peskywhistpaw (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} peskywhistpaw) wrote,@ 2008-08-21 16:12:00 |
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| Entry tags: | *fic, character: blaise zabini, character: ginny weasley, character: pansy parkinson, community: rarepair_shorts, fandom: harry potter, genre: humor, rating: pg-13, ship: ginny/blaise |
Everybody's Got One
Title: Everybody's Got One
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ginny/Blaise for ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}
rarepair_shorts
Prompt: internal dysfunctions
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,069
Summary: “This is pointless,” Blaise snaps. “I’ve told you, I don’t have a type.” In which Pansy is annoying.
Author's Notes: Yeah. I'm finally starting on these. And just to clarify, I really do like Pansy. ETA: This is now PART ONE.
Link to Prompt Table: Accio!
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“Even you think she’s good-looking, don’t you, Blaise, and we all know how hard you are to please!”
- Pansy Parkinson
(Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, p. 150)
Pansy Parkinson is possibly the most annoying person ever. Or at least, that’s what Blaise is rapidly starting to believe. He generally puts up with her for Draco’s sake, because she’s been fastened to Draco’s side since before first year, and apparently that’s True Love, or something, which means that allowances must be made if alliances are to be kept. And she’s got her merits, of course—not that he can think of any at the moment, since they’ve all happily defenestrated themselves by now—because usually, they manage to get along quite well.
But—it’s habitually been DRACOANDPANSY, never Pansy by herself. Pansy is a side-dish. She’s not supposed to be part of the main course.
(Blaise really hates metaphors.)
“Ooh! Ooh! Blaise, what about that one there?”
He’d prefer to ignore her, but that’s rather difficult to do when someone’s waving her arm in your face. So he looks—discreetly, and without acknowledging her—in the general direction she’s trying to point to.
Immediately, his eyes bulge. “Granger?” he recoils in disgust. “Am I supposed to have no taste?”
Pansy shrieks with laughter, and Blaise swears his eye is twitching. “Not Granger!” she cries. “The girl in front of her, with the blonde hair!”
Blaise looks again, and declares simply, “She’s a Hufflepuff.”
Pansy waves her hand dismissively. “I know that. It doesn’t matter if she’s stupid—do you think she’s pretty?”
He wishes he’d bought some of those things off the twin Weasley freaks—what were they called? They made you puke or gave you a nosebleed, or whatever.
Either way, they’d certainly be better than punching yourself in the face, he reasons… And more effective.
“No,” he says.
“No?”
“No.”
Pansy searches the corridor again, narrowing her eyes and biting her lip intently, as if she’s doing the most important job in the world. Blaise only leans back against the window and pretends he doesn’t know her.
(Wishful thinking.)
“Ooh!” she cries again after a moment. “Look at her! She’s gorgeous, the nasty tart!”
And because he’s stupid and has a habit of doing what he’s told when he’s not paying attention, he looks.
But there are too many people at Hogwarts, he decides, because he has no idea who the hell Pansy is referring to.
“Who?”
“The brunette,” she says eagerly.
Like there aren’t a thousand brunettes milling about the area.
“This is pointless,” Blaise snaps. “I’ve told you, I don’t have a type.”
“Yes you do,” Pansy insists. “You must. Everyone does.”
He wants to say something nasty about Draco’s type just to shut her up, but decides against it. He can’t have her running off and complaining about him to people he actually wants to keep talking to at some point in his life.
“No,” he tells her again. “I don’t.”
“Yes you do. And I’m going to find it out.” She smiles smugly. “Let’s see—Granger’s out, obviously, and I won’t even mention Midgen…”
Well, thank Merlin for small miracles, then.
“Ooh, what about Chang?”
The girl who would probably cry if she stepped on a leaf.
“No.”
“How about Lovegood? She’s got nice eyes…”
Blaise thinks Lovegood’s eyes are creepy. “No.”
“Katie Bell? She’s fit.”
“No.”
“Susan Bones?”
“No.”
“Hannah Abbott?”
“Who?”
“Edgecomb?”
“No.”
“Daphne?”
“I don’t have a type. I don’t find anyone appealing!”
Just then, he feels someone practically stomp down on his toes, and he ducks his head to hide his wince.
“Well, that’s good news, at least,” declares the violator in a sarcastic, oh-so-witty voice. “I reckon we can all breathe a sigh of relief, now we know we’re all safe.”
“Watch it, Weasley!” Pansy snarls.
Blaise’s head shoots up. Weasley. Of course it’s Weasley. It’s always a Weasley; there’s too sodding many of them for it not to be. It just happens to be the SHE-WEASLEY this time.
He’s going to add something rather more threatening to Pansy’s remark, but he’s stopped by—something. Something that has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Weasley’s just looked back over her shoulder and winked at him like a cheeky little twit, and has, because of some sort of internal dysfunction, made him experience a feeling he can’t place and which is definitely, utterly weird.
It’s probably just because his mouth is dry, is all.
Once Weasley turns in to an adjoining corridor, Pansy rounds on him.
“It isn’t!” she exclaims excitedly.
Blaise glares at her. “It isn’t what?”
She’s almost jumping up and down like a Cornish pixie on caffeine. “You don’t!”
Playing guessing games with Pansy isn’t his favorite pastime—and it’s precisely why he doesn’t hang round with girls all that often. “I don’t what?”
And is he just imagining things, or is she salivating?
“You think Weasley’s pretty!” she shouts. It’s possible that there’s a centaur or two in the Forbidden Forest that doesn’t hear her.
Blaise cringes. People are starting to stare.
“What are you looking at?” he hisses angrily at a bat-eared first-year. (The disfigured little brat whimpers and runs away.)
“Ooh, I saw you, Blaise!” Pansy whispers, finally conscious of the attention she’s drawing to herself. “I saw the way you looked at her!”
“Of course I looked at her. She stepped on my foot, didn’t she?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” Pansy hints slyly. “I saw the expression on your face. I know what you were thinking.”
“That makes one of us, apparently,” Blaise says, finally giving way to frustration. He hasn’t the faintest idea of what Pansy’s trying to get at.
She continues to gaze at him like she’s the cleverest, most insightful person that ever lived.
Then:
“Okay,” she relents finally. “Fine. But I know what I saw.”
“Congratulations.”
He starts pushing his way down the corridor. Pansy follows him, shoving people aside so that she can stay behind him. It’s not in any way flattering for either of them.
After several minutes of watered-down stalking, she coughs quietly.
“You know, it’s just—”
Blaise wheels around to face her. “What?”
She gives him that allegedly-omniscient look again. “I never thought you’d be one to have a thing for red-heads, is all.”
Later, when he’s got images of winks and freckles rampaging through his mind like a mentally impaired hippogriff, he’ll start to wonder at what she’s just said.
For now, however, he simply glares at her murderously.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
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