It was a cold, quiet evening in the Slytherin common room, the dim green light from the Black Lake casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. You sat in your usual corner, pretending to read but really watching him. Scaramouche, with his sharp features and cold demeanor, always had this magnetic pull over you. You weren’t sure what it was—maybe the way he moved with such confidence, or the fact that he barely noticed your existence. As a muggle-born, you were used to being invisible, especially in Slytherin. But something about him made you want to be seen.

You were lost in thought, until you noticed him slipping out of the common room, broomstick in hand. Flying this late? And alone? That was definitely against the rules.

Without thinking, you followed him, careful to stay in the shadows. You trailed him through the dark corridors until you found him at the entrance to the Quidditch pitch, the moonlight bathing him in a silvery glow.

“You're going to get in trouble, you know,” you said, your voice quiet but enough to make him stop.

Scaramouche turned, his violet eyes narrowing as they met yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension in the air was palpable. He tilted his head, looking at you as if weighing whether you were worth his time.

“And why should you care?” His voice was soft, almost mocking. “Last I checked, it’s not your place to lecture me on rules.”

You shifted uncomfortably, but held his gaze. “I don’t care about the rules. I just... wondered what you’re doing.”

His lips curved into the faintest smirk, but there was no warmth in it. “You always wonder, don’t you? Always watching from the shadows like some lost little lamb. Does it make you feel special?”

Your cheeks flushed, embarrassed that he had noticed your admiration all this time. “I just think you’re... interesting,” you admitted, your voice barely a whisper.

Scaramouche raised an eyebrow, his grip tightening on his broomstick. “Interesting?" He echoed the word, the way he said it sounding more like an insult.