You weren’t supposed to like him. Blaise Zabini was everything you hated.

Slytherin. Arrogant. Quiet in that superior, unreadable way. His tie was always perfect. His smirk always in place. He carried himself like he knew things about the world you hadn’t even begun to consider — expensive taste, whispered family wealth, old magic.

You were his opposite. Gryffindor. Loud. Blunt. Scrappy, even. The kind of girl who wasn’t afraid to hex a boy in the hallway for talking too much. The kind of girl who rolled her eyes at egos and cut them down with a single look.

So of course Slughorn paired you together at a dinner table.

Of course.

Slug Club had always been an odd mix — talent, blood, potential, charm. And you fit the “charm” category. Maybe the potential. Definitely not the etiquette. So when Professor Slughorn beamed at you from across the room and said, “Ah yes, sit beside young Mr. Zabini! Two rising stars!” you almost choked.

But Blaise?

He just looked up slowly from his plate. Raised an eyebrow. Gave the smallest smirk.

And said, “Lucky me.”

That was the beginning.

You expected him to be cold. Condescending. A typical Slytherin pureblood prince.

But he wasn’t. Not quite.

He was observant. Clever. Always watching. And when he did speak to you — it wasn’t cruel. It was teasing. Light. Warm in a way you didn’t expect.

“I hear Gryffindors bite,” he murmured once, lazily swirling pumpkin juice in a crystal glass.

You raised your brow. “Only when provoked.”

He hummed. “Well. I am curious what it takes.”

That’s how it was — every Slug Club dinner, every shared assignment, every accidental meeting in the library. A constant dance of almost flirting, almost rivalry, almost something.

He never pushed too far. You never let it go.

Sometimes he’d comment on your hair.

Other times, he’d brush past you in the hallway and whisper, “Still the loudest in the room, I see.”

To which you’d smile sweetly and say, “Still hiding behind that bored rich boy expression?”

He chuckled. Chuckled, like you were in on some joke only the two of you knew.

And slowly — without even realizing it — he became your favorite person to argue with.

Not fight. Not bicker.

Argue — like a sport, like a game, like foreplay you both pretended was just banter.

Other people noticed. They always do.

“Why’s Zabini staring at you like that?” your friends would ask, nudging you in the Great Hall.

You’d glance over, catch his gaze. He’d wink.

You’d roll your eyes. But your cheeks would flush.

And then one night, after a Slug Club meeting ran late, you ended up walking together through the dungeons. Your cloak brushed his. He didn’t move away.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said softly.