Who: Pansy and Blaise What: Blaise feels compelled to share a bottle with Pansy, who felt left out of story-time with Theodore When: Evening, Sevenish, if it suits Pansy ;) Where: His room Warning: None (yet? Blaise is bound to at least say something crass)
It had been bloody drafty all day. Or perhaps that was the fact that Blaise was increasingly aware of his surroundings. Or he liked to whine about the cold. One of the two. He had been trying to avoid involvement in The Scandal of Slytherin (he was still calling it that, thinking it sounded dramatic and appropriate), and if Theodore's state the other day was indicative, he had made the right choice by it. No use getting his hands dirty, after all. There were enough things Blaise could be accused of without making matters worse for himself.
The fire roared in the fireplace, and a bucket of ice was ready. The bottle he had received from his stepfather, in an oak box (inlaid with velvet, he was almost positive, though he hadn't yet cracked the seal) was set on an endtable between the plush armchairs in front of the fire, next to the ice. The label on the box read, in a fittingly elegant manner, Ogden's Elegancia, with the words Sherry Oak Series beneath it.
He was comfortable. This was his room, his comfort zone, his pleasant temperatures. It would not be arctic in the Zabini Suite (that's what he called his room) if he had anything to say about it. This was his sanctuary.
He finished a tall glass of water and sat down, glancing at his watch, a thoughtful frown on his features. Perhaps he should write to his mother. She always knew exactly what to do in these sorts of situations. He laughed out loud at the thought. No reason to consult Britain's most infamous social climber his infamously beautiful mother about something like this.
But maybe he was overthinking all of this. It was, after all, completely possible that Pansy had just felt left out -- though why, he couldn't fathom. After all, he was more than sure that girls had nights where they did their hair and nails and girly things (he had to stop himself from smirking at a wishful fantasy). So men were more than entitled to have their evenings and talk and do their own things. Then again, she had been the last one to host a group get-together.
And then, there was the possibility that, as he had thought earlier, she had finally caved in and realized how devilishly handsome he was. He really laughed at that thought, pleasant as the prospect of getting into her knickers seemed. Preposterous.
His thoughts turned to more pleasant things. The betting pools for Quidditch were turning out profitable. And, on a very bright note, it seemed his mother wasn't tiring of his present stepfather, which was good. He actually found the man suitable -- perhaps it was something to do with his bribes. Well, Blaise was a reasonable man.