Blaise Zabini: Poetry
"Poetry." Blaise wove long, slender fingers around one knee. They were dripping silver, rubies, and small bones, one ring showing a rat ducking back low, snarling and ready to attack. "How very... Pottery, eh?"
"I know!" Draco was practically neighing. "Poetry! He's so amusing. I swear, I laughed so hard I got a nosebleed."
"That's because your wiring is shit, love."
"My wiring's the best, thank you very much. It's because Potter is a work of great and shining stupidity, that's why." Draco flopped back into the vintage beanbag and fumbled for his drink.
"Yes, that too." Blaise smiled beningly, allowing his lenses to widen a fraction.
***
The picture in front of him is... well, bleak. Sad old LEDs, sooty like ancient oil lamps. How on earth could Potter ever find beauty in that? How pretend he was listening to the poetry of binary entities, flashing away their lonely, cyclopic signals, their off on off like a last, wheezing SOS? "Save Our Souls."
Oh bons dieux, now he's starting to sound like Potter.
With an angry grunt, Blaise switches off the computer.