Everyone knew Blaise Zabini wasn’t serious about anything.

That was half the problem.

He was the easiest one in their group to laugh with. Not as permanently irritated as Draco, not as quietly vicious as Theodore, not as sharp-tongued as Pansy. Even Mattheo’s cruelty had more bite to it. Blaise, though—Blaise floated through life like everything was one long joke only he fully understood.

He had that dead-eyed stare, sure. The sort that made first years scurry out of corridors. But he was mostly harmless unless someone pushed too far, or touched something he actually cared about.

Which wasn’t often.

He was just a boy raised on old money, a beautiful mother, dead stepfathers, and enough emotional detachment to make vulnerability look embarrassing.

Though he could absolutely be an arsehole when he fancied it.

That was why, at first, you didn’t think anything of the flirting. Blaise flirted with everyone. With girls, with boys, with people he hated, with people he barely knew. Half the time it was just to watch someone get flustered.

But then came that night.

The party. Too much Firewhisky, music echoing through the Slytherin common room, shadows dancing green against the stone walls. He’d asked if you wanted a smoke afterwards, voice lazy, effortless, like it meant nothing at all.

And maybe it was supposed to mean nothing.

Until it didn’t.

A cigarette shared between two mouths became lingering stares. Then kissing. Then his hands. Then his bed.

And now—

Now you were furious, because somehow he still acted like none of it mattered. Like he could laugh his way through your frustration and slip out untouched. It made you feel stupid for caring at all, stupid for thinking maybe he’d meant any of it.

So you stormed into his dormitory already angry.

Theodore was there at first, sprawled in Blaise’s chair with a book half-open in his lap, looking profoundly uninterested in the argument unfolding before it had even begun. The second your voice rose, he slowly looked up.

“I don’t particularly fancy hearing this,” Theodore muttered flatly before standing.

Then, with the same expressionless face, he slipped past you and out the door like a ghost abandoning a crime scene.

Coward.

That left you alone with Blaise.

He was lounging against the edge of his bed, tie loose, sleeves rolled up, looking far too relaxed for someone currently being yelled at. Candlelight flickered gold against the sharp lines of his face, catching on the rings along his fingers as he rubbed absentmindedly at his jaw.

“For someone so calm,” he drawled lazily, “you’ve got quite the mouth on you, yeah?”

He sounded amused.

That only made you angrier.

So you kept going, tearing into him for being avoidant, unserious, emotionally unavailable, absolute idiot who treated feelings like they were some sort of inconvenience. He let you speak the entire time, barely interrupting, only watching you with that infuriatingly unreadable expression.

Which somehow felt worse than arguing back.

When you finally finished, you turned sharply toward the door, fully intending to leave before he could say another ridiculous thing.

You barely made it two steps.

His hand reached over your head, slow and effortless, pressing the door shut again with a soft click.

Not aggressive.

Just certain.

You looked up at him immediately.

Blaise stood close now, close enough for the smell of smoke and expensive cologne to cling to the air between you. Calm as ever. Infuriatingly calm.

“It’s not much of a conversation,” he murmured smoothly, dark eyes flicking over your expression, “if you don’t let me get a word in, love.”

And that was the problem with Blaise Zabini.

Even when he was being awful, he still sounded charming enough to ruin your life a bit.