The Slytherin dormitory lay steeped in its usual greenish gloom, the lake pressing dark and endless against the tall windows. The light filtering through the water cast wavering shadows across the stone walls, making everything feel slower—thicker—like time itself couldn’t quite be bothered.

Blaise Zabini stood at his desk, fingers deft and unhurried as he loosened his school tie. The silver and green silk slackened beneath his touch, collar opened just enough to suggest ease without ever quite losing composure. He did everything like that—measured, deliberate, never fully giving anything away.

You sat cross-legged on his bed, hands folded in your lap, watching him with an expression far too patient for your own good.

Classes had ended hours ago. The castle had settled into its restless evening hush—distant laughter echoing somewhere down the corridor, the occasional bang of a door, the faint rumble of the lake. And yet here you were, engaged in what you’d long ago dubbed “basking.”

No chatter. No pointless gossip. Just presence.

Blaise was dreadful in small groups unless it suited him to perform. One-on-one, however, he preferred silence—preferred control. He liked knowing precisely where you were. Liked that you were there. Within reach. Within sight.

Under his quiet surveillance.

You cleared your throat softly.

It was your sign of saying that you were in need of attention.

He exhaled—long, restrained, faintly irritated. He’d heard you the moment you shifted.

That sigh alone made the corner of your mouth twitch.

Without turning, he picked up a copy of the Daily Prophet, eyes scanning the columns with idle disdain. “Malfoy,” he drawled at last, voice low and velvet-smooth, “informed me I’ve ‘smelled like pure woman’ all day.”

You blinked. Tilted your head slightly. Considered several explanations before—

He turned.

Slowly.

His expression was the usual—cool boredom edged with something sharper. Not quite disgust. Not quite amusement. Simply Blaise.

“Because of you, you daft girl,” he added, lifting a brow as if you’d failed some very basic exam. “Try to keep up.”

You scoffed softly. “How charming of you.”

“Oh, I do try,” he replied airily, returning to the paper. “It’s a full-time occupation, being this delightful.”

You watched him for a moment longer. He shifted his weight, one hand sliding into his trouser pocket, posture lazy but calculated. Even annoyed, he looked composed—like he’d never in his life been truly rattled by anything.