had happened. Several times. Over the years Maggie had learned not to talk much because people often weren't interested in what she had to say. Better to keep it to yourself than to be disappointed or ignored and branded the awkward girl. Ravenclaws were generally better about it, but they were a varied group with eclectic interests. Many of them just weren't as academically-minded, which was fine but often made for one-sided conversations.
 
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"That sounds entirely reasonable to me. I would much rather end up in a pile of burning metal with a half dozen other motorists rather than end up stuck up a tree," Blaise said breezily. Not that he couldn't get the logic behind it... he'd been often curious how those with issues such as hers got by in the world of magic, not that it was a question easily asked or answered.

It left him with a much simpler thing to say:

"All the same, I'd be happy to take you up on that sometime. Hogwarts' grounds are lovely this time of year, and it certainly deserves an aerial tour." He let her go off after that for a time, keeping dark eyes levelly on her as she animatedly went through quite a spiel; he was a quick reader, so he was able to devote almost as much time to her expressions and the way her hands moved as he did to her text. She seemed like she got lost in it; the way her brow almost comically furrowed when she spoke about Snape (a lot of people seemed to do that), or the way lovely blue eyes would flit back to him as if to make certain he hadn't run away mid-conversation.

It was kind of cute.

She would find him engaged in listening, giving her quick "go on" motions with one hand, making eye contact between bouts of absorption of her written word. Potions, chemistry, marathons, reading, spell theory, wands. An almost absurd level of practicality and... well.

A mirror.

He was self-aware enough to see the similarities; she need merely say that she also loved the great horned owl as a familiar of choice for the reflection to be complete.

"No, by all means go on; I think I've mentioned that I enjoy a good book," he said with a wan smile. "I can see why you duel with me for grades in my favorite classes; they're your favorites, too. I probably should have guessed that; it explains that really curious scent you're wearing; it's like nostalgia for something I've never experienced. If you need a name for it, I suggest "Sehnsucht, by Cartwright"," Blaise said, spreading his hand along the front of an imaginary marquee. "I make some of my own as well, albeit not so intrinsically subtle; maybe we'll have to compare notes. I'm surprised I've never run into you at the apothecary on Carkitt," Blaise said.
 
Hmm...perhaps a second date, then? Maggie suggested as casually as she could when Blaise suggested taking her on an aerial tour of Hogwarts.

Before he could really answer with any depth she was off, rambling. Well, she was certain it was rambling, anyway, though Adriana and Luna had both assured her a number of times that there was nothing wrong with talking about one's own interests. Every now and then her eyes flicked over his face, attempting to read his true level of interest in what she had to say. She was pleasantly surprised to find that it seemed genuine, and that he was able to keep up with her writing. Maggie's hands moved twice the speed the words on the board did, signing out of habit until she forced herself to stop again and apologized. He encouraged her to go on and she had to resist the urge to look away in embarrassment when he compared her conversation to a book. But he was smiling, and it seemed to be a joke.

Oh so you noticed! At Blaise's appraisal of her perfume she smiled brightly. So the nostalgia worked then? Excellent! I was taking a bit of a risk but I'm glad it worked. It's a nostalgia for something I've experienced, but I wasn't entirely certain about pairing it with liminal space. Thought it might make some people uncomfortable. He suggested a name for the scent, spreading his hands and making it seem grander than a girl tinkering about with a cauldron. She grinned, but her eyebrows furrowed ever-so-slightly. I'm sorry, I'm rubbish with spoken foreign languages. Or at least, I hope it was foreign. Write it down for me?

When he revealed that he made his own scents as well, she smiled and nodded. I do love coffee and woody scents. Mahogany was a good choice for a day like this. Add a bit of old leather, maybe a particularly fragrant tobacco and you've got a cozy Sunday morning. As for Carkitt, She shrugged. I don't get to London very often except at start of term. I'm one of those dreadful country witches everyone talks about, can't move with the times, bringing down the progress of modern wizardry. Ought to move up to York, really... Another low chuckle and a sip of tea. I usually wind up getting supplies from Muggle shops. Is it lame that I can't wait to turn 17 so that I can use magic to make better scents outside of school? I feel like it's absurdly lame.
 
"Of course. Most of the people around here go for something... rather plain. It wouldn't kill to try for a little complexity. Have to make something practical of Snape's droning," Blaise said. He held a hand out over the table, drawing a finger across the smooth surface of the tabletop. He whispered a spell she couldn't quite catch, the motion of his lips too subtle and the language not one she might have caught anyway. Traced across the tabletop, a word appeared following the passage of his finger. In a sharp black ink, the word "Sehnsucht" was left behind. She hadn't seen him go for his wand, and both hands were plainly visible --

And then it was gone, the word disappearing after a scant few seconds of existence.

He spread his hands out to either side.

"It's a shorthand for 'longing'. Some people use it for nostalgia," Blaise said with a slow roll of the shoulders. "German's a rather descriptive language," Blaise said.

He let her write out her self-deprecation, earning another rich little chuckle that one could but make a fortune if they could only transcribe such a thing. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together. "Terribly lame. Even then, I'm surprised I've not seen you. I make a stop there at start of term every year, regardless of my other trips there. But I'll have to rescind my offer if you go to York. Mother's been very clear about the sorts I should associate with," he said in perfect mimicry of the Slytherin party line, but with a more gnuine smile than the way in which they typically sneered that.
 
Maggie watched with curiosity as Blaise leaned over and murmured, wand in his pocket and hands moving only in very subtle ways. It was blink-and-you-miss-it magic, the sort that likely even escaped those who could hear. Her fingers twitched to say something about it and a few chalk letters started to form, but she watched the word form on the table and rubbed one palm flat across the other, erasing the board.

I should have known it was German, she said with a wry smile. I can read French and German perfectly well, but when it comes to lip-reading they've both got so much going on in the soft palate, velum, and glottis that I can't make heads or tails. I'm trying to learn Deutsche Gebärdensprache but even my fingers get tangled up.

She threatened to move to York, country witch that she was, and shrugged when Blaise expressed surprise that they'd never run into one another while doing start-of-term shopping. I try to get my shopping done early, she said. Otherwise it only just gets done at all, and usually at higher back-to-school prices.

"But I'll have to rescind my offer if you go to York," Blaise threatened. "Mother's been very clear about the sorts I should associate with."

This earned not simply a chuckle but an actual laugh. Maggie's laugh was low-pitched, chortling sound, breathy and originating in the chest. Indeed? she asked, eyebrows raised with amusement. But wasn't Norrell one of the greatest wizards of the age and the exemplary Slytherin? No, you're right: York is far too respectable for the likes of me. I'll go to Glasgow instead. She laughed again, at her own joke this time. Perhaps then York won't seem too bad by comparison, but we can still cause a fun little scandal. The handsome, enigmatic, cosmopolitan Mr. Zabini running off round with a commonplace little Yorkshire girl. The Prophet and Quibbler alike would have a field day.

Maggie had always, for some reason, imagined the likes of Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy to be followed by tabloids reporting on what they were wearing, who they were seeing, where they were going on holiday. She didn't know for certain; she never wasted her time on rag mags like that. But it was a mental picture she had of him that she couldn't seem to shake.

Well, I'm afraid you're stuck with a commonplace little Devon girl instead, she added after some thought, with a shrug, for the afternoon, anyway. And the gossip mills will simply have to make do.
 
French and German? More cosmopolitan than he'd have expected of her, but he supposed he shouldn't have held her innate Britishness against her. She was, after all, of the house of knowledge and learning--

"Ah, mas e o português?" he offered. He held his hands out to either side. "We'll have to exchange linguistic tips. We can use them to mess with the Anglophones," Blaise said.

She had a low and pleasing laugh, something he had not entirely expected of her. Not least of which because he was somewhat surprised they seemed to share so much of a sense of humor. It was chortling, and just a little bit undignified as far as the noblewoman's laugh went, usually much higher and originating somewhere in the throat and coming out through the nose, as if insinuated into the pattern of breath.

They were able to enjoy a laugh together there for a long moment, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He wasn't certain he could ever go to Glasgow, not least of which because he was under the assumption that people of a certain breeding or higher would likely be compelled to combust upon entry.

"The wretch'd rumor mill. I'll have to assume the ministry if only to cut down on that particular agricultural subsidy. Which reminds me," he leaned back in his seat, turning his attention briefly to Hogsmeade as a whole. It was a lovely town, all things considered, if a little pastoral for his usual tastes. It promised wide-ranging grounds and a chance to stretch one's legs free of the watchful eye of Hogswarts ghosts. Or worse, the teachers.

"Before we're hounded by them, we should find cover somewhere else. I wouldn't mind more than just a cafeside chat," he said, turning dark eyes back toward her.
 
The corners of Maggie's eyes crinkled minutely only for a moment as she stared a little harder, then comprehension dawned and her eyebrows raised a little. Oh Portuguese? Some day. But for every language you've got to learn, I've got to learn three. Romance and Germanic written language don't translate well to speech, and sign evolves on its own just the way speech does. And don't get me started on dialects.

They shared a laugh and it actually seemed genuine. There were some times when people--even people she knew well--would laugh at her jokes but not really seem to understand, or were uncertain whether she was joking. Perhaps it was something to do with inflection. But Blaise seemed to understand and indeed share such dry humor. It was refreshing. Blaise joked about joining the Ministry just to cut down on gossip, earning a smile.

You've got my vote, she assured him.

He sat back and looked around before suggesting that they move to somewhere else. A fine crease appeared between her eyebrows for a second before smoothing away again. Had he suddenly remembered to be embarrassed? Had he seen a friend and wanted to flee before having to face their derision? Did he have more nefarious motives, plans for her honor?

Or was he simply as genuine as he seemed?

Maggie didn't have much experience with boys. No experience, really. So there was nothing to measure against; she would simply have to trust that he wasn't like the others, that he hadn't asked her out on a bet or a dare--or worse, out of pity--and simply had genuine interest in her as a person. After a long minute of consideration she nodded and stood.

Where did you have in mind? she asked. Somewhere somehow less fashionable than Glasgow? Oh! Tampa Bay perhaps? Maggie had only the vaguest notion of where Tampa Bay actually was; somewhere in Florida, that much was clear from the postcard her mother had sent a few years ago with a postmark from Tampa. But the very fact of its Floridian existence was enough for her to know that it was probably a nightmare for someone like Blaise. I follow your lead.
 
I follow your lead.

Those were the words that kickstarted the next month and change of adventure for the both of them. Far from hiding her, Blaise had spent the rest of that morning walking her around Hogsmeade and taking in the sights with her-- there was a peculiarity to travel with others. You could experience the same place a hundred times with a hundred fellow travelers, each place tinted by the company.

That morning, Hogsmeade had been cornflower blue and deepest green. They'd riffed at length and ad nauseam on the sheer ridiculousness of language and the degree to which linguists the world over seemed to be taking the piss on grammar, structure, shared etymology, and more. They had even used the word diphthong, making some English comprehension teacher weep a single tear over a career finally justified.

They even shat on Florida together for a time.

They had walked and talked until it had been time to conclude the day's visit to Hogsmeade.

The following weeks were told in visits to the library, or trips to raid Slughorn's store of accessible potion ingredients, and the occasional walk around the grounds between classes. She'd been invited to a Quidditch game or two and had watched Blaise win a game or two.

While they were not what one would call inseparable, they had certainly found time for one another in their lives. For quick chats here and there, for a rivalry that was simultaneously more and less heated in terms of their grades during any shared classes.. and on occasion, something softer. Another date, another trip 'round school or elsewhere.

And the entire time, Blaise had been at war with himself.

He was no stranger to dating. Sometimes, for as loathe as he was to admit it, he was a hormonal teenaged boy. His mind drifted to thoughts of forcing Maggie down against the sheets of his bed, hands on her hips as he gave her more than she could handle. Making her scream, moan, whimper, and every other wonderful sound that came from a tangle of limbs and sheets--

It wasn't so hard to imagine. But what came next was the idea of lingering in the afterglow, fingers twined and an arm around a bare and slender waist. Moments passed in perfect silence and--

Blaise tried not to think about it too much.

It was a bet. And while certainly he enjoyed talking to her, it was a momentary distraction, even moreso than all of his student dalliances had been. His mother had always informed him to wait until the seventh year or into their careers to find the most suitable match, for any girl easily won was not so desirable a prize. He might have reflected on that sentence with regards to his mother's track record with men, but it was not something he was prepared to dwell on.

One night, heading into November, Blaise had finally chosen to take up on his word that he would take her flying. One night, under a moonless sky that instead promised stars in its stead, a veritable ocean that twinkled merrily in a British sky, mercifully free of thick clouds and dreary rainfall. It would be beyond curfew when they came back, but plans had been made.

Maggie with Adriana to let her in unbeknownst of the prefects and others, and Blaise with the time-honored and tested tradition of Slytherins quite simply not giving a fuck.

Clad in thick sweater and with a scarf tight round his neck, Blaise took Maggie astride the broom sometime in the waning minutes of dinner and took her right up toward the rooftops, heading up in time to the stars making themselves brighter, bolder, all the more apparent against a darkening sky.

His feet touched down against the time-worn stonework, recently fixed in places from where Potter had run a dragon into one of the towers but two years ago, because that was a thing some students were allowed to be exceptions on apparently. Blaise turned his head to her, raising his arms so she could release herself from the death grip she'd enacted upon his waist.
 
There were a good many books and stories that included the phrase "she had never met anyone quite like him," and Maggie had always thought it trite. Then she started dating Blaise. Was it dating? It certainly felt like dating, with trips to the library and around campus, and another day out to Hogsmede which this time included dinner in a rather pricey little bistro. But they had never defined what they were to one another, had never used words like "boyfriend" or "companion," or even "friend." They just...were.

But whatever it was they were, she had never met anyone quite like him. She could talk with him about language and potions, sports and books, fashion and travel (though he was far more well-versed in both topics). He actually understood and laughed at her jokes in a way that at least felt like it wasn't a courtesy laugh, and made her laugh in turn. He was even willing to learn sign language and she had been teaching him some of the more common signs. Although Maggie was trying very hard to be careful not to tumble ass-over-teakettle for the first boy to favor her with a smile, she could certainly feel her feet slipping. She was still trying to decide whether she could still feel them under her after Blaise kissed her.

It hadn't been long or hard, or even terribly romantic; there were no fireworks or foot pops. It was just a goodbye kiss in the halls as they went their separate ways for classes. But it had been enough to leave her lips tingling and struggling to keep a neutral expression. She hadn't told Blaise that that had been her first kiss; bit pathetic, that, and although they had fallen into a pattern of affectionate teasing she wasn't certain she could handle teasing on that particular topic from this particular man. Adriana pulled it out of her, of course, and from the looks of things there had been squealing to go along with the hugs. As Maggie had grown happier her best friend's initial suspicion of Blaise had gradually--very gradually--diminished and that seemed to make it disappear altogether. They hadn't as yet had a proper snog, really, only small kisses stolen in the fleeting moments of the day or hidden between library shelves. While that was enough to sustain her, Maggie found herself imagining something more with Blaise. More than snogging, even. In particularly dull classes, or on study breaks, or even in the quiet moments of the evening as she started drifting to sleep she imagined dark hands contrasted starkly against her wrists, pinning her against the bed. Lips crushing against hers to quiet moans she couldn't hear and couldn't help. Watching the way the muscles in his back and hips moved beneath his skin as he--

She could never hide a blush at those thoughts, and when her mind had drifted in class she would have to hurriedly check her slate to make sure it hadn't run away with itself.

Compatibility and attraction were all well and good, but trust was paramount in any relationship. It was trust that got her on the broom with him, and trust that kept her from flailing wildly in an attempt to get down the moment they took off. She wasn't sure why she had expected a little bit of an introduction to flying, hovering a few feet off the ground the way first years did just to get her used to it; that wasn't Blaise at all. But she didn't scream when they took off. She never vocalized when she could help it, except around a very few, and after a lifetime of people with various intent sneaking up on her she had learned to control the urge to scream quite well. Instead there was merely a sharp intake of air and she locked her arms around his middle as tightly as she could. Her arms didn't immediately unlock once they'd landed. Rather, she maintained her grip while gasping sharply in and out with her head ducked against his chest, under his arm. It was a few long moments before she realized that his arms were held out above her head and she looked up with a sheepish smile.

<<Sorry,>> she signed. With a flick of her wand her slate was levitating next to her again. I um...I'm not sure how I felt about that. Might try it another time or two before I decide I want to keep my feet on the ground. She smiled again then leaned against the crenelation next to him to look up at the stars. You picked a beautiful night for it.
 
He was not quite sure how long she intended to keep a lock around his waist -- he was likewise unsure of how quick he was going to be to alert her to her current predicament, thus perpetuating it until such time that she was willing to let go of him under her own power. Which was fine.

He could wait as long as it would take.

He took a step off of the broom when her arms finally relented from around him -- he set the broom down against the roof, muttering a spell that bestowed the stick with just enough adhesion to keep it from being knocked off the roof by an errant gust. Nothing an accio couldn't fix, but he did not want to get any scuff marks onto it if he could help it.

<<Ok,>> he signed back, notably a little less elegant with his hands than he was with his lips. He held a hand to her, signing with one hand as he spoke aloud. Together, it came to say: "Right up ahead. There is a better place to sit."

They picked their way up the stonework a bit, the magical nature of Hogwarts doing much to preserve the texture of the stone as it had always been, rather than as the smoothness that would inevitably result from the weather. They found a place a bit higher, in a nest of steeples and spires, a flat part of the roof onto which they could descend together, finding a place to sit in their own nest amongst the stars.

"Of course I did," he said at last. "Best seats in the house," he said. He brought his wand out, whispering "lumos" and infusing it with a sprout of light, a glow that gave just enough to see one another more clearly like their very own twinling star.
 
His signing was still a little clumsy, but that made it endearing. She gently corrected the difference between the affirmative "ok" he had used and the conciliatory "it's alright" he had probably meant. She took his hand and let him lead the way to the spot he had in mind.

Maggie rarely held Blaise's hand. Instead in the instances they had felt the need or desire to be physically attached she looped her arm with his, resting her hand on his forearm in a rather old-fashioned way. It kept her hands free, and it was her hands which her charmed slate read and interpreted; holding hands, she had explained, felt like being told to shut up. On this occasion, however, she made an exception and willingly let him lead her by the hand for fear of losing her balance and slipping off the roof. Certainly she figured if she did Blaise had good enough reflexes to slow her fall, but she would really rather not test it.

Blaise lit his wand, throwing shadows over both their faces in the dim light. She smiled and scooted a little closer before looking up at the stars. His body was warm and inviting next to her in the chilly evening, but she was hesitant to lean against him he way she wanted to. That lack of definition in their relationship--whatever kind of relationship it was--made her wary of crossing any undefined boundaries.

I'll bet you take all the girls here, she teased with a slight nudge and a smile and a dimly sincere question behind her eyes. Has anyone ever accused you of being romantic, Mr. Zabini? It would be a tragedy if I were the first.
 
It was by an odd quirk of commonality that he'd hardly minded that she didn't want to hold hands. It was easy enough to understand her problem... and there was something oddly old-fashioned about the Slytherin boy. Some sort of affectation, perhaps, that put one in mind of a gentleman of society more than a schoolboy, and that was quite assuredly on purpose considering the rest of his well-maintained and manicured appearance. But... still, there was something just nice about locking his fingers with hers as they carefully navigated the old shingles and roofing tiles of the ancient castle. Perhaps they were enchanted to stay where they were in their moorings, but it was hardly a time to check the structural integrity of the stone.

"Oh, I've tried. Unfortunately, Pansy Parkinson is afraid of heights so I had to leave her in the bushes instead," Blaise said with a faint quirk of a smile, lit ever-so-faintly by the light of his wand.

He leaned back against her just so, providing a solid basis against which she could take any kind of liberty. He settled his hands on his knees, splaying his fingers across as dark eyes stole out over the grounds of the castle. A new angle on a hundred little sights they'd all taken in time and time again. It gave the grounds new definition, coloring it with a tinge of excitement that had been gone since sometime in their second year.

"I suppose we'll have to sit together and watch this tragedy. I can't say I've ever been accused of it, but I'm good at covering my tracks, so the evidence wouldn't stick. I wouldn't mind if you said it off the record, though," Blaise said. Her warmth was a comfort this high up, a comfortable presence that made his smile genuinely warm in kind. He had been unsure of when and how to push...

But there was never a better time than now, he supposed. So far high up from others, where it was just them 'neath the stars.
 
Maggie smiled. Well then, off the record I will indeed accuse you of romantic tenancies. But don't worry, I won't tell anyone. A well-cultivated reputation for cold heartlessness is very important. She twisted her fingers for a few moments, then smiled a tad uncertainly. i guess I'm glad Pansy's afraid of heights, then. Her loss is my gain.

There was a moment. Inexperienced as she was, even Maggie could recognize that there was a moment. His smile was warm, as was his body, and there was a sort of softness to his gaze. Would she be able to make any sort of move with her heart in her mouth like this? Could he hear it thundering in her chest?

Suddenly it didn't matter. She wasn't sure who had leaned in first, but Maggie's lips were on his and her eyes were closed. One hand was on his shoulder. Was that okay? Was it weird? Apart from the few quick pecks they'd briefly shared, she had never kissed a boy before. She wasn't entirely sure how this sort of thing went.

And then it was over. She had pulled away, out of sheer nerves more than anything else. Her hands fluttered nervously.

Sorry, she said. That was rather sudden of me, wasn't it? She smiled nervously and plucked at his sleeve.
 
"Her loss was my gain, too," Blaise said -- though one couldn't have been certain if he meant that to be complimentary of Maggie or an insult to one Miss Parkinson, but all of the patented Slytherin doublespeak in the world couldn't have detracted from the rest of the moment. The school had long become a place of dread for many of the students -- near death for its students every year of their tutelage tended to have that kind of effect, ever moreso with the experiences just before the most recent summer for far too many of the school's students--

It was nice to be reminded that there were more than academic doldrums or life-and-death. It was nice to be reminded of the touch of warm hands and the sight of soft smiles. Of the feel of spun gold sliding between his fingers as his hand found its way to the nape of her neck, the space between moments filled with mouth on mouth.

His fingers twined into her hair, his body turning just so to both give and receive, the two of them falling together as if it was more inevitability than happenstance.

She could feel his mouth open against hers in the brief second before she pulled away, a maturation of a kiss that found him almost falling into the space that she so quickly vacated. He caught himself on the roof with one hand, his breath coming slightly hotter and heavier before he reigned it in.

"... ah... s-sure," he said, his composure briefly cracked in a way that was rare for him. "No more sudden than, well--"

When her lips were captured a second time, it was all him. Pulling her back in with a firm hand on her neck, taking a kiss that was all the softer and the sweeter for the time he put into it.
 
She hadn't meant to make him fall. Maggie tried to hide her mortification under a quintessentially English apology, but couldn't help but notice that she seemed to have caught him off-guard. That was...odd. Though she knew she had certainly wormed her way beyond his usual defenses, there was one facade that never, ever cracked. She seemed to have finally put the tiniest of fissures in it, unintentionally of course. Still, it was encouraging know that she could.

But even then he had a hand up on her.

Blaise captured her lips again, mid-sentence. This drew a delighted little squeak from her and she smiled against his lips briefly before falling into the sweet seriousness of it. The firmness of the hand on the back of her neck gave her chills and sent an odd thrill of sensation up through her stomach and into her chest. Maggie adjusted to face her body squarely towards his. Gloved fingers gripped his sweater, holding him gently in place even if he had wanted to pull back. The kiss seemed to last for forever. That would have been perfectly fine by her. But it did come to an end eventually, a natural end that didn't leave either of them staggering for purchase this time.

I wouldn't mind doing that again... Maggie couldn't help the stupid grin and giggled nervously, averting her gaze momentarily. I um... She pushed a lock of hair out of her face, still grinning. She was grinning too much. Her cheeks hurt in the cold. Oh God he would know she had never kissed anyone before if she didn't do something. Anything. So she kissed him again.

Finally something to say came to mind as their third proper kiss finally ended. Have you had dessert yet?
 
She was surprising.

A thought that came in the space between what felt like minutes. Minutes in passing, mouth on mouth, fingers curled against one another in a way that suffused them with a warmth that had nothing and yet everything to do with the press of their bodies. The sort of heat that remained, even as they pulled back from one another, maintaining only a loose grip on one another -- her fingers splayed across the front of his sweater, his touch light upon the back of her neck, trending into her soft hair--

He wasn't sure why, and that was the most surprising thing of all.

He opened his mouth to speak, and lost them to the softness of her lips -- and a long and lingering kiss later, he couldn't remember what it was he had been going to say.

"Ah... I haven't, no," he said. His worse -- usually so freely conceived and given -- were at a loss just then. It was enough to nearly make him pull back, but he couldn't bring himself to gain too much distance just then.
 
Would you like some? Maggie smiled. There was a sort of confusion behind his eyes that amused her, something she was almost audacious enough to think might have something to do with her. Almost. In either case, he seemed to have lost his footing. We'd have to pop back down into the castle for a bit, but I can't think of a better place to eat it than up here. She looked out over the grounds then up at the stars. They seemed closer than ever this evening.

With Blaise's consent, she helped him up and they flew down to the 7th floor. She paced in front of a tapestry of dancing trolls, as though she were lost, but upon her third time passing it a door appeared in the wall and she smiled brightly. She gestured.

Ah, here we are! She held the door open for him. Most people only learned about the Room of Requirement last year, when Harry Potter had that secret dueling club and got caught. A number of Ravenclaws, however, have been using it for years. Mostly for experiments that might be considered...less than legal. Maggie shrugged. I like to use it for potions. And cooking.

The door opened up into an airy kitchen with exposed beams. Maggie chattered on about the history of the room, about its different uses before Potter had gotten a hold of it. She was busy pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator when she turned and realized, with some slight surprise, that there was nowhere for Blaise to sit. Almost as soon as she had thought it, a sitting room appeared at the other end of the island. She considered it critically for a moment, then wrinkled her nose when her eyes fell upon the plaid sofa. It ingratiatingly corrected itself into a faded denim-colored linen, and the leaf-patterned chairs became cream, pin striped with the same denim. Ditto the color of the curtains.

That's better. She nodded and smiled, then glanced at Blaise, then back to the decor. Oh, don't you dare judge me. I warned you that I was a dreadful little cottage witch. Now let's see... She dared to hum softly, a tuneless thing, while she pulled ingredients out of the fridge and raised her eyebrows in mild surprise at a chalkboard standing on the counter with a recipe written out. Tiramisu? I thought you'd have had a taste for something a little more obscure than that. You seem the type. She grinned playfully and winked. It was, this time, not the awkward wink of their first date but a playful one.

The ladyfingers took some time, though not quite so long as it might have for an amateur. Throughout the process Maggie's face was screwed up in concentration, and there were a number of swear words on her board that she seemed to be unaware of. While the pastries baked she followed a different recipe that had come up on the board waiting for her on the counter. She frowned in disapproval at it, but followed it anyway. The recipe for zabaione called for wine, which she added to Blaise's but substituted for espresso in her own. The Room generally knew best. The only magic she used was in chilling the tiramisu.

Don't get me wrong, she said as she poured the drinks, the elves are fantastic. But there's nothing quite like a homemade dessert. You know, by hand, without magic. She glanced over at the tiramisu, which was gradually solidifying as her cooling charm settled over it. Never mind that, anyway. But it's all chemistry, isn't it? Like Potions, only edible. She pushed a bit of hair out of her face and dusted her hands off on an apron. Did you want to go back to the roof with this? It's a beautiful night for stargazing.

The kiss seemed to have unlocked something. Maggie's attitude might be categorized as "slow" rather than "glacial," as it had been. She had, as it were, received acknowledgement that Blaise liked her, actually liked her. She didn't have to guard her heart quite so cautiously anymore.
 
There was an iota more of confusion writ large across his face at her offer. The Slytherin accommodations for homemaking were... lacking, given the preference to use the house elves for literally everything. No one wanted to do anything when they were so accustomed to the Help doing what it was they did best. While that was what Blaise thought she was offering, he thought the offer momentarily odd before he acquiesced to her suggestion.

A short broom-trip to the seventh floor later, and the meaning of her offer was suddenly much clearer.

"... the Room of Requirement?" Blaise inquired. It had been seized upon by the Slytherins in recent months, acting with all the typical hypocrisy they did after previously ratting Potter out to Umbridge over the very same. It was said that Malfoy had been seen coming and going from the seventh floor in recent weeks, though Blaise had given little thought to the whole thing. It was rumored by those with a dim view of the Malfoys that Draco was honestly just finding a place to wank in peace.

"And they so often say that the Ravenclaws haven't any mischief in them," Blaise mused as the room whorled around her -- a mercurial location that seemed to acquiesce so quickly to Maggie's idle whims. He took up a chair and chatted amiably enough with her, expressing deep interest in all the things the Room had been bound into service for in all its many years of existence. It was a spectacular feat of magic, and she could see the ways in which dark eyes lit up in appreciation for the wonderment of it all.

Through it all, they traded in jokes. "That's just my eclectic man-of-mystery persona you've been fooled by. Sometimes even I enjoy abysmal peasant country-witch fare," Blaise said with a dash of self-deprecation.

And "Zabaione with espresso? My mother would be aghast."

Finally, the two sat in warmth and contentment. Somewhere along the waya fire had started in a worn-brick hearth, a sort that echoed a fireplace with which Blaise was intimately familiar, right down to the curious pale-wood grain.He'd taken off the sweater somewhere in the intervening moments, his chin couched in his hand.

"... you know, I'll admit that I hadn't thought of it. I'm sure I wouldn't find it terribly difficult, but... it wasn't something emphasized in my upbringing. House chef, and all that," Blaise said as if that were the most humdrum thing in the world to have. "We might stay here for a while, I think. There isn't a way to see the stars from here, is there?" he asked.
 
Maggie grinned at Blaise's assertion that Ravenclaws had a reputation for staying out of mischief. You'd think so, she said, but really we're just better at not getting caught. Helps that your lot's pissing match with the Gryffindors takes the attention off the rest of us. I'm still convinced the Weasley twins would've made cracking Ravenclaws.

He was interested in what she had to say, and that in and of itself was a small miracle. Not many were; she often found wonderment in the smallest things, and thought too much about what others took for granted. And he appreciated the Room itself for what it was. She shared her pet theory that it was a secret room left behind by Helga Hufflepuff to help those in need and mentioned the occasional odd thing she'd come across during her years of use. There was a scorch mark that she pointed out, high up on one wall where it wasn't really noticeable, where she said a couple of Ravenclaw potions gone wrong had scarred the room itself the year before she'd started attending Hogwarts.

And he joked. That was the thing she had found most surprising about Blaise, was that for all his poise and carefully-constructed persona he still joked. Maggie liked it, but she liked it better still when she was able to pull a genuine smile out of him; she was getting quite good at telling the difference between his calculated smiles and his real ones. The real ones were far superior, in her opinion.

But he pointed out that his mother would be aghast that she chose to leave the wine out of her own drink and Maggie shrugged. I don't drink. She didn't quite meet his eyes as she said it, and the terse sound of the chalk made it clear that that was as far as she would go with that particular topic. Anyway, you have to be honest. I can't get better if you're not honest.

Oh you wouldn't find it difficult would you? Her usual jocularity was back as she settled onto the couch and handed him his drink. No, certainly nothing is so difficult for the Great Zabini that he wouldn't get it right on the first try. Why, I'm sure you could just fire the chef now and be done with it. There was a certain way Maggie quirked her lips, a bit of an unconscious tilt to the way she held her hands as she signed, a very slight difference in the font, which all indicated playful sarcasm. It was different from her biting sarcasm, used sparingly but well, and if Blaise had cared to notice during the past month he would have picked up on these subtle cues which stood in for vocal inflection.

He suggested that they stay there, which she had to admit was more comfortable than shivering on a hard roof. At his question about whether they could see the stars from where they were, though, she pursed her lips thoughtfully and looked at the windows the Room had so graciously provided. The sunlight streaming through them rapidly faded into night and the window treatments rolled up and disappeared while the windows themselves widened and lengthened. Soon there was a floor to ceiling wall of windows with a view of the grounds and the stars. The lights dimmed to minimize glare on the windows, and Maggie nodded in a pleased sort of way.

Even if it isn't real, she said, it's at least a wonderful facsimile. She set her drink down for a moment to get up and fetch several generous portions of tiramisu, then brought them back to settle in on the couch and look out the window. I do most of the cooking at home, she said, without magic, obviously. Because that's the law. So I've gotten a lot of practice. Dad's pretty useless at the stove. Maggie smiled a little, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. I can't imagine what it might be like to have a chef.
 
She was something worth studying.

It wasn't so cold an observation as it might have sounded. Blaise didn't put much time into studying, observing, and taking in the fine details of things he didn't find interesting. One of Mother's axioms was to learn all that was worth learning, and the way of the household was to be fairly clear if anything even was of sufficient "worth".

But there was just something about her. The ways in which he wasn't able to read her, for she spoke in a way unalike to any he had seen before. He watched for the inflections -- he could see them everywhere, once he had spent enough time with her and in active observation of her tics. The way certain muscles on her face twitched when she was trying to emphasize an expression or a feeling. The way her fingers would get a little jumbled when she was terribly excited for something, almost like she was slurring the signs. His favorite was a little furrow to her brow that he was certain she could never have noticed, the one she used when she was irked but quick in reply, a microcosm of an expression.

The frankness in her demeanor that told him when a topic was off-limits.

He settled himself comfortably on the couch next to her, focusing hard for a scant moment to have the room issue them a hard wooden table -- a curious little design made of solid rectangular pieces of wood, thick and sturdy with the top of it hanging over empty space before them, standing itself on a frame more than legs. He set the dessert down gingerly, as if afraid a construct of his own design would not be fit for the task, but the Room prevailed in spite of such worries.

"It's cold," Blaise finally said. "Which isn't such a bad thing. But it lacks a certain... something, that comes from something made out of desire rather than obligation. His zabaione isn't quite as good, for one example. He always drowns it," Blaise said, turning dark eyes sidelong on her past the rim of a cold glass. He could see the fragility of her smile, and it was in the wake of it that he set the zabaione back down on the table. A hand slid over the surface of the sofa, to settle on one thigh. It was no shy touch, settling far above her knee and gripping her, gentle but firm.

"Perhaps I should try to set an example for you. I have to live up to the title of the Great Zabini, after all."
 
Maggie watched as Blaise built a geometric table, very sleek and modern. She nodded in appreciation. How very art deco of you, she commented slyly. Given their difference in decorating tastes, it wasn't entirely clear whether it was a compliment or a playful ribbing. She sipped her own zabaione, impressed with herself for it turning out this good on the first try but worried about whether she had gotten it right. And hers had too much coffee flavor.

Blaise complimented it in his own round-about fashion, but she wasn't sure whether it was a bad thing that her attempt lacked a "certain something." Then she realized that he was joking. His chef always drowned it, so hers was very probably a direct result of being overly-cautious with any sort of spirit. She supposed it was a good thing that he recognized the virtues of moderation. Maggie frowned briefly when he set the zabaione back down on the table, then followed the path of his hand over to her thigh with her eyes.

Well, far be it from me to set impossible standards, she replied. But exactly which example were you planning on setting? Hm? She smiled, and it had a hint of her old shyness; perhaps his meaning would have been clearer if she could hear his tone of voice. Still, that didn't stop her from scooting ever-so-slightly closer to him on the couch.
 
"Of the wonders of having a chef, of course," Blaise said -- or would have. There was something in that shyness of hers as his hand settled, warm and large, upon her thigh. She was a small thing, at the end of the day, and very appealing in that way. Of course he'd been able to feel that in the stolen moments -- in the library, at the café, or up on top of the school... but it was a different thing entirely when they were sequestered away in a part of the school that no one would ever find them in. He knew well enough about the Room to know that only those who knew what they were looking for would be able to open the same door as the person previous--

"Of the various things expected of a scion of my house. I'll have to start by trouncing your cooking," he said, the glimmer of mischief making that part obvious enough for what it was -- a joke. "But you've shown me such hospitality, and I've not had the chance to thank you for it. Far be it for me to be a bad guest."

And then he kissed her.

It was a warm and lingering thing, not so far removed from the kisses they had shared before real starlight. But it was different here and now. It wasn't just the pretense of being alone, it was the true and actual experience of the same. Somewhere soft and accommodating, that saw him leaning into her, his hand sliding up to take her hip, hiking the edge of her shirt up just so, pressing bare skin to bare skin.
 
Blaise threatened to trounce her cooking and Maggie chuckled. Good luck, she laughed. I've got about a decade of experience on you, but you're more than welcome to try. He back pedaled with just as much humor, declaring himself a bad guest.

Well! If this was how he thanked her, she would have to cook for him more often.

His lips lingered on hers, warm and tasting ever-so-slightly of wine. It wasn't any deeper or more tender than before, but it seemed more...real. Alone in the warm, dimly lit room beneath the stars, it gave Maggie the impression that they were the only ones in the entire country still awake, still very much active. His lips pressed against hers, seeming to mold to hers until they were one and the same. Blaise leaned into her until her back pressed against the arm of the sofa, and Maggie shivered as she felt his hand sliding up her shirt. It was warm and dry against her skin, pleasant despite its unfamiliarity. Nobody had ever touched her like this before; it was thrilling and terrifying all at once.

Are you sure the wine hasn't gone to your head already? she asked shakily when they came up for air. It was difficult to control the actual shaking brought on by the adrenaline rush. If Blaise answered, she didn't see it; Maggie slid her arms over his shoulders, cupping one hand around the back of his neck, and pulled him in for another kiss.
 
It wasn't a motion with a lot of practice to it. A slow and steady press against her until she felt the pressure of the couch's armrest against her back, and the warmth of his body against her. He shifted until he was near on his side, giving him all the room he needed for his hand to trace all the way up one hip and down again, tracing little sparks of static across her nerves.

"It wasn't a lot of wine," he breathed, sparing the quickest glance at her slate, hardly wishing to spend much time away from the sudden heat he felt in his stomach, the same heat that so nicely filled his hand as it swept up her side -- making its way no further just yet, merely enjoying the sensation of her warmth, her softness beneath his fingertips. But all that changed when her lips secured another kiss from him.

One firm, strong hand -- trembling just so for the sudden burst of nerves -- pushed her shirt up to reveal inches of bare, flat stomach, almost all the way up to the bottom of her small clothes. The palm of his hand splayed so nicely against her stomach, broad and dark against slender and pale, pressing against her enough to make it entirely clear that he had her exactly where he wanted her. She could feel him from all sides, hard and very appreciative of the girl he had entirely wrapped up in his touch~
 
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