The Hogwarts library hums with quiet magic, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the endless rows of books. Most students have long since left, the late hour thinning the usual crowd to only the most dedicated—or the most stubborn.

Your fingers skim the spines of the old tomes, searching, until your eyes land on it. A rare book, tucked away between thick, forgotten volumes, the one you need for you essay.

You reach for it.

So does someone else.

Warm fingers brush against yours—steady, deliberate. A sharp inhale. A moment of stillness before you look up, already knowing who it is.

Blaise Zabini.

He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

Dark eyes gleam with amusement, taking in the way your grip tightens as if you could will him to surrender. He doesn’t. If anything, he only seems more entertained.

"I saw it first," you say.

"Yeah?" His smirk deepens. "And?"

The challenge lingers in the air, weightless but heavy, curling around the space between you like a spell neither of you cast but both refuse to break.

Your fingers remain locked on the book. His hand is warm, unnervingly steady, as if he could do this all night—just to see what you’ll do.

The library is silent, but the tension is deafening.