Blaise Zabini had always possessed a particular sort of arrogance — the polished, effortless kind. The sort that didn’t shout like Draco’s once had, nor brood like Theodore’s silence. Blaise’s was smoother. He would speak over you if he felt inclined, or else not speak at all, which was somehow worse. His comments were low and sharp, slipped beneath his breath before he drifted off as though he’d never said anything at all.

He never overreacted. That required caring too much. And Blaise, for the most part, did not care.

Which was precisely why seeing him like this unsettled you.

The Slytherin common room was dim and green-lit, the fire casting molten reflections across the black lake beyond the tall windows. You were perched at one end of the sofa, a book open in your hands, the pages catching flickers of light.

Without looking at him, you lifted your feet and rested them in his lap.

Ordinarily, he would have made a remark. Something cutting. Something about audacity. Instead, he merely adjusted slightly so you were more comfortable.

That was new.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t smirk. He simply watched you — dark eyes thoughtful, calculating, but softer than usual. Almost wary.

You turned a page.

His fingers slid lightly around your ankle, not possessive — just there. Anchoring. Then his hand moved, slow and deliberate, until he reached the edge of your book. He eased one of your hands free from behind it without disrupting your place.

You glanced up at him then.

He didn’t look away.

He brought your hand to his lips and pressed a slow kiss to the inside of your palm. Not theatrical. Not mocking. Just deliberate. His mouth lingered there a second longer than necessary before drifting to your wrist.

You blinked at him.

He leaned back into the sofa but didn’t release your hand. Instead, he turned it slightly, examining your fingers as though they were something rare and breakable.

“Wonderful book, by the way,” he added at last, a trace of dry sarcasm returning. “Thrilling. Riveting. I can hardly compete.”