Broomsticks and Blossoms

The early morning sun streamed through the flat's windows, casting a warm, golden glow on the plants just outside the window. A protective barrier of magic sheltered them from the unforgiving cold, something that Blaise reveled in after the night before.

The constant humming of magic, coupled with the morning mist, comforted Blaise. He traced the veiny patterns of the leaves with his fingers, the warmth from his hand melting away the sheen to reveal a darker green beneath the surface.

It was almost poetic, how such a dark color could be covered by the lightest, purest of nature's source. It was almost seamless, how the two seemed to combine.

The crackling of bacon could be heard from his perch on the windowsill. He returned to the kitchen with little thought, the promised breakfast taking priority over what crisis slumbered in his psyche.

The door creaked open as Draco tiptoed into the room. Blaise raised an eyebrow, peeking around the island. The blond jumped when he noticed him, looking like a deer caught in headlights. He said nothing, simply raising an eyebrow at the platinum blonde's disheveled hair-- his outfit from the night before sporting a few extra wrinkles.

"Had fun last night, did you?" Blaise asked, turning the bacon with a flick of his wand. Draco startled, an uncharacteristically soft smile melting from his face.

"I didn't think anyone would be awake," he said sheepishly. He disappeared into his bedroom, returning in a t-shirt and sweats, patting at his damp hair just as Blaise set the last plate, piled with toast, oatmeal, eggs, and, of course, bacon. They sat in silence for a while, continuing to do so as a shadowy-eyed and ruffled hair Pansy shuffled out, summoned by the smell of a cure-all breakfast.

Blaise reveled in the sanctity of silence, at least for the moment.

***

Draco was sprawled in their only armchair, acting out his best impression of a squid. Pansy had perched on the arm, freshened up and bright-eyed, and leaned into the platinum blonde's space as she sipped a frosty glass of orange juice. Her elbow rested on Draco's head, clearly disgruntled she'd not gotten there first.

Far be it for Pansy Parkinson to nurse a hangover anything less than elegantly.

"Blaise, dear," she said after he'd recounted the night's events for them, though he expected that Pansy recalled more than she'd said. "I'm hardly seeing the issue. He's soft on you. You're gone on him, just go and pardon my French, fuck it up."

"He's just so..." he grumbled. He was hoping he wouldn't have to spell it out for the two people who should understand the most. "And I'm so...""Devilishly mysterious and handsome, with a touch of denial?" Draco muttered under his breath, trying to remove Pansy's elbow. "You should start thinking about forgiving yourself. Harry says--" Draco's eyes widened, and he snapped his mouth shut.

"Harry says," Blaise latched on, finding relief in Draco's slip-up. "You and Potter on a first-name basis now? After one night?"

Draco blushed, burying his head in his arms and mumbling something incomprehensible. Pansy squealed, "My boys are in loooveee!"

Blaise threw a pillow at her face as she cackled. "Turn your mouth siren off, woman, and at least pretend to suffer like the rest of us!"***Late afternoon showcased Blaise sitting quietly at his desk, contemplating blank parchment, quill in hand. The maroon ink glinted against the candlelight, taunting Blaise's inability to put pen to paper. Outside, snow fell at an increasing rate, creating an extra veil between the panes and the street.

It used to be so easy. He could make his peers melt with a simple look in their direction; a flash of his killer smile always caused a sea of swoons as they passed. He hadn't cared much at all about the opinions of others, though he had plenty of his own to say. How else was one to recruit Purebloods, as his mother would have attested?

At least Draco had an excuse. Blaise had just been an asshole. He could only assume that Draco's infatuation with Gryffindors made the other half of a painful yin and yang. A true balance. He had to laugh at that. Draco had never known balance in his life, not that Blaise could blame him. The Dark Lord had lived in his house for a year. Living with that changed a man-- wizard, Muggle, or otherwise.

Blaise doodled a skull on the corner of the parchment. The eye holes bored into him. Judging. As he sketched, a loose line turned into a vine, then a rose, a lily, and on and on until the dark image disappeared behind a field of flowers. The cover-up helped Blaise remember how to breathe. Now, he just had to put words to the page instead of inking ironic sketches.

He couldn't just send Ron flowers. There had to be...a little je ne sais quoi.

Ron was different from the giggly girls who whispered Blaise's praises in the halls-- or the boys with the stolen glances. And Ron had...wooed Blaise, somehow, just by being nice. His only intention seemed to be to have the honor of Blaise's company.

Blaise had...flirted? Could he call the constellation... line... flirting? That had been more of a statement, not that an intoxicated Ron had cared.

Maybe it was that Gryffindor passion. That was never out of character. Ron had just needed a few years to grow into the charm part of it.

So, what...? Ron might figure that asking the man responsible for his sister's flower display is the easiest way to get a no-strings-attached partner.

And what about the wedding invitation? Luna was nice. That's all there was to it, there-- a simple explanation.

There had been no mention of a plus one...that was something people usually put on invitations for number's sake, right? Was he reading too far into a simple piece of paper?

Ron might not be awake for a few hours. He'd been very far gone when they'd parted.

Perhaps if he Owled, the bird would jostle Ron awake, and Blaise could get an answer to...something.

The Post owls were like that. Very bitey.

Blaise mindlessly massaged the space between his thumb and index finger. The last time Blaise learned that they aimed for the meaty bits. What would he even say?

Ron, you're REALLY charming when you're drunk. Want to take me to your sister's wedding?

He groaned into his hands, his elbows hitting the table with a solid thunk. Blaise was too professional to be hit with wedding fever this early.

Wasn't he?