Ginny had been living in Blaise Zabini's penthouse for less than a week when she discovered his so-called "system." It was a perfectly ridiculous thing, of course, like everything about him. She had gone in search of clean socks and stumbled upon the laundry room tucked neatly off the hall, a gleaming white space filled with enchanted baskets and a pair of polished copper tubs that looked more decorative than practical.
She was used to the Burrow's mismatched hampers and Molly's well-aimed charms that took care of the worst of the mess. Hermione's flat had been even more ordinary, with a washing charm that sometimes shrank trousers and once turned three of Ginny's jumpers a blotchy pink.
This, though. This was Zabini-level madness.
Three baskets hovered in the corner, each charmed with a little glowing rune that labeled them in neat script. Whites. Colours. Silks. Ginny squinted at the last one, baffled. Who on earth had a whole category for silks? Who had that much silk in their wardrobe to require its own basket?
She shrugged, muttered something about purebloods and their precious fabrics, and tossed her sweaty Quidditch kit straight in with the lot. The robes landed with a soft thud, the rune glowing briefly before dimming again. The basket floated serenely, waiting for its next contribution.
Job done. She was halfway back to her room when she heard a very loud, very horrified voice behind her.
"What in Merlin's name is that smell?"
Ginny turned to see Blaise in the doorway, sleeves rolled, a silk shirt hanging loose around his torso like he'd just stepped out of some glossy fashion spread. His eyes were narrowed, fixed on the basket, which was now making a strange wheezing sound.
"My laundry," she said simply.
"Your… what?" He strode past her, peering into the basket as though it had personally offended him. "Tell me you did not just throw your Quidditch gear in with my silks."
Ginny blinked. "Of course I did. It's laundry, Zabini. Clothes are clothes."
"Clothes are not clothes," he snapped, yanking her robes out with two fingers as though they were contaminated. "Do you have any idea what broom polish does to fabric like this? Do you have any idea how long it takes to infuse a shirt with cologne at precisely the right concentration so that the scent lingers without overpowering? You have destroyed the balance."
Ginny stared at him. "You're insane."
Blaise gasped, actually gasped, clutching the shirt like it was a wounded animal. "Insane? I'll have you know these silks are imported. They require their own enchantments. Their own wash cycle. Their own basket."
She barked out a laugh. "You sound like you're talking about children. They're shirts, Zabini. Shirts."
He turned slowly, eyes flashing, voice low and dangerous. "You will not insult my wardrobe."
"Oh, come off it." She folded her arms, glaring right back. "You're a posh peacock. You strut around in your silks, spray yourself with cologne like a perfume counter exploded, and you think you're untouchable. Well, tough luck, pretty boy. Your precious shirts now smell like Quidditch and broom wax. Deal with it."
He looked ready to combust. "Feral Gryffindor. No sense of refinement, no respect for delicacy. You should be banned from this room entirely."
Her jaw dropped. "Banned? You think I'm going to sneak around asking permission to wash my knickers? Forget it."
"You will follow the system," he hissed, stabbing a finger at the baskets as though they were holy relics.
"I'll follow nothing," she shot back. "And if you touch my kit again, I'll hex you so fast your silks will fold themselves out of pity."
His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. He pulled his wand from his sleeve. Ginny pulled hers from her pocket. The laundry room suddenly felt much smaller, the air buzzing with energy.
"You wouldn't dare," he said softly.
She smirked. "Try me."
The first curse was minor, a little charm that made his socks wriggle to life and leap out of the basket, snapping at his ankles like angry terriers. Blaise yelped, batting them away, his wand flashing as he retaliated. Her socks slithered out of her trainers and crawled up her calves, biting at her skin with sharp little nips. She shrieked, hopping on one foot, nearly crashing into the copper tubs.
"Zabini!"
"Weasley!"
They shouted over each other, hexes flying, socks gnashing and snapping around the floor like a pack of deranged animals. The baskets bobbed nervously in the corner, glowing runes flickering as if they too disapproved of this chaos.
Ginny aimed a stinging jinx at his perfectly polished shoes. Blaise countered with a charm that made her robes flap wildly like wings, smacking her in the face until she was half blind. She screamed with laughter and fury all at once, blasting the robes across the room and nearly taking out the basil-green laundry rune in the process.
Finally, panting, they both called off their spells. The laundry room looked like a battlefield. Socks hung from the ceiling, gnawing on light fixtures. A silk shirt lay draped over the tub, pitiful and damp. Ginny's broom kit was sprawled across the floor, still smelling faintly of grass and sweat.
Blaise ran a hand through his hair, glaring at her like she had personally ruined his life. "You are chaos."
Ginny leaned against the wall, chest heaving with laughter she couldn't quite stop. "And you are ridiculous."
They stared at each other, both flushed, both grinning despite themselves. The silence stretched until Blaise finally muttered, "Positively feral."
She smirked. "Peacock."
The socks dropped from the ceiling with a soft plop.
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
Ginny figured out the cup situation on day eight, which felt late for a woman who had survived a war, seven brothers, and an entire season of professional Quidditch interviews without telling a single journalist to shove their quill where the sun did not shine.
The truth slipped out the same way it always did in this penthouse, soft at first, tucked into small things, then suddenly loud enough to shake the walls. She noticed that the top left cupboard never squeaked. She noticed that the porcelain inside sat in rows straight enough to satisfy a Gringotts goblin.
She noticed that Blaise took exactly one cup each morning, set it down on a folded linen napkin, and turned the handle to a precise angle that made the gold rim catch the light. She noticed because he wanted her to notice, which irritated her even more than the cups themselves.
Her own Cannons mug sat beside the hob like a battered terrier, orange paint scuffed and the handle glued twice. It did not match the counters. It did not match the cutlery. It did not match Blaise. That, frankly, was the point. She brewed tea in it with an air of defiance that would have done McGonagall proud and sipped as if stubbornness were a vitamin.
The first shot fired came on a Tuesday when she shuffled in half asleep and lifted the mug without looking. The steam curled up with an innocent twist. She brought it to her mouth and a blaze of whiskey roared across her tongue, sharp and burning, the exact taste of a bad decision. She spat the mouthful back into the sink and coughed until her eyes watered while Blaise sauntered in, crisp and smug, sleeves rolled, hair annoyingly perfect for a man who had no right to be this awake.
"Morning," he said, as if he did not smell like cedar and sin, as if she had not just gargled a distillery. He took one glance at the sink, then at her, then at the offensive mug. "You look lively."
"You poisoned me," she said, staring at the traitorous tea as if it might lunge again. "You absolute menace. What did you do?"
He poured his espresso with a tiny satisfied sigh, the kind of sound people made when they stepped into hot baths or sank into expensive leather seats. "Improved your palate. Tea is better with a little backbone. Consider it a public service."
"Consider this a declaration of war," she said, rinsing the sink with unnecessary violence. "I will end you."
He lifted his cup, and the gold rim flashed like a dare. "Cheers, baby girl."
The hex took her twelve hours to perfect because she refused to half do anything. She whispered the spell into the porcelain when he was out, layered it with a little rhythmic trigger keyed to the temperature of a fresh pour, and painted the rune so thin it hid beneath the gilding. It was subtle. It was elegant. It was petty. She was proud.
The next morning she sat at the table with her tea, which now tasted gloriously like tea again, and watched Blaise go through the ritual. He chose his favourite cup, poured, lifted, and the kitchen filled with a clear tenor voice that did not belong to either of them.
"Pretty boy drinks his coffee."
Blaise froze with the cup hovering just below his mouth, one pale eyebrow lifting in terrible slow motion. Ginny pressed her lips together to contain the laugh building in her chest and failed so spectacularly that she snorted like a child.
He set the cup down with ceremony. "What," he said, and the single syllable contained a small thesis. "Did. You. Do."
The cup answered for her, as per design. "Pretty boy takes it black. Pretty boy never cracks."
Ginny folded over the table, shoulders shaking, tears of mirth gathering under her eyes. Blaise stared at the cup as if it had just insulted his ancestors. He lifted it again with a glare that promised retribution and took a measured sip while the cup crooned, "Pretty boy sips it slow. Look at that handsome glow."
He drank the entire espresso with the patience of a saint while a mug told the room about his face, and Ginny had to respect the sheer power of his pride even as she slid off the bench cackling like a villain. When he put the cup down, the silence that followed had weight.
"Childish," he said eventually, which was rich from a man who had spiked her morning brew. "Also derivative. That rhyme is dreadful."
"You want scansion with your humiliation," she managed, wiping her eyes. "I can add a chorus. Maybe a bridge."
He rinsed the cup very calmly, then dried it with a linen cloth, then placed it back into the cupboard in a different position like moving it might move the memory. "Enjoy your victory," he said without looking at her. "It will be brief."
There followed three days of escalation that made the laundry debacle look like a warm-up.
On Wednesday her tea turned a brilliant Gryffindor red and refused to cool below a tongue-blistering boil unless she stirred it while humming Celestina Warbeck, a fact she discovered after the first scald and the second complaint. She hummed, swore under her breath, and drank anyway while Blaise leaned on the island and watched with fox-bright eyes that promised nothing good.
On Thursday his delicate porcelain filled with an outrageously foamy micro-foam heart every time he poured, which in itself would not have been notable except that the heart had a face and the face winked. The wink happened at the same moment every morning and Ginny timed her entrance so she could be standing there with her ghastly Cannons mug when the wink landed. He refused to give her the satisfaction of a reaction, but his ears flushed the faintest pink, which she stored away like treasure.
On Friday the Cannons mug developed an opinion. She had not done it. The mug woke up spirited. The moment she lifted it, the handle warmed under her fingers and a gravelly voice rumbled up from the ceramic as if the cup had a little old bloke living inside.
"Alright, love," it said, as casual as a pub greeting. "Brew me strong, none of that watery nonsense. And tell the pretty twit to stop looking down his nose at me, yeah. I might be chipped, but I've seen more honest mornings than his posh saucers ever will."
Ginny choked on a laugh and decided the house liked her more than him.
Blaise listened to the mug deliver its speech with a thin, incredulous smile that did not reach his eyes. "Your cup is slandering me," he said. "In my own kitchen."
"Seems accurate," she replied, patting the mug as if it were a cat. "He says you are an acquired taste."
"Who says I want to be acquired," Blaise murmured, then glanced up at her through his lashes, and the little flick of heat that moved through her belly felt like a betrayal. She drank to smother it. The mug, traitorous ally that it was, added, "Keep staring, fancy lad. We can all see you."
He retaliated that afternoon by turning her mug into a snitch that played dead every time she reached for it. She had to chase it across the counters like a first year while he leaned in the doorway with his arms folded, offering commentary as if he were a sports analyst. She caught it by feinting left and lunging right, then kissed the chipped rim on principle and told him to do one.
Hermione arrived after lunch for a quick check-in that nobody had requested. She took one look at the echo of foam on Blaise's lip, another at Ginny's flushed cheeks, and then glanced down at the Cannons mug, which now bore a tiny painted bandage where the handle had once cracked.
Hermione's eyebrow rose with affectionate doom, and Ginny felt twelve years old again caught nicking mince pies before dinner. There was a speech about boundaries forming on Hermione's tongue, and Ginny cut it off by thrusting a cinnamon bun at her face.
"Eat that," she said. "And tell Malfoy to stop sending me flat listings in Knightsbridge. I am not living next to his tailor."
Hermione chewed, smiled, and said in the gentlest tone, "Just be kind to each other, please."
Kindness in this house looked like sabotage followed by truce. On Sunday morning Ginny woke to the faint clink of porcelain and the hiss of the steam wand, which Blaise had charmed to behave like a Muggle machine because he liked the ritual. She padded in, hair slept-on and soft at the ends, and found the Cannons mug already sitting out with a saucer underneath like someone had dressed it for a special occasion. A small paper note perched against it in Blaise's elegant hand. No whiskey. At least try the Assam. If you hate it, I will pretend I never offered.
She eyed it suspiciously, then brewed. The Assam was strong and malty with a sweetness that rolled around her tongue without clobbering her awake. She took a second sip before she caught him watching, and the pleased curve at the corner of his mouth made her consider tossing the rest just to spite him. She did not. He had given her good tea for no reason except that he could. The smallness of it prickled at something inside her that had gone raw after too many goodbyes.
"Truce," she said carefully, like a spell that might backfire. "For the morning."
"Breakfast ceasefire," he agreed, pouring his espresso. His cup remained silent, thank every saint and minor deity, and when he raised it their eyes met and held. "Only for the morning."
The peace lasted until nine. At half nine Ginny returned to the kitchen and discovered that every porcelain cup now wore a tiny painted Cannons jersey complete with the number six on the back. Blaise stared at the cupboard as if it had committed a personal betrayal.
She did not admit it had taken her until two in the morning to get the paint to stick to the enchantment without cracking. She also did not admit that seeing that neat white stack splashed with stupid orange made her feel like she had left a fingerprint on his too-perfect life.
He spoke without turning. "You are unwell."
"Admit you love it," she said, carrying her mug to the table. The mug harrumphed in approval.
"It is vulgar," he said, then added in a tone so dry she might have missed the smile buried under it, "and slightly charming."
"What was that," she asked, cupping a hand to her ear. "Could not hear you over the sound of your pride collapsing."
He closed the cupboard with a care that bordered on reverent and faced her with the look he wore when he walked into a room full of people who had underestimated him. "You are getting comfortable," he said. "You are moving things."
"I live here," she said, and there it was again, the bright dangerous thud under her ribs that had nothing to do with caffeine. "Do not cry about it."
They spent the afternoon in a kind of wary companionship that did not feel like surrender. He read on the sofa with his bare feet tucked under him and a linen shirt unbuttoned just enough to send bursts of heat into Ginny's stomach every time she glanced up.
She wrote a letter to George about new stock at the shop and pretended to think very hard every time Blaise shifted. The basil on the sill soaked up the sun like something smug. The city moved beyond the glass. It almost felt normal.
By Monday morning both of them were bored of being gentle. Ginny found her mug pouting on the counter, actual painted lips sticking out in a sulk. It refused to be filled until she apologised out loud for calling Blaise a poncy peacock on Saturday night, which she had not technically done to his face, only to Pansy in a whisper that clearly had not been quiet enough for the flat's twisted sense of humour. She said sorry while glaring at him, the mug accepted with a prim little nod, and he had the gall to wink.
At ten past eight the espresso machine hissed, the cup filled, and a tiny foam message bloomed across the surface. Be nice to me. Ginny cackled and leaned over the island so he could not avoid the angle of her grin. He held her gaze while he drank the message down, and she swore the air warmed around them like someone had cracked the window on a summer night.
They pushed it too far at lunch. Blaise attempted a clever little switch that made the Cannons mug shout the score of every Cannons loss in the past decade whenever it touched her lips. Ginny responded with a reflux charm that made his cup swallow every sound in the room and then burp it back all at once when he set it down.
For two minutes the silence was eerie. When the cup hit the saucer, the kitchen belched a chorus of noise that included the lift bell, the kettle click, her very undignified hiccup, and Blaise saying in a low voice, almost affectionate, get over here, baby girl. They stood in mortified silence while the echoes faded. He cleared his throat. She stared at the basil like it might offer a hole in the floor.
"Truce," he said again, throat rough.
"Fine," she replied, voice smaller than she liked. "Before we level the block."
That evening, the friend group descended in stages because chaos loved witnesses. Pansy brought cake and zero discretion. Hermione arrived with a stack of Ministry files and a smile that spoke six languages, all of them meaning behave. Harry came late, shook Blaise's hand with resigned civility, and then fixed Ginny with a look that said he would be having a brotherly word later. The kitchen became crowded and loud and warm. Someone put music on low. Someone leaned out on the balcony to breathe in the river air. The cups survived without a single insult or song.
Then Pansy, who could not leave anything beautiful alone, reached right past Blaise for his favourite porcelain and poured herself coffee. The old charm woke like a dragon and launched into a verse Ginny had not written. "Pretty boy is so divine, even better with red wine."
Silence rolled like a wave and broke on laughter. Blaise pinched the bridge of his nose. Pansy beamed at the cup like it had given her a birthday present. Ginny felt her face flame as Harry mouthed what and Hermione stared heavenward as if asking any benevolent force to get her out of this house.
Blaise retrieved the cup with an edge of doom. "You are all banned," he said to the room at large, then looked at Ginny because of course he did. "You, especially."
"You cannot ban me from my own kitchen," she said, stepping into his space before she realised she had done it, their shoulders almost touching, the sound of the river faint through the glass. "I live here."
He smiled, slow and sweet as treacle and twice as dangerous. "Then behave."
They settled at the breakfast bar with their drinks finally unenchanted, both of them far too proud to admit they had run out of cleverness. The others drifted in and out, Pansy starting arguments for sport, Harry losing at cards, Hermione patiently explaining a policy to Blaise who pretended to listen and then repeated it back perfectly when she quizzed him. The cups sat in their cupboard like soldiers on parade. The Cannons mug rested between Ginny's hands, warm and blessedly quiet. The truce held.
Morning came back around as it always did, and with it the ritual. He poured. She brewed. They sat across from each other like rivals in a very polite duel and lifted in unison. The coffee did not sing. The tea did not burn. The mugs did not run. For a long measured moment neither of them spoke, the silence full rather than empty, their gazes steady, their breaths matching without meaning to.
Blaise set his cup down first with a tiny nod that felt like both a concession and a challenge. Ginny followed, palms flat to the counter, heartbeat doing a silly little skip that she pretended not to feel. They both reached for their drinks again, stubborn as ever, and drank the last swallow with the kind of forced dignity that belongs to people who have been caught out one too many times and still refuse to yield.
The war over mugs was not finished. It had only learned to bide its time.
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
It was Thursday, late afternoon, when Ginny finally thought she had the penthouse to herself. Blaise had gone off to some meeting in Mayfair, muttering something about "appearances" as he adjusted his cufflinks, and she had happily waved him out the door.
For the first time in days, the flat was blissfully quiet. She curled into the sofa with her battered Cannons mug, a crossword from the Prophet, and the kind of sigh that only came when you knew you wouldn't be interrupted.
That peace lasted exactly twenty minutes.
The front door swung open without so much as a knock. Pansy swept in like she owned the building, a bottle of wine levitating behind her. The cork was already out, and three glasses bobbed on a tray at her side as though she had choreographed the entrance.
Ginny nearly spilt tea all down her front. "Parkinson, what are you doing here?"
"Visiting," Pansy replied sweetly, shrugging off her coat and tossing it over the back of a chair. She kicked off her heels and collapsed onto the other end of the sofa as if she had every right.
The wine floated to the coffee table with a soft clink. She picked up a glass, took a long sip, and sighed like she had stepped into paradise. "Merlin's beard, Ginny, do you know how hard it is to get up here? Zabini has been dodging me for days. Now I see why."
Ginny blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Pansy turned her head, all sharp eyes and wicked smile. "You. Him. This entire set-up. It reeks of sexual frustration."
Ginny choked on her tea. She coughed so hard she nearly tipped her mug over the crossword, spluttering, "What—what are you on about?"
"You heard me." Pansy leaned back against the cushions, utterly smug. "The tension in here could power the Floo Network. Honestly, I should sell tickets."
Ginny opened her mouth, ready to snap back, when the sound of the door opening again made her freeze.
Of course Blaise chose that moment to return.
He strolled in, jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt untucked just enough to look careless in that infuriating way of his. He spotted Pansy immediately, his mouth curving.
"Pansy," he said, voice dripping with affection. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"
"Came to check on your little arrangement," she purred, tipping her glass toward Ginny. "And I must say, it is better than I imagined."
Ginny glared daggers. "There is no arrangement."
"Oh, but there is," Blaise said smoothly, dropping into the armchair opposite them. "We live together, Weasley. That counts for something."
Pansy's grin widened. "Exactly. Cohabitation always reveals the truth. And the truth is that you two are five minutes away from shagging on this very sofa."
Ginny nearly fell off her end. "Absolutely not!"
Blaise leaned back, utterly relaxed, his eyes locked on her as he raised his glass. "She's not wrong."
Ginny spluttered, furious heat rushing to her cheeks. "You're unbearable."
"Baby girl," he said lazily, "you wound me."
Pansy clapped her hands, delighted. "See? You've even got pet names."
"I do not—" Ginny began, but Blaise's smirk deepened, and she realised too late that denying it would only fuel him.
Pansy was practically glowing. "I'll give it a fortnight before one of you snaps. My galleons are on him. He always did have a flair for the dramatic."
Ginny's teeth ground together. "Nothing is happening."
"Of course not," Blaise murmured. "Not a thing."
When Pansy returned three days later, she brought Hermione with her. Ginny should have locked the door. Instead, she found herself face-to-face with Pansy's smug expression and Hermione's faintly apologetic smile as they both swept into the penthouse like a storm.
"Pansy insisted," Hermione said quickly, clutching a stack of files. "She wanted to… check in again."
"Check in," Ginny repeated flatly, glaring at Pansy.
"Yes," Pansy said, all innocence. She deposited her bag on the counter, summoned wine again, and dragged Hermione to the sofa. "Someone has to witness this farce."
Blaise appeared from the kitchen, wineglass already in hand. He greeted Hermione politely, kissed Pansy on the cheek, and sank into his chair like the king of the castle.
"Now," Pansy said briskly, gesturing between them with her glass, "tell me, Granger. How long do you give them before they admit it?"
Hermione frowned. "Admit what?"
"The tension," Pansy explained, rolling her eyes. "The constant bickering, the way he calls her baby girl like it's foreplay. Sexual frustration. Obvious."
Ginny's face went scarlet. "It is not obvious because it is not true!"
Hermione turned her gaze on her slowly, her brows arching with that devastating calm that always made Ginny feel twelve again. Ginny groaned.
Blaise sipped his wine, perfectly content. "She protests a lot, doesn't she?"
Hermione's lips twitched, betraying the tiniest smile. "I'll just say… be careful."
"Careful?" Ginny spluttered. "There's nothing to be careful about! Nothing is happening!"
Pansy raised her glass in triumph. "To nothing happening. May it continue to look exactly like something."
Blaise clinked her glass, his smirk aimed straight at Ginny.
The visit stretched into dinner, as all Pansy's visits did. She sprawled across the sofa with wine and demanded gossip about Ginny's Quidditch career, then steered the conversation straight back to "domestic arrangements." Blaise indulged her with wicked little comments. Ginny snapped back until her throat was sore. Hermione, bless her, tried to keep the peace but even she started smiling into her glass whenever Ginny's voice pitched too high in protest.
By dessert, Pansy had declared she would move in just to enjoy the show. Hermione shook her head, muttered something about masochism, and gathered her files. Blaise offered to walk them both out, but Pansy paused in the doorway, fixing Ginny with a grin sharp enough to cut.
"Two weeks," she whispered, her eyes dancing. "You'll cave in two weeks."
Ginny slammed the door behind her. Blaise leaned against the frame, laughing under his breath.
"Not funny," Ginny snapped.
"Oh, baby girl," he murmured, "it's hilarious."
She threw a cushion at his head.
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
Ginny told herself it was harmless. A little prank to put Blaise Zabini in his place. After all, he had spent the past week smirking at her every time Pansy mentioned "sexual frustration," calling her baby girl as if it were his right, and acting as though he owned not just the flat but her sanity. Something had to give.
The chance came when he left his wardrobe open. She had gone in looking for a jumper because the penthouse had a draft that cut straight through her bones, but she froze when she saw it.
It was obscene.
Row upon row of shirts, silk and linen, arranged by shade in perfect colour order. White at the far left, then cream, pale blues, forest green, burgundy, black. Not a hanger out of place. Not a wrinkle. His shoes gleamed on the shelves below, polished to a mirror shine. Even his ties were coiled neatly in little compartments, sorted by pattern and width.
Ginny's lips curved into a wicked smile.
"Begging for it," she muttered, slipping her wand out of her sleeve.
The spell was quick, neat, and viciously funny. Each shirt shivered as the enchantment settled, and she walked out trying not to laugh too loudly.
The results came the next morning. Blaise emerged from the shower, steam curling around him, towel slung low on his hips. Ginny tried not to stare at the drops of water sliding down his chest and buried her face in her tea. He crossed to the wardrobe, humming under his breath, and reached for a pale blue silk.
"Poser," the shirt whispered.
Blaise froze.
Ginny almost spilled her tea.
He tugged the shirt down slowly. Another mutter rose from the wardrobe. "Ego too big for these buttons.m."
Ginny snorted into her mug, scalding her tongue.
Blaise turned, eyes narrowing at her. "You."
She widened her eyes innocently. "Me?"
"My shirts are insulting me."
"Maybe they're just honest."
The wardrobe joined in helpfully. "Walks like a model. Smug twit."
Ginny doubled over with laughter. Blaise muttered a curse under his breath and yanked the shirt on anyway, the fabric hissing against his skin. He glared at her the entire time.
"Enjoy it while you can, Weasley."
Her punishment came two days later.
Ginny had gone flying, desperate to stretch her legs. The Thames glittered below her, the wind whipped through her hair, and for a moment she felt like herself again. Then her broom began to sing.
"Oh, come and stir my cauldron," Celestina Warbeck belted, her voice magically amplified.
Ginny nearly toppled sideways. "Oh, no."
"And if you do it right, I'll boil, boil, boil all night!"
Her face went red as a Quaffle. People on the bridge pointed and laughed, a little girl waving up at her while her mum covered her ears. Ginny groaned and tried to land, but the broom only climbed higher, Celestina hitting the chorus at full blast.
She dove, wrestled the broom onto the balcony, and all but threw herself off. Blaise was waiting, leaning against the railing with a glass of wine, grinning like Christmas had come early.
"Lovely performance," he said. "Encore tomorrow?"
Ginny's hands shook with fury. "You humiliating bastard! Everyone in London heard that!"
He sipped his wine with infuriating calm. "Consider us even."
"We are not even."
"Wardrobe still thinks I am a poser," he pointed out.
"That's because you are."
"Maybe." His smirk deepened. "But your broom has better taste than your mug."
Ginny lunged for him, wand raised. He dodged with ease, laughing, and that was how the prank war began in earnest.
The next week was chaos.
His cufflinks sprouted quills that scribbled "smug peacock" across his wrists. She nearly fell off the sofa laughing when he discovered them mid-meeting, storming back into the penthouse with ink stains blooming across his sleeves.
Her tea kettle refused to pour until she shouted "Goal!" at the top of her lungs. Blaise sat at the counter watching her, smirking while she tried to hush the kettle into silence.
His mirror shouted compliments so loudly at six in the morning that she woke to his exasperated curses through the wall. "Yes, I am beautiful, shut up!" echoed across the flat.
Her pillow smelled strongly of his cologne, so thick she sneezed for half an hour, while he insisted the flat had "simply developed taste."
By the end of the week, the penthouse looked like a battlefield. Socks shuffled nervously in corners. The wine rack rattled whenever she walked by. The broom sulked in the cupboard, humming Celestina under its breath.
And then came the basil incident.
Ginny decided to target his most precious possession. Not his wardrobe. Not his wine. The basil plant.
It sat smugly on the windowsill, leaves glossy and green, soaking up the light like royalty. Blaise doted on it daily, watering with exact measurements, trimming stray leaves, muttering charms to keep the soil balanced. Ginny thought it was absurd. A plant was a plant.
She crouched by the pot, wand poised. Just a little spell. Nothing harmful. Just enough to make the leaves sprout words. "Arrogant prat" spelled across the greenery every time new growth appeared.
She whispered the incantation, drawing the rune with her wand tip—
And Blaise walked in.
His voice cracked like a whip. "Touch her and die."
Ginny jumped. "Her?"
He stalked forward, eyes blazing. "My basil."
She scoffed. "It's a bloody plant."
"She is a delicate ecosystem," he snapped. "And you are about to ruin her."
Their spells collided mid-air. The protective ward he had woven into the soil fought her charm with a violent spark, and the basil shone bright green before exploding.
Smoke filled the kitchen. Pots clanged to the floor. Ginny coughed, soot streaking her face, while Blaise darted forward, gathering the basil's scorched pot into his arms.
"My poor girl," he murmured, brushing ash from her leaves.
Ginny gawked at him. "You're worried about a plant when I nearly blew myself up?"
"You'll recover," he said briskly. "She might not."
Ginny let out a disbelieving laugh, half furious and half hysterical. "You are insane."
"And you," he said, turning slowly, his eyes catching hers through the haze of smoke, "are reckless."
Something twisted low in her stomach at the intensity in his gaze. She shoved it down, fanning the smoke toward the window. "Next time, I'll hex your wine bottles."
He stroked the basil's singed leaves, smirk tugging at his mouth. "Do that, and we'll be at war forever."
Ginny squared her shoulders. "Fine by me."
The basil trembled between them, blackened leaves curling, as if the poor thing was taking notes for the next round.
✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦
Ginny told herself she wasn't going back. Not after the first time she had stumbled onto him in the gym by accident, not after she had nearly combusted at the sight of sweat dripping down his chest. She had sworn she would avoid that room entirely. And yet, there she was, hovering in the doorway again.
The sound drew her in. A steady thud, rhythmic, echoing through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. The treadmill.
She pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, breath already uneven. Blaise was there, running at a pace that looked effortless, sweat slicking down his bare chest. His muscles flexed with every stride, the light catching along the lines of his shoulders and the sharp dip of his abdomen.
She tried to convince herself she was only curious, only checking how long he wasted on this ridiculous ritual. It was nothing more than nosiness, nothing more than wanting to see how perfect Blaise really thought he was.
Her body disagreed. Heat curled low in her stomach, her thighs pressing tight as her eyes lingered on him. Every movement was infuriatingly graceful. Every harsh breath he drew sent another pulse through her blood.
She stayed in the doorway far too long. He noticed, of course. He always noticed.
His gaze flicked to the mirror across from him. Their eyes locked. A slow smile spread across his lips, the kind of smile that promised trouble.
"Like the view, baby girl?" His voice was low, roughened by exertion, but smug enough to make her knees buckle.
Ginny's face flamed scarlet. She let out a very undignified yelp, spun on her heel, and bolted.
Her feet slapped against the polished floor as she muttered curses under her breath, the kind that would have earned her a scolding from her mother. She slammed her bedroom door and flung herself onto the bed, burying her face in the pillow. Her entire body was trembling with heat and fury and something far more dangerous that she refused to name.
She lay there for ages, heart pounding, replaying the scene in her mind. His voice echoing. His brow arched. The sweat running down his chest. The way he hadn't missed a step, as if he had been waiting for her to peek in all along.
By the time she emerged for dinner, she had almost managed to convince herself she looked normal. Almost.
Blaise was already at the table, lounging like he owned the place. He had changed into a clean shirt, sleeves rolled, hair damp from a shower. His plate sat untouched, his wine glass full. He was waiting.
Ginny dropped into the seat across from him with a scowl. "What?"
He smiled slowly, deliberately. "Nothing."
"Liar."
"Just wondering if the view lived up to your expectations." He took a casual sip of wine, his eyes gleaming.
Ginny's fork nearly snapped in her hand. "I wasn't— I didn't—" She cut herself off, stabbing at her food viciously.
Blaise tilted his head. "No need to be shy. You're welcome to watch anytime."
Her cheeks burned. "I'll hex you into next week."
"Mm," he hummed, utterly unbothered. "Might be worth it."
Ginny shoved another bite into her mouth, chewing furiously, refusing to look at him. But she could feel his gaze, heavy and warm, lingering too long. Every time she glanced up, he was smirking.
By the end of the meal, she was practically vibrating with frustration. She gathered her plate, marched into the kitchen, and slammed it into the sink harder than necessary. Behind her, she heard him chuckle softly, deep in his chest, the sound curling around her like smoke.
She spun. "What's so funny?"
"You," he said simply. "You make this flat more interesting."
Ginny froze, caught off guard by the softness under the smugness. For a moment, the air shifted. The laughter faded, leaving something quieter, heavier.
Her stomach twisted. She turned back to the sink quickly, muttering, "You're insufferable."
He leaned back in his chair, watching her with infuriating calm. "And you're adorable when you're flustered, baby girl."
She dropped the dishcloth, stormed past him, and slammed her bedroom door for the second time that night.
On the other side, Blaise laughed again, low and pleased, the sound of a man who knew he'd won.
Ginny shut her bedroom door and leaned against it, chest heaving like she'd just run a marathon. Her cheeks still burned. Her skin prickled all over, like she had been hexed, except the only curse involved Blaise's bloody smirk and the sound of his voice echoing in her ears.
Like the view, baby girl?
She buried her face in her pillow and groaned loud enough to shake the mattress. "No," she muttered into the fabric. "Absolutely not. I do not like the view. I do not like anything about him. I hate him. I hate him."
The words rang hollow. Her body betrayed her, warm and restless, images replaying whether she wanted them or not. His shoulders gleaming under the gym lights. The roll of muscle down his back. The way he hadn't missed a beat when he caught her staring, as if he had known she would be there, as if he had run the whole bloody workout for her benefit.
Ginny kicked the duvet, frustrated.
If she were sensible, she'd hex his treadmill. Make it run backwards every time he stepped on. Or charm it to shout Quidditch commentary at full blast. "Zabini rounds the corner, looking smug as ever, ego big enough to block the goal posts!" That would wipe the smirk off his face.
Or maybe she'd charm it to eject him flat on his arse. She pictured him sprawling across the polished floor, pride bruised, and let out a sharp laugh that made her feel a little better.
But then her imagination betrayed her again. Instead of humiliation, she pictured him reaching for her hand as he pulled himself up, sweat dripping, eyes blazing. She pictured him crowding her against the wall, voice low, still teasing. Like the view now, baby girl?
Ginny clutched her pillow tighter. "Absolutely not. No. Never."
She rolled over and buried her face in the sheets, as if suffocating herself in linen would smother the thoughts too. It didn't.
The worst part was how her body responded even as her brain screamed against it. Heat coiled low in her belly, a restless ache that refused to be ignored. She squeezed her thighs together and cursed so viciously her mother would have washed her mouth with soap.
This wasn't attraction, she told herself. It was irritation. It had to be.
Because the alternative was unthinkable.
She punched the pillow once for good measure, then pulled the duvet over her head. Maybe if she slept long enough, she would wake up and find him less insufferable. Or better yet, find him gone.
Of course she knew neither was true.