hackthis_archive | Twentysomething

Twentysomething
A Harry Potter story in five parts about getting older, getting over it, getting over yourself, and moving the fuck on.
Rated from General to Adult m/m, m/f

Chapter I

In Blaise Zabini's estimation, relationships were for those who couldn't function on their own two feet. It didn't help that other people tended to snore, hog the bedclothes, and get themselves killed. One minute they were leaving their shoes next to the bed, where anyone could trip and lose an eye –- Blaise was no one's House Elf -- and the next they were burrowing their way into your heart like a niffler on the make for a lost Galleon.

"Are you knackered? Because you've been running through my head all night," a female voice hollered in Blaise's right ear over hideously loud Muggle music. When Blaise turned to glare at this interloper, he found himself looking down – and further down --at his research partner, Queenie Greengrass.

"If you ever accost me in this manner again, I'll hex all of your work to reek of manticore droppings," he said, raising his voice only loud enough for her ears.

Queenie smirked back. "You really are no fun anymore; do you even remember what it's like to have a shag?" She winked almost too quickly for Blaise to see it, which was par for the course with Queenie. She had a perception that was eerie, and an intelligence that almost rivalled Blaise's own, which was obviously why they were going to win the Paracelsus Prize for Arithmancy this year.

(At 26 they were a full ten years younger than the previously youngest recipients to be short-listed.)

"People who live in glass houses, and lose their fiancées to Gryffindor rubble, should mind their own business," Blaise said.

Queenie narrowed her eyes. "If you don't want me to start telling you things about yourself that you don't want to hear, might I suggest that you shut up, and buy me another drink?"

Blaise grinned. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said over a thumping bass.

The music at the Clapham Junction was hideous on Friday night, which was why Blaise was there on a Thursday night avoiding the teenies, the would-be-hipsters, and the slumming wizarding folk.

Queenie made a derisive noise, and Blaise turned away from the dance floor and back towards the bar to order more appallingly orange drinks.

Blaise was in dire straits indeed if he was patronising Muggle clubs and bars, but there was something extraordinarily oppressive and asphyxiating about the clubs and bars in wizarding London. Blaise assumed it had to do with the same people visiting the same establishments over and over, doing the same things, ordering the same drinks, casting the same tiresome Glamours and still hoping to pull someone worthy.

Of course, this was all Draco's fault, much in the way that most of Blaise's twenties had turned out to be Draco's fault, since Blaise had never forgiven Draco for dying on him.

Literally speaking, Draco hadn't died as much as he'd been sacrificed to that insufferable parasite, Lord Whatshisname, for some greater good that Blaise had never believed in. Furthermore, Blaise highly doubted that Draco would've wanted to be remembered as a martyr for anything that could've been deemed good, or at the very least, sacrificial in a marginal, you-can-see-it-if-you-squint-and-cast-a-Lumos type of light.

Ten years on from Dumbledore's demise, and the war was over and considered a "We Are Very Much Over it" Past Event. Draco was dead, and only remembered by a few; Blaise's mother had disappeared with husband number twelve; Severus Snape was in exile, and Theodore had naffed off to study law on the continent. And Blaise -- well, when Blaise wasn't working on obliterating the competition on the shortlist for the Paracelsus Prize, he was reduced to trawling for one-night stands in random Muggle clubs.

Truthfully, it didn't matter what the reasoning was in the end, Draco was still as dead as the Dark Lord, and nothing was going to bring him back to Blaise. So, in the name of Zabini masochism, Blaise was forced to go out and consort with the sort of undesirables that previously would've made his skin crawl and his teeth hurt.

Blaise looked the length of the bar, wondering what was taking the bartender so long to realise that Blaise was waiting. In the six months Blaise had been patronizing the Junction, he had never waited on anyone for anything.

Much to Blaise's chagrin, the bartender seemed quite intent on someone at the opposite end of the darkened bar, and Blaise actually had to snap his fingers, twice, to get his attention.

The bartender didn't make his way down to Blaise as much as he swaggered, and Blaise rolled his eyes. He'd already had Justin Finch-Fletchley and wasn't particularly interested in another go. "Another round of whatever," Blaise said dismissively.

"Sure thing," Justin leered. Queenie snickered at his elbow, and Blaise reeled back.

"Just the drinks," Blaise said pointedly. Once you slept with someone it was practically impossible to get rid of them –- this was a lesson Blaise had learned the hard way once Justin had started working at the Junction. Some people just couldn't take, "Please go away and never darken my doorstep again, or I will set up wards to shrivel your nether regions," in the manner in which it was intended.

Queenie tapped Blaise's arm. "I'll be right back," she said before disappearing into the darkness, and Blaise growled to himself as Justin turned back with the drinks.

"Is one of these for me?" Justin asked, setting his elbows on the bar top and very effectively ignoring the customers lining the length of the bar. "I don't really think I should drink when I'm working, but for you, Blaise—"

Blaise snatched up both drinks rather quickly. Such obviousness made his stomach churn. "Not today, Finch-Fletchley," he said, turning away with speed.

"Maybe tomorrow," Justin's words were eaten by the music and the distance that Blaise put between himself and the bar.

The darkness of the Junction made it rather difficult for Blaise to make his way through the clusters of people. He should've been able to spot Queenie's preternatural coloured hair in a crowd of thousands, but she had effectively vanished, and once again, Blaise cursed Draco and Theodore for leaving him in such a position.

Blaise was in his late twenties, and as both Pansy and Queenie reminded him, he may've looked like jailbait, but he wasn't getting any younger. It was time to move on, to which Blaise tended to reply that they were a fine twosome to talk. Queenie had broken off her engagement to Bevan Montague three years ago, after finding him in flagrante delicto with Oliver Wood, and hadn't been on a date since. Pansy, at the least, kept putting herself out there -- and then found fault with everyone and hexed them out of her flat before the contracteptus charm had even worn off.

At the moment, Pansy was venting her frustrations by flirting outrageously with some ginger-haired, jean-clad, gangly boy who couldn't have been a day over twenty. It was amusing in the way that Blaise tended to find everything Pansy did amusing; he had to get his entertainment somewhere.

Blaise took up residence against an empty wall, setting Queenie's drink on the floor, and downing his own rather more quickly than advisable. Keeping one eye on Pansy and another on the denizens of mediocrity, Blaise patted down his pockets for his cigarettes, found them, and then patted down his pockets again for a light.

He was going to quit smoking any day now, possibly. Smoking was one of those habits he'd acquired post-Past Events, along with insomnia, cursing Draco, and trawling Muggle bars. He looked up when a tiny flame suddenly appeared before him. He tried to keep the wandless magic for special occasions, or at least for moments when he'd thought of the actual spell first.

The flame was on the tip of the finger of a lanky, dark-haired man, who looked to be somewhat close to Blaise's age. Blaise took the proffered light and inhaled thoughtfully with a nod.

The man nodded in return and stood there considering Blaise for several seconds. He looked vaguely familiar in the way that everyone looked vaguely familiar to Blaise since he couldn't be bothered to tell them apart.

The man leaned against the wall next to him, and Blaise didn't immediately protest. It was hard to protest long arms and legs, dark hair, and the sort of stance that left hips jutting away at an inviting angle.

Blaise's general demeanour of "Feel free to fuck off" didn't seem to intimidate his companion. More importantly the man hadn't immediately said anything stupid, so Blaise took another inhalation, and glanced around the room.

Pansy was still talking to her under-age toy boy, but she soon caught sight of Blaise's newest acquisition and raised a curious eyebrow. Blaise exhaled in response, resolutely pretending not to notice when the space between himself and his new friend seemed to diminish rather abruptly.

Blaise crouched down and picked up Queenie's neglected drink, because smoking always made him thirsty. It was most likely a side effect of Cecil's No-Toxic Ciggies, and Blaise didn't hide his appreciative glance at his companion's backside. He wasn't hanging about in Muggle bars for his health.

Blaise took one quick look for Queenie before taking a long swallow of her drink. He managed to neither choke nor shudder when a scratchy masculine voice spoke into the shell of his right ear. "Fancy coming back to mine?"

Blaise hesitated only for a moment. It wasn't a line; it was just an offer. Plain and simple. No one ever did plain and simple anymore, and Blaise missed that; it was clearly a dying art. After so many years of sorting through double and triple entendres, this sort of brazen bluntness was curiously appealing.

It reminded Blaise of Draco.

Blaise spared a glance at Pansy, who was now watching them with keen interest, before turning to look at the man beside him. One fleeting look up and down was all Blaise needed.

One body was as good as another, and this one certainly seemed to be better than most. Blaise nodded and dropped his cigarette, stubbing it out with the toe of his right shoe. "All right." He pushed away from the wall and then hesitated. "Do you have a name or should I just call you He Who Has No Name?"

The man cocked his head to the side, dark hair falling across his forehead as he stared at Blaise for several moments. Blaise resolutely didn't blink. "James," he said eventually. "My name's James."

"Blaise."

James gestured towards the door. "Ready?"

There was certain level of idiocy associated with one-night stands, not because of the sexually transmitted disease factor as most people assumed, but because you never knew what the fuck you were getting yourself into. Your partner could've had a side job as a mass murderer, or a Muggle advocator, or he could've been a Hufflepuff.

Blaise had gotten over the Hufflepuff business with a lot of help from Justin Finch-Fletchley's mouth, but every time he ran into Justin he ended up paying all over again.

That was the problem with the wizarding world -– it was too fucking small -– and this was why Blaise was leaving with James.

Out on the high street, the night was defused by the brightness of store signs, and Blaise blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the change. James gestured for Blaise to follow him, navigating around drunken revellers leaving pubs and people rushing home in the wee hours.

From the silence, it appeared that James wasn't a brilliant conversationalist, which suited Blaise fine. In fact, during their entire walk from the Junction -- down the High Street, past the bookie and the chip shop, around the park and down Grandison Road -- James didn't say more than "this way" once or twice.

Every now and then Blaise could feel James glance at him out the corner of his eye. The second time Blaise caught him at it, he felt a frisson of heat roll from his ears down to his groin. It was almost like James was casting a spell, which was not wholly impossible, but Blaise knew everyone who was anyone anywhere, and he found the idea so unlikely that he discarded it out of hand.

It was just his hormones; it had been a long time since Blaise had gone home with anyone –- almost two years –- and the last time had been so bad that Blaise had almost sworn off sex altogether.

That was what he got for trying to have sex with a woman even though he was gay -– clearly, Theodore leaving for law school had distressed him on a fundamental level.

"Here." Blaise stopped, looked over at James and then looked up at the house before him. It wasn't a grand structure, but it had character. The red brick wasn't any different from the homes on either side of it, but there was something curious about how appealing it seemed to Blaise. It was certainly not his grandparents home in the Lake District or any of his mother's fabulous pied-a-terres in Paris, but it had a certain charm that didn't completely offend Blaise's sensibilities.

"Which flat's yours?" Blaise inquired politely as they took the six steps to the front door.

James stopped outside the door to fish in his pockets for his keys. "I don't have a flat," he said matter-of-factly.

Blaise narrowed his eyes and took a step back, glancing behind him to make certain he didn't fall off the porch. "We are not having sex on the floor of your mate's flat -– I can't believe that you would think that I would ever -– do you even know how uncomfortable that is?"

James cut him off. "It's my house. I own it."

Blaise blinked. "You own your own house? Really? You can't be a day over 25."

James smirked. "I was 26 in July."

"Did your parents buy it for you?"

James' eyes narrowed, and again Blaise felt a low heat in his stomach. James was nothing like Draco, but he certainly had a temper like him. "My parents are dead –- this is my house. I bought it because I was tired of other people."

Blaise simply raised an eyebrow. "Fair play." He gestured towards the door. "Are we going in, or are we going to stand out here all night pretending to care about each other's personal situations? I have to say I find the whole emoting thing tiresome."

James exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring, and Blaise rolled his eyes. Stepping forward, he took the key from James' hand and fitted it in the lock. He was just turning the knob when he felt James' body press against his back; the tips of James' fingers dug into his hips and his erection pressed firmly against Blaise's backside.

"Are you always this bossy?" James' breath was hot against the nape of Blaise's neck, and Blaise lost at least five brain cells. James' lips pressed against Blaise's neck, and Blaise shuddered when James bit him.

"I tend to leave bossiness to people who have nothing better to do," Blaise gritted out. "I just reserve tact for special occasions."

James hand slipped around Blaise's waist, and he rubbed the heel of his right hand against Blaise's crotch, pressing down. When Blaise pushed back, James growled low in the back of his throat, and Blaise exhaled sharply.

James pushed Blaise against the door, and Blaise staggered when the door flew open with a bang and he was propelled into a dark hall. The heat from earlier was still sending sparks along Blaise's skin -– and for a moment he thought he could actually see bright spots dancing in the darkness. He chalked it up to his hormones, and didn't turn around as much as he felt himself being turned around.

James' hands were everywhere at once, grabbing, squeezing, and when James shoved Blaise against the wall, Blaise slammed his head hard enough to see stars for real. James was an inch taller and at least a stone heavier than Blaise, and obviously quite a bit stronger.

For a moment, they stood there, James' hands holding Blaise's wrists against the wall as Blaise’s eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, which was broken only by the weak light filtering through from the window next to the front door.

James's eyes were huge and bright, green or blue it was impossible to tell, and Blaise's breathing stuttered slightly when James leaned in. If James sensed his hesitation, he didn't let on, and James didn't kiss Blaise as much as he attacked Blaise with his mouth.

James licked and bit, cupping Blaise's face, his thumbs pressing against the hinge of Blaise's jaw. Blaise tasted it the minute James drew blood, and their tongues swept against each other wetly, spreading copper in their wake. Blaise's hands tangled themselves in James' hair to control the kiss, or at least give Blaise a chance to breathe.

Blaise swallowed a moan as James' thigh insinuated itself between his legs. James was muttering imprecations against Blaise's skin, but they rolled off like so much water since Blaise couldn't make them out. He hooked his foot over James calf, directing much needed pressure against his cock and shuddering as James nipped sharply where his shoulder met his neck.

Scrabbling between them, Blaise opened the fly of James' jeans and shoved his hand downward until he found the hard, damp heat of James' cock. Rubbing his thumb brutally under the head, Blaise stroked and jerked as James' teeth bruised his skin.

The pain-pleasure of James' teeth bloomed in Blaise's shoulder as James shuddered in his hand and came. Wiping his hand on James' shirt, Blaise pushed down on James' shoulders until he got the hint and slid down to his knees.

With his mess of black hair backlit by the faint amber glow from the streetlights, James looked like some sort of minor god, and Blaise inhaled sharply as James yanked his own shirt over his head and then pulled at the flies of Blaise's trousers.

James fingers were sure and harsh as he pulled Blaise's trousers halfway down his thighs, and he didn't even pause before taking Blaise in his mouth, sucking loudly and wetly.

James' thumbs pressed against the hollows of Blaise's hips, and Blaise banged his head against the wall again, closing his eyes at the stars and finding the back of James' skull by reaching out blindly. Blaise petted in place of grabbing, because you never wanted to piss off the person with your dick in his mouth.

Closing his eyes let him concentrate on the sensation of James' hands roaming over his thighs and stomach, between his legs, and when Blaise finally did open his eyes and look down, James was staring at him with huge eyes and a very familiar smirk on his face.

"Fuck," Blaise gritted out, right before he came. Shaking his head to stave off the inevitable sluggishness, he slid down the wall bonelessly, collapsing into a heap beside James.

If Blaise closed his eyes and wished very hard, this would only be a horrific nightmare, and Draco could laugh at him in the morning. Blaise opened his eyes, feeling James' gaze like something tangible, and he sighed when James wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. "I'm going to have a shower. You can stay or go. Whatever."

Blaise exhaled; now would've been an excellent time for that famed Zabini intellect to kick in and get him out of this disaster. A lifetime of Slytherin knowledge should have set off his anti-Gryffindor alarms – so much for that. This was all Draco's fault for getting himself killed, and how Blaise hadn't seen this before was a testament to his stellar ability to repress and how far past Past Events he apparently was.

Eight years was a long time no matter who you were; Blaise had moved on, but now his skin was crawling with magic, and he was curious. Extraordinarily curious.

Grabbing his trousers, Blaise pulled them up as he got to his feet, and patted his pockets for his cigarettes. He hadn't even taken off his shoes. "Why not?" he said, nodding at Harry bloody Potter after locating his lighter and fags, "Why the fuck not."

The smirk on James' –- Potter's face slipped into an infectious grin. "All right then."

Potter showered with the door of the bathroom open. Whether it was because he was granting Blaise an open invitation, or because he thought Blaise was going to summon the mythical Last Death Eater and he didn't want to miss it, wasn't readily apparently to Blaise – or perhaps Blaise just wasn't paying enough attention to the situation. At the moment he was a little preoccupied with sprawling out on Potter's unmade bed and staring at his ceiling, which was charmed to look like the sky over Hogwarts.

Blaise had always done his own Astronomy homework and could identify the Blind Centaur, Orion and Cassiopeia without fail. If he focused hard enough he could drown out the sound of Potter's caterwauling coming from the bathroom.

Blaise took a drag of his cigarette and shifted when something poked him in the back. Reaching underneath him, he found a pair of dark sunglasses, and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. It was the glasses that must've done it. Potter wasn't wearing any, and Blaise had never seen him without them.

He slipped on Potter's sunglasses idly, sitting upright when the dark lenses showed Potter's bedroom to be crawling with golden and silver wards, and the sort of moderately advanced Arithmancy that had given Blaise a hard-on at sixteen.

Blaise would've recognized his mentor's handiwork anywhere, and he smirked as he caught Professor Vector's signature Centrino Protective Equation whirling in the corners of the room.

He climbed off the bed, tripping over various shoes, a broom, and clothes that were strewn on the floor. Potter's house was a tip, a disaster of epically unkempt proportions, there was no other way to describe it.

From the outside it seemed like any other home, but on the inside it was a catastrophe with clothes and books and various magical articles running amok. There wasn't a House Elf in sight, and Blaise supposed it was a good thing, since they probably would've keeled over at the state of Potter's room.

Picking his way through the rest of the mess, Blaise approached the wall diagonal to Potter's bed. There was a desk with some sort of Muggle contraption, and Blaise narrowed his eyes at the photographs and postcards on the wall. He kept getting distracted from the Arithmantical properties of Potter's wards by the figures in Potter's photos whispering to each other and pointing at him. He took Potter's sunglasses off and set them on the desk as a pretence to studying the photos.

Blaise would've recognized Ginny Weasley anywhere with that flaming hair, along with several other ginger-headed people that must've been the rest of her family. Blaise knew she'd lost at least one or two brothers to the war, but Blaise would've recognised Ronald Weasley anywhere. There was also a dark-haired gangly interloper that might've been Neville Longbottom, and in another photo Luna Lovegood stood next to Weasley, and Blaise vaguely remembered Queenie saying something about Luna dating Ron.

"Those are my friends," Potter said amiably, and Blaise rolled his eyes as he turned around. He hadn't heard the shower cut off, but that was no reason not to be prepared.

Potter stood by his bed, a towel wrapped around his waist and rivulets of water running down his chest. His hair was a wet mess, plastered to his head, and Blaise was not turned on. Not at all. Not even a little bit. He moved to take a long drag of his cigarette before realising that it had gone out; instead he dropped it on the floor, stubbing it out with his shoe.

"Potter, I am not a simpleton."

Potter cocked his head to the side. "I never said you were stupid, Blaise."

A nerve twitched in Blaise's temple. "Yes, which is obviously why you felt the need to lie to me about who you were."

Potter shrugged, pulled off his towel, and began drying his hair with it. Blaise resolutely did not stare at Potter's naked body –- for that long. "I didn't lie, I just didn't tell the truth," Potter said.

Blaise could feel his temper start to fray. "You told me your name was James -– you are clearly not James since you are Harry Potter. How this doesn't fall under the heading of lying is beyond me –- not to get stuck on the semantics of course."

Potter stopped drying his hair, hung the towel around his shoulders and took a step towards Blaise. "My middle name is James –- Harry James Potter. Do you need me to draw you a diagram, Blaise?"

Blaise narrowed his eyes, "Do not insult my intelligence, Potter."

Potter gave him a rueful look. "I can suck your cock, but not insult your intelligence. I'll remember that."

"I never would've –- if I'd known, I would've –-" Blaise scowled and patted down his pockets for his cigarettes, while Potter moved around his bedroom, making haphazard efforts to clothe himself.

"Blaise -– Zabini," Potter corrected when Blaise glared at him. "What are you doing down here anyway? Slumming it? If anyone should feel wronged, shouldn't it be me? I just got off with a Slytherin, what would the people say? Harry Potter is queer? Harry Potter got off with a Slytherin? Merlin save us, he's been possessed by the Dark Lord!"

"You're not as amusing as you think you are, Potter," Blaise said, lighting another cigarette to keep from snickering. "If I were slumming it, I'd at least slum it somewhere better. I'm not impressed by you."

At this, Potter turned around and crossed his arms over his chest. "I never asked you to be impressed, Zabini. I don't really care what you are."

"Judging by the state of this house, you don't care about much of anything, do you?"

Potter raised an eyebrow, and Blaise couldn't decide if Potter was attempting to charm him by arguing in his underwear, or if he was honestly that thick. "I knew you were pretentious and self-righteous, but talking about my house? That's just boring."

Blaise leaned back against the wall. "I've done the haughtier-than-thou thing my entire life. That is boring. Much like you at this moment."

Potter looked at Blaise as though he were having an actual thought. "You would probably be dead if it weren't for me," he said flatly. "Is that what you're waiting for me to say? Am I supposed to yell and break things and be mentally unstable? Is that what you thought was going to happen?"

Blaise felt his mouth thin into a line. "You have me mistaken for someone with no brain. I was always going to be fine. The rest of the world may see you as some sort of saviour, but to me you're just another pretty mouth living in a hovel."

"You're not the only person who lost someone in the war," Potter snapped.

Blaise froze; he could feel anger, actual, physical anger coalescing from every fibre of his body. He didn't do anger; anger got people killed. "Get over it, Potter," Blaise said icily, pushing himself off the wall and stalking past Potter.

Blaise didn't have to look to know that Potter was following him; the light in the hall cut on and Blaise caught sight of a hideous orange sofa as he passed the sitting room.

He stopped at the front door and turned back. Potter was a lot closer than Blaise had thought, in fact, Blaise could still see a few drops of water on his bare chest. "I would Apparate," Blaise retorted, "but I see you have a thousand wards here, and I would probably cut myself to shreds, and then you would've been able to say that you'd rid the world of another Slytherin scourge."

Potter narrowed his eyes. "Hermione used to think you were brilliant. She hated you, but she still thought you were brilliant -– clearly she was wrong."

Blaise thought of his wand, transfigured into a cigarette for the evening, and a silver spark lit up on Blaise's right.

Potter raised an eyebrow, and the door behind Blaise banged open for the second time that evening.

"You want me to get over it? Why don't you get over it, first?" Potter said, and before he could reply, Blaise found himself on the kerb outside Potter's house -- except that Potter's house was gone.

Blaise blinked once, twice, and then laughed dully. "Draco, I will never forgive you for leaving me in this shit," he said, Apparating with a crack.

--On to Chapter II--

+ Art provided by

antheia. Casting here.

+ Soundtrack available here

+ Betas provided by the team of

ethrosdemon,

oxoniensis and

serialkarma, from whom all floggings and OMGWTF flow. I have nothing but love for each of you, regardless all remaining mistakes can be blamed on them.

+ Dedicated to

literaryll

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: Elbow 'The Stops' / Kaiser Chiefs 'Everyday I Love You Less'

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I am psychic!!!!!!!!!!! I have to go run some errands but I said to myself oh but I really need to stop at the library and see if Z posted her story yet and OMG HERE IT IS!!!!!!!!!!!! I will now be a spaz for the rest of the day :D :D :D :D :D

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literaryll.livejournal.com

In Blaise Zabini's estimation, relationships were for those who couldn't function on their own two feet. - Uh huh Blaise. We'll see ♥

It didn't help that other people tended to snore, hog the bedclothes, and get themselves killed. One minute they were leaving their shoes next to the bed, where anyone could trip and lose an eye –- Blaise was no one's House Elf -- and the next they were burrowing their way into your heart like a niffler on the make for a lost Galleon. - Draco's dead but he's still very much a presence and that makes me HAPPY and sad in just the right way. Draco would totally snore ♥ ♥. The image of Blaise tripping when getting out of bed AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Draco would smirk and the face Blaise would make at him ♥ ♥ - I am going to wear the hearts out LOL - It can't be helped! I am so smitten with all of them.

She winked almost too quickly for Blaise to see it, which was par for the course with Queenie. She had a perception that was eerie, and an intelligence that almost rivalled Blaise's own - Queenie rules and Blaise's arrogance always cracks me up.

Blaise assumed it had to do with the same people visiting the same establishments over and over, doing the same things, ordering the same drinks, casting the same tiresome Glamours and still hoping to pull someone worthy. - That's hilarious - all these people with glamours on hoping to get laid but everybody can see through the glamours anyways and LOL I sneer along with Blaise.

when Blaise wasn't working on obliterating the competition on the shortlist for the Paracelsus Prize, he was reduced to trawling for one-night stands in random Muggle clubs. - Oh yes Blaise what a state you are in. How can you stand it? LOL

Truthfully, it didn't matter what the reasoning was in the end, Draco was still as dead as the Dark Lord, and nothing was going to bring him back to Blaise. So, in the name of Zabini masochism, Blaise was forced to go out and consort with the sort of undesirables that previously would've made his skin crawl and his teeth hurt. - Ow. Ow. Ow. This is what I love about your fics and Blaise - he's so full of himself and amusingly snobby - making me laugh with his derisive comments and then the next minute I read something like this and oh yeah. He's lost and closing himself off and he misses Draco and he's not over any of it and he's not moving on and he's pretending and full of shit and ah GOD BLAISE.

Blaise actually had to snap his fingers, twice, to get his attention. - Twice! Like he can't even believe the nerve LOL

"Just the drinks," Blaise said pointedly. Once you slept with someone it was practically impossible to get rid of them –- this was a lesson Blaise had learned the hard way once Justin had started working at the Junction. Some people just couldn't take, "Please go away and never darken my doorstep again, or I will set up wards to shrivel your nether regions," in the manner in which it was intended. - *cracking up* If anybody would have those kind of wards it would be Blaise! The perils of being a hotass.

Such obviousness made his stomach churn. - LOL! I love slutty cliche Justin Finch-Fletchley.

once again, Blaise cursed Draco and Theodore for leaving him in such a position. - I will have little red welts from this constant cursing Draco thing. It smarts like that. I'm glad that Blaise stayed cause otherwise he wouldn't sex it up with Harry but how come he didn't go with Theodore to the continent?

Pansy, at the least, kept putting herself out there -- and then found fault with everyone and hexed them out of her flat before the contracteptus charm had even worn off. and It was amusing in the way that Blaise tended to find everything Pansy did amusing; he had to get his entertainment somewhere. - LMAO Pansy is definitely entertaining.

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From:

oxoniensis.livejournal.com

Eeeee - I love you and I love this!!! And you've got cool artwork too!

I must go back and pick up the soundtrack - I saw it at the time, was in a rush, and then forgot all about it.

From:

Educated Black Person, Esq., A.A., B.A., MBA, Ph.D., RN, NAACP, AAA

Twentysomething – Chapter I

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