You were laughing at something a Hufflepuff boy said—too loud, too carefree—and Blaise didn’t like it. He didn’t say anything, of course. Just watched from under the archway, one hand in his pocket, the other twirling his wand like he wasn’t listening. But he was. He always was.

Later, as you walked toward the dungeons, he appeared silently beside you.

“You’ve got questionable taste in humour,” he said casually. You blinked at him. “What?” “That joke he told. It was terrible.” You narrowed your eyes. “Were you spying on me?” Blaise smirked. “I don’t spy. I observe. And I don’t like seeing people waste your time.” He looked at you then, sharp and steady. “You’re smarter than that, love.”