Title: Genealogical Calculation
Pairings: Blaise/Pansy, implied future Blaise/Ginny
Word Count: 585
Summary: Genealogical calculation is just one of the things Blaise has learned from his mother.
Warning (Highlight to view): For implied non-con.
Disclaimer: This piece is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling; various publishers, including, but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books; and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Author's Note: Thank you, eaivalefay and stasia, for beta'ing.
Blaise had given it a great deal of thought, and the more he considered it, the better he liked the name "Ginevra Zabini." It rolled smoothly off his tongue, leaving the heady tang of anticipation in its wake. With Potter gone—the rumors that he wouldn't be returning for his seventh year at Hogwarts had reached Blaise in the first weeks of summer—Blaise believed he might have a chance of negotiating his future without interruption. It wasn't arrogance that allowed him to hope in Ginny Weasley's direction, but genealogical calculation—and the importuning of his cock.
He patted the phial he had secured from his mother's stillroom and secreted in his robes before leaving for the train, and contemplated his eventual fatherhood to children that he knew would, in no way, be burdened by the perils of crossing two bloodlines already too closely intertwined. None of my offspring are going to be born Squibs or cross-eyed or crazy. They'll be born powerful and symmetrical and sound.
"And have red, curly hair and fine, caramel skin," he murmured, surreptitiously pressing the flat of his palm against the tumescent presence pressing against his trousers behind the privacy of his open copy of the Daily Prophet.
Pansy Parkinson's sharp, shiny fingernails appeared along the top edge of his paper to crumple it downward. "You're insane if you think your mother will ever allow it."
"Belt up, Parkinson," Blaise retorted, releasing his hold on the paper.
"I won't. Gryffindor's Girl Weasel would never shag you, let alone marry you, and—"
Blaise had never cast the spell before, but he was extremely satisfied by its effect; his year mate stared at him in a dazed, expectant way, and he ordered Pansy to forget what she'd heard and wait for his next instruction before casting a locking charm on the door to their compartment and sheathing Latest Stepfather's wand.
The Ministry's Rhabdomantical Tracking Unit did not concern itself with monitoring the spells cast by law-abiding adults—unless their wands were reported missing or stolen—and Blaise fully intended to send Latest Stepfather's wand back to him before the sot recovered from his most recent bout of overindulgence.
Powerfully aroused by thoughts of Ginny, by his plans for her, Blaise pulled down the shades hanging over the compartment's windows and then pushed Pansy into a lying position on her seat, upon which he knelt over her so that he could more easily open her robes and unbutton her blouse.
Her skin doesn't feel nearly as soft as Ginevra's appears, he thought, wistfully running his fingertips over the lace edging of Pansy's bra, and then sliding them inside the filmy material to pinch her nipples.
Pansy moaned softly, and her lips parted.
That suited Blaise because he had never enjoyed her self-important lecturing; it was too much like his mother's to bear.
And there are better uses for this mouth, aren't there?
By the time the train reached the castle, Blaise found himself rather more in charity with Pansy than he had been at the beginning of their journey, and he was contented enough, after the rigors of his "parents'" farewell affair—which had begun the previous evening and concluded only when his mother's guests had ferried him to the station—to contemplate the wooing of his future bride with equanimity.
It shouldn't be too trying, Blaise thought, again patting the hidden phial he carried and smiling as he caught sight of the future Mrs. Zabini. After all, I have Mother's "marriage" potion—and it's never failed her, has it?