Classes
In the flower arrangement world, the 3-5-8 rule is the most common practice to create a balanced arrangement. The order is as follows-- three types of flowers, five stems of greenery, and eight stems of filler flowers. In terms of techniques, one can never go wrong with the spiral, in Blaise's personal opinion.
Most assume that spiraling is only good for the downward trajectory, like a leaf off a tree, or a flyerless broom to the Quidditch pitch green. But a spiral makes for a fascinating stairwell design, allowing the climber to achieve great height in a short amount of time.
It was something he picked up the first time he fell off his broom, coincidentally also because of a Weasley. Just not the one currently wrapped around Blaise like a giant squid. Still dangerous, situationally.
And yet Blaise stuck by Ron's side through the week, closely surveying former classmates, friends, and old enemies. Watching Macmillan stay true to his words.
It was a kind of peace Blaise didn't expect to find back at Hogwarts, but a peace nonetheless. This was no doubt to the antics of the first night-- not to mention the underlying threat that Blaise had somehow found himself in the middle of. Loved by one of the Trio, protected by the other, no doubt silently supported by the Golden Boy himself-- ever the Savior (though even Draco might not like the name now).
At week's end, the first of the classes started. All Hogwarts alum were encouraged to depart before the school year began, but there was still one thing left to do. So, he waved Pansy and Draco off just after breakfast, quickly turning on his heel towards the Quidditch pitch, like that first day.
Now the air was crisp with excitement, the buzz of first-years echoed around the courtyard, scattering red and gold leaves. Blaise buried his nose in the soft emerald of his scarf, stuffing leather-gloved hands into his pockets. Merlin, he'd never learn.
He had a plan. He wasn't leaving Hogwarts without seeing Ron in his Professor uniform. Call it a desire, infatuation, whatever you want-- but he needed an image to hold until the first Hogsmeade weekend-- the first time Hogwarts students and professors alike would be free during the school year, and, regrettably, too far away.
It already felt like quite a long time since he'd seen Ron, the latter having risen early enough to make it to the Great Hall before the students trickled down to breakfast. Blaise was left with a cooling bed and the feeling of emptiness that comes with the end of any trip. So he marched down to the Quidditch pitch, nearly spinning out as a group of excited first years sprinted past-- desperate to soon be off the ground.
By the time Blaise had arrived, the gaggles of first-years had been formed into two lines, facing each other, the whole straight and narrow pattern of all first days.Ron was surrounded by all-too-familiar black robes and rounded faces of the first years, looking very fancy in a dark blue robe set, with coppery buttons and the faded quidditch gloves Blaise had seen at the Burrow months ago. His eyes were set with the determination and hope of a newly minted professional, with the touch of nerves rounding up the look. From where he stood, Blaise could see Ron was issuing first instructions on kicking up and doing a few loops around the pitch. He stayed on the grass of the pitch, gently coaching each student to call their broom-- most doing their due diligence and wiggling around on the ground before flinging themselves into the first-year's hands.
On Ron's whistle, the students kicked harshly off the ground, rising like dandelion seeds on a summer afternoon. Then he kicked off himself, hovering near a shakier student on the edge-- watching that the rest didn't hover above a few feet. There would be time for that later.
***
In the blink of an eye, the lesson ended. Brooms were piled up, and students were sent back to the castle with a newfound twinkle in their eyes. For a last bit of fun, the more confident flyers were allowed a low-to-the-ground race around the goalposts, while the more reserved watched with their feet firmly on the ground. Ron, never to be outdone, had raced with them."Fancy a fly 'round the pitch, then, Mr. Zabini," Ron called, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. He leaned on the newly stacked broomsticks, realizing too late how unstable they might be. As he flailed, Blaise caught him in his arms. They stared at each other for a moment, Blaise with a mix of shock and amusement, and Ron extra jubilant.
"Broke my fall again," Ron grinned, catching Blaise's lips for a kiss.