Love Letters to You

Blaise Zabini already knew that he'd be lucky if his darling of a partner did not leave him on the dance floor within the first five minutes. 

To see her bite her tongue and leash her wand for over an hour steals a few proud tears from his eyes, he must admit. 

Because Elara Black has never been known to be much patient, less so when those she loves are in play, yet here she is, glaring daggers yes, but still at his side.

Now, you might wonder why he'd accept her proposal in the first place if he is so sure of such a dishonor. To have your own partner glancing every few minutes to another would be a humiliation if they weren't Blaise Zabini, Elara Black and Harry Potter. 

Blaise knows how many people placed their bets on the Yule Ball. 

He takes great pleasure in seeing their glares as they realize the Slytherin ruined their plans. But hey, Blaise placed his galleons on their Sixth Year and let it be known that he has yet lost a single bet. 

"Glare a bit more, Elara, and Patil might just melt."

"I am not glaring." Her response is something odd for their leader, petulant and childish, and it is those times that remind Blaise that they are still children, Heirs yes, but teenagers at the end of the day. Her eyes still haven't left Patil's, like a predator not letting her prey even flicker away from her sights. 

Blaise swallows back a sigh. 

Thank Merlin for Elara's commitment to keeping her head buried in the sand, desperate not to acknowledge what the school already knows well: that she is in love with Potter. 

Else, they'd have a blood bath on their hands. 

It'd be a blast, do not get him wrong, a feast for the eyes to see how well Elara wears the color green of jealousy, but he supposes he can see why it would not be ideal. 

Elara grabs his hands, tugging him toward the dance floor. "We're dancing," she tells him, more so orders him. 

"To get closer to Potter?"

The Black heiress's glare is a fierce thing and Blaise wonders how Patil survives it. Maybe it is because she is, as it turns out, a lion. Blaise, on the other hand, is most certainly not one. He mimes spelling his mouth shut, and presses his lips together till the challenge in her grey eyes dies. 

Even if they are in the middle of a ball, he wouldn't put it past her not to hex the ever living shit out of him. 

The music stops. Ah, smart. Cunning even. 

The dancers part and start leaving the dance floor: Potter's steps, like always, bring him to Elara, who shifts ever so slightly. 

Blaise is a Zabini. He was the first to coach her on her flattering angles, and it gladdens him so to see his student so diligent. 

"Black!" Potter greets. 

With how large his grin is, it was almost like Blaise had brought him the best Yule gift ever. Perhaps the Zabini heir would have preened a tad if it weren't for the glares that seemed to try to pierce his back. 

Draco and Elara truly are alike sometimes. 

"Potter," Elara's voice is soft, content as she greets the Golden Boy. Blaise can almost hear Draco's shushed complaint of how 'Blacks aren't soft with half-bloods' that he thinks the rest of the court does not hear as if it has ever stopped Elara. Whenever it comes to Potter, her common sense seems to just fly out of the window sometimes.

Elara then grows colder, her smile sharpening into something mean and taunting as she glances at Potter's date. 

Honestly, Blaise must raise his wand to Patil's bravery, a true Gryffindor to the bone, to stand there, still escorted by Potter.

Ah, though it looks like the Patil heiress knows the difference between bravery and courting death because she casually slips out her arm from Potter's elbow, shifting ever so slightly so there is a small space between them. Potter, ever so oblivious, does not even notice. 

"Black," Patil bows her head in respect, a hand to her heart. Elara gives her a nod in return, regal. 

"Patil. You look beautiful tonight."

Patil blushes at Elara's praise. Blaise wonders if she is bracing herself for the insult that will surely follow. 

"Thank you-"

"For someone who had to resort to Potter for a date. Shame no one else stepped in." 

There it is. 

Patil only smiles, a tight curve of the lips that betrays how Elara's words have pricked her, but the pureblood witch must have known what to expect when she decided to be Potter's date. She is lucky enough that Elara did not decide to draw her wand and shed blood, though that is more of a combined effort from Theo and Blaise. 

Elara does not deal well with people trying to take what is hers. 

Potter, too, it seems because if Blaise were not the amazing pureblood heir that he is, he might have gotten buried under the sheer glare that Potter continuously sent him since news of Elara going to the ball with him got spread. 

Tracey and Pucey had looked particularly gleeful at Potter's jealousy, galleons practically in their eyes as they took in Potter growing a tad more possessive of their darling. 

"You too look beautiful, Black," Potter buts in, ever so oblivious. If the Fates are kind enough to piss off Draco and allow those two to court, Potter will need more than a few lessons on politics from the look of it. 

"Thanks, Potter. You aren't too bad yourself. Save me a dance, will you?" 

Bold, Blaise nods in approval, always the first to enjoy mayhem. Not something Draco will be fond of, but it does well as entertainment of the night. 

Potter pinkens, a blush dusting his cheeks at Elara's compliment like the novice boy that he is. "Course," he throws a glance at Blaise, who quirks a brow in challenge. "Someone has to save you from Zabini's poor escort skills."

"Sounds like a challenge to me, Potter." Blaise retorts, a smirk drawing his lips into a taunt as he wraps an arm around Elara's waist. His teeth flash as Potter cannot help his small frown at the gesture. He looks like he already regrets his taunt.

Too bad Blaise is enjoying himself, too much for him to throw the Gryffindor a bone. 

"Come, Elara, let me dazzle you away," Blaise fake whispers in her ear, close enough he can smell the apple of her hair potion. 

She laughs, a small giggle that steals a smile from Potter. "Dazzle me, then." 

And Blaise drags her to the dance floor.

Blaise is the Zabini heir, a Pureblood wizard of nobility. He has danced before he learned how to run, and so, it is with an effortless grace that he dips Elara into his arm at the end of the song as the rest of their House cheer and the others watch in awe. 

Blaise knows Elara is beautiful in her mirth as he snaps her right back into his arms, giving her a small twirl, a move that the black-haired heiress has loved ever since they were children. 

Potter, standing on the side with his Golden Trio, claps too, a smile on his face at Elara's visible delight. But the smile dies into a straight line, eyes glaring as they make eye contact. 

Blaise, he swears, cannot help it. 

He throws the Golden boy a shit-eating grin as he wiggles a brow, drawing Elara ever so closer to him. 

As such, it is no surprise to the Zabini heir that Potter steals his partner for a dance minutes only after. 

"Do something," Draco hisses to him, gesturing to Elara's third dance with Potter. The blonde has an almost ugly scowl to him, eyes glaring at Potter's back as if it could burn the boy to the ground. 

"And have me hexed seven ways to Sunday?" Blaise asks with a scoff. "Not even for your trust fund." 

Theodore snorts. "Not that it's worth a lot now."

"Want to say that to my face, Nott?"

"Gladly. Your trust fund is worth shit right now because someone had to buy the new Firebolt and two-thirds of its company." 

Someone laughs. 

They stop bickering, eyes stuck on the ballroom floor where their darling of Slytherin twirls without a care in the world in the Golden Boy's arms. Theo's eyes are considering, his lips pressed into a thin line. Blaise would bet he is calculating whether supporting Elara's bid for Potter's heart is beneficial in any way. 

"I'll give you bragging rights," Draco tries to bargain, a pitiful attempt, if Blaise might say so himself. 

"Add your beach cottage in France, and I might consider it."

"Tu me fais chier."

you annoy me

"Ça doit être un de mes nombreux talents." 

it seems to be one of my many talents

Elara is, she must admit, at the top of the world right now. 

There's something beautiful and fragile as she lets her body sway to the orchestra's melody, in Potter's arms. Since they looked eyes, but a few moments ago, he hasn't let go of her gaze, a pool of emerald so warm and gentle that butterflies fluttered in her stomach. 

Peace, that is the word. 

Elara is at peace when Potter holds her close, as if she is a precious thing he cannot bear to lose. 

Loved is what she feels as they twirl, other dancing couples gliding out of their way till it is only the two of them in the world. 

"What are you thinking so hard about?" he asks, a tease in his voice that lacks the cruelty and cunningness Slytherins use as if it is as easy as breathing. 

"You."

Elara grimaces slightly at her breathy response, but Potter does not mock it. Instead, he welcomes it with a brilliant grin. 

"Only good things, I hope?" he asks. 

She smiles, her words mellower than they have ever been, a knife dulled within this fragile peace that stands between them both. "Of course," she then steps out, emerald silk fluttering around her waist, before returning to the place that almost feels like home. "When you're not being too much of a Gryffindor."

He laughs, a chuckle that rumbles through his chest, and the Black heiress is close enough to him to feel it. It isn't the same chuckle he laughed with Patil, and for some reason, the very realization makes Elara's red lips curl into a small, satisfied smirk. "So, never?"

"Maybe just once or twice a week."

"I feel honored."

"You should be. Few get that privilege."

His smile grows mischievous, playful. "So, I live in your mind rent-free?"

Elara tilts her head, the expression lost on her. She furrows her brow slightly, a purse to her lips that betray her bafflement. "Sure?"

As it turns out, Potter's grin can get wider than it had. The tip of his ears are pink, the emerald hue of his eyes sparkle and Elara cannot look away from them. 

"Um, Black?"

The spell is broken and suddenly, the world catches up to them. Elara glances to her right, Potter's right hand still on her hip as if it was always meant to be there. It is Parvati, a wonderful sight in pink, but Elara knows better than to hand out compliments so easily. 

"Yes?"

She knows that the proper, courteous response would be to ask if she may help her, but Elara cares not for manners when the witch is intruding in that small sphere of peace and gentleness that Potter has, for some reason, seen fit to bestow on her. 

"Would it be alright if I dance with Harry for the next songs?"

Elara tries to keep her neutrality that is essential to a Pureblood heiress. Yet, she feels the control slipping from her fingers like fine sand, and quite frankly, it is not like she makes much an effort. Instead, she bristles, a little quirk that her soul brother has slowly but surely ingrained in her manners. 

"I'm not so sure, what do you think, Harry?" she asks and she can barely contain the small giggle that almost slips from her lips at the frazzled, almost dazed look he shoots her.

"Hm?" he asks as if the Gryffindor has not managed to hear her question which would be ridiculous considering how close they are still standing. 

"Will you abandon me on the dance floor?" Elara asks, glaring at Patil till she closes the mouth she had opened in silent protest.

Potter's response is immediate as if there was no possible alternative. "Never."

Elara smiles. She then turns back to Patil, something mean, she is sure, playing at her lip, more a snake bite than anything else. "I'm afraid that won't be alright. Surely, a pureblood witch like yourself will find someone else."

As purebloods, it is considered uncouth to try to steal another's partner. Blaise had reminded her of it with great insistence a few days ago, but only one of higher position could try to shame her for it. 

And Elara Vespera Black is the heiress to the noblest and most Ancient Wizarding House. 

There is no one to shame her. 

"But-"

Magic plays at her fingertips, small sparks that are silver and gold. "Carry on," she says as she gestures her away. 

Patil purses her lips though she curtsies in acceptance, too much of a proper witch to try and fight her on it. 

"Did you just chase her away?" Potter sounds bemused yet impossibly, ridiculously fond, so much so, that Elara guesses he does not find it a bad thing. 

"You stole me from my partner, it's only fair I steal you from yours."

He twirls her with a laugh. "So, you'll hold me hostage?" His words are teasing, his eyes, soft. 

Elara gives a small scoff as she smiles. "Hostage is such a strong word," she protests half-heartily. 

The black-haired girl then blinks, suddenly drowning in Potter's eyes.  

She hadn't realized how close they had gotten till their nose almost brushed together, and all she can see and feel is him. The Yule Ball is a distant thought, and the fact that they are in public an even further one. Per the dance, she slips her hand to the back of his neck. As opposed to what it looks like, his hair is soft, and the Black heiress cannot help but fiddle with a few strands, twirling them on her fingers.

The Gryffindor's breath hitches, a small puff of warm air fanning her cheek like a lover's kiss.

Something dark and possessive curls into her stomach. 

Elara cannot put a name to it. 

"Black-?"

Her left-hand joins the other. Like a snake coiling around its prey.

"You're mine for the night, Potter," she whispers, a whisper that only exists for the two of them. 

He smiles, his grip on her hips growing tighter as he breathes back his answer. 

"Only if you're mine in turn."

EXTRA: 

"Oh, I am so sorry, how clumsy of me."

"It's alright, Zabini." Potter's words are mellowed, disappointed if Blaise reads him correctly. It is a far cry from Elara's outrage as she bristles, a second Draco dressed in emerald. 

"Clumsy my arse, you know damn well-"

"Now, dearest Elara, that is no way a young lady should talk-"

"I'll show you talk."

Potter blinks, gaze flickering back and forth between the two Slytherins as if trying to comprehend what is happening. Rotten luck for the Gryffindor, Blaise must say, because Slytherin's politics are not Potter's forte. 

"Let's grab a drink, shall we?" The Golden Boy asks Elara, a handsome grin on his face that makes Elara's fire tamed. She nods, though her glaring eyes tell him that she will not forget his little interruption. 

Well, worth it. 

He does have a bet to win, after all, and the Yule Ball, for all its glory, is not happening during their sixth year. 

"You are a cruel man, Blaise," Tracey hisses as she glides past him. Her and her partner's eyes are fierce, outraged and he remembers what they had betted. 

His answering smirk is all taunt, a smile that flashes teeth in challenge. 

"If the spell fits."