It’s late on a Saturday night and as she fixes the final touches on her makeup and adjusts her garishly large hoop earrings a final time, she smiles at her reflection in the mirror, seemingly satisfied with the finished product. She had made quite the habit of sneaking out to muggle bars on the weekends, and though none of her usual partners-in-crime had been up for tonight, she decides the lack of company wouldn’t be a deterrence. She needed a break from the castle, a place free of the responsibility she carried so heavily on her shoulders, where she could pretend her life was normal and everything was fine. She needed a place where she could be anybody she wanted, anybody but herself.
Most nights, her escapes went off without a hitch. She managed to work out ideal timings to avoid an unwanted attention and through countless hours of practice had achieved the ability to produce an illegal, generally untraceable portkey (to think what would happen if she applied herself as much to her school work). Save the once time McGonagall had caught her stumbling back into the Common Room in her drunken state, who let her off the hook with no more than a stern warning, she was yet to be caught, perhaps only emboldening her late night antics.
Tonight, however, as she made her way towards the Courtyard, she finds herself turning the corner, only to run in to perhaps the last person in the world she wanted to see.
“Ugh. You,” she groans instinctively to herself as her eyes meet a familiar face. It wasn’t fair that someone so awfully repulsive was also so goddamn attractive. (She thinks there ought to be a law against that or something.) It was a strange feeling simultaneously wanting to strangle and kiss someone, but she supposed, at the very least, it kept things interesting. Her attraction to him, however, did little to temper her hatred of the man, leaving her with few options to proceed. Eventually she opts for a slow, deep breath, pressing her lips together in her signature, dazzling smile as she approached the figure. She refused to let him of all people ruin her night. “Why hello there Mr. Zabini,” she says, her tone bordering on sickeningly sweet, “Now, before you say whatever vile comment you have waiting for me on the tip of your tongue or threaten to report me to your little friends, I’m going to request one time and one time only for you to shut up and keep it to yourself, because it’s a far too lovely Saturday evening to spend on you and seeing as I have far more important places to be, I rather not get started right now,” she says with the decisive lift of her brow, the wicked smirk on her lips begging, daring him to try and say something.
And Merlin, does that word in that tone of voice indicate some entertainment fast approaching. Fast approaching, Blaise discovers, with all her teeth bared in a glittering smile he’s far too familiar with not to know exactly where this is heading before she even opens her mouth. One time is an incident, two is a coincidence, three is a pattern – but the number of times they’ve done this? Practically ritual.
Blaise might’ve actually left Parvati alone early on, let her face blur to match all the other people who didn’t matter that he passed in the halls every day, if she hadn’t made it so satisfying right from the beginning not to. The designated lion out of the two Patils had Gryffindor’s stupid, stubborn fire in excess, he could see it burning hot in her gaze every time he so much as grinned in her proximity – she was too fun to not set off, to keep pushing further, to see just how far he could make her anger go. Blaise didn’t find it in him to have much concern about what the tipping point of that anger might look like; it wouldn’t be the first time a girl had tried to hex him, after all. Rather not get started? Please. The expression on her face is pleading for the exact opposite of his deference to her so-called wishes.
“If I was going to report you, Patil, I’d have to care enough about seeing you get in trouble to bother,” Blaise replies, injecting a flatness into his voice that suggests he’s already bored with the conversation a single sentence in, “And shockingly, I don’t.” He hadn’t noticed her lack of uniform robes at first, but once Parvati steps close enough for her perfume to settle around him, it’s obvious her common room is the last place she’s headed.
“In fact I won’t even bother asking what you’re trying to sell with that getup,” He continues cooly, only the anticipatory glint in his eye betraying the set-up as he takes his time looking her up and down, “Considering the fact that if that’s the outfit you’re advertising with, we already know the contents must be cheap.”
