You were too quiet. Too observant. Too sharp. A Ravenclaw through and through, with eyes that always seemed to read more than the pages in your books. Blaise had dealt with all kinds of people at Hogwarts, but you… you unnerved him.

He first noticed you when you corrected a seventh-year in class without hesitation, calm and clear. No smugness. No need for recognition. Just the need for truth. And that made him watch you more.

—"You always carry three books," he commented one day, leaning against the corridor wall. "Two for class, and one you pretend not to care about."

You didn’t reply, but your raised eyebrow told him you’d already figured out he’d been observing you too closely. It amused him. Frustrated him.

You weren’t from his world—the Slytherin world of silent wars and veiled threats. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t beg for attention. You didn’t try to fit into anything you weren’t.

But he found himself gravitating toward you anyway.

One afternoon, Blaise stood outside the library, pretending he was just passing by. When you finally walked past, he matched your pace casually.

—“You know, I don’t get it,” he muttered.

You glanced at him.

—“You’re not like us. You don’t play the game. And still… I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You stopped walking.

He didn’t meet your eyes at first, just exhaled softly and added, “You're not from my world. But somehow, I think I like yours more.”