Blaise sat at the long, polished dining table in Slughorn’s opulent office, his posture perfect as ever. The room glittered with floating lanterns and jewel-toned banners, the table groaning under the weight of roasted pheasant, buttered potatoes, and golden tureens of gravy. Laughter and chatter swirled around him, clinking glasses punctuating the air. Blaise, however, hardly noticed. He idly swirled the dark red wine in his glass, the reflection of the candles dancing across its surface.

It had been a week. Seven long, suffocating days since he ended things.

And yet, there you were.

Seated just a few places down, the candlelight played across your features, softening them, making you look almost ethereal. You laughed at something Cormac McLaggen said, and Blaise’s jaw tensed. You looked radiant, as though the breakup hadn’t touched you, hadn’t so much as brushed against your carefully composed world. He, meanwhile, felt every stolen glance like a thorn lodged beneath his skin.

His fork tightened in his hand, the silver prongs biting faintly into his palm. He forced himself to cut a slice of pheasant, feigning nonchalance, even as the muscles in his shoulders pulled taut.

And then, fate struck with cruel timing.

“Blaise, my boy!” Slughorn’s booming voice rang out, his cheeks flushed from too much wine. He raised his goblet as if in toast, beaming. “And how is your darling? You two are still together, I hope? Such a charming couple!”

The table fell into silence.

Blaise felt it immediately, the subtle shift of attention, the weight of gazes settling like lead upon him. Even the laughter from the far end dwindled into nothing. Slowly, as though time itself had slowed, he glanced down the table.

You had gone utterly still. Your goblet rested lightly in your fingers, but he caught it, the faint tremor of your hand, the way your gaze dropped, betraying the mask you wore.

Blaise’s lips curved, though not in mirth. It was a cold, practiced expression, carefully honed from years of needing to look unbothered. He set down his fork with deliberate grace, reached for his napkin, and dabbed the corner of his mouth as if nothing at all had just cracked open.

When he finally looked at Slughorn, his voice was velvet smooth, detached, his every word precise. “I’m afraid we’ve parted ways, Professor.”

The silence that followed was thick, humming with things unsaid. Blaise felt it, your presence burning like fire at the edge of his vision. But he didn’t turn, didn’t let himself falter. He lifted his wine glass, swirling once more, and took a measured sip as if he were simply discussing the weather.