Current mood:	bored like Blaise and Ginny
Entry tags:	*fic, character: blaise zabini, character: ginny weasley, character: minerva mcgonagall, community: rarepair_shorts, fandom: harry potter, genre: general, genre: humor, rating: pg, ship: ginny/blaise

Framed By Poetry
Title: Framed By Poetry
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Ginny/Blaise for rarepair_shorts
Prompt: so much for having a lot to do
Rating: PG
Word Count: 510
Summary: There are words on Blaise’s desk.
Author's Notes: Wrote most of this back in October. This could probably be considered part one of... something? Or maybe part two. I may connect all of these ficlets, come to think of it. Consider this PART TWO. Follows Everybody's Got One.
Link to Prompt Table: Accio!



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Framed By Poetry

Tick, tock, tick, tock,
That’s the sound of the bloody clock
(At least, it would be, if time possibly
Could pass in this horrible room).

Ginny’s poetry skills haven’t greatly improved since first year, but at least she knows better now than to attempt sim—similars?—whatever the grammatical term it is that Hermione’s tried stuffing down her throat. A comparison using ‘like’ or ‘as,’ or something like that. Something like eyes as green as a fresh pickled toad. (At least she’s never thought about tackling those metal-fours.)

For a moment, she blinks down at the surface of her desk, then licks her finger and violently wipes out the words she’s written. While it might make class slightly more interesting, she’d rather not risk McGonagall catching her in the act of defacing school property—and chance getting her poem read aloud.

(Ginny shudders at the thought)

With a frustrated sigh, she finishes erasing the evidence, and tries not to fall asleep.

-o0o-

There are words on Blaise’s desk. Faint, but glaring up and beckoning to him all the same. Clearly, someone’s tried to get rid of them, but whoever it was has done a poor job of it—judging by the shape of the smudges, the culprit might have simply given up and passed out on top of them.

Blaise isn’t obsessive-compulsive; he doesn’t spend his free time polishing lavatory door handles or mourning the mysteriously rapid production of dust bunnies. He is, however, very bored, and in boredom is prone to finding interest in things about which he doesn’t really give a flobberworm’s left buttock.

After wondering briefly about the anatomy of a flobberworm, he draws his face closer to the desk, squinting.

Tick, tock, tick, tock,
That’s the sound of the bloody—

“Clock,” an arch voice finishes aloud, and Blaise jumps. McGonagall is looming behind him, peering down at his desk.

Blaise blinks. Is it only his imagination, or have the words darkened? They look wet, almost as if he’s just written them himself…

Oh.

Seriously?

“Detention, Mr. Zabini,” McGonagall announces, “for the defacement of school property.” Blaise swears it sounds like she’s gloating.

“That isn’t my handwriting,” he says, trying to sound as calm and disinterested as possible.

“I am aware,” McGonagall replies. “I am also aware of fifteen different handwriting-transfiguration spells, and of the fresh ink upon your desk.”

Blaise feels like arguing; but arguing, of course, is what Gryffindors do. He stays silent, going for casual insolence.

McGonagall eyes him for a moment, and then nods, satisfied. “Please see me after class.”

His lips twist into a snarl at her back. Blaise has no interest in seeing his professor after class, nor does he find the prospect of detention a particularly exciting one—especially when, this time, he doesn’t deserve it; being caught is one thing, but being framed is another.

He stares at the words upon his desk one last time, committing the careless rhymes and the curves of the letters to memory.

Someone’s just cost him his Friday night—and they’ll pay.



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