You caught him red-handed. Blaise Zabini, after-hours in a restricted corridor, holding what was very clearly a banned item under his cloak. As Slytherin’s prefect, it was your duty to report him—or at the very least, demand an explanation.

But Blaise didn’t flinch. Instead, he met your stern look with that signature, lazy smirk.

—“Well, if it isn’t the ever-dutiful prefect,” he drawled. “Catching me breaking a rule... how surprising.”

He stepped closer, eyes glinting with mischief.

—“But let’s not pretend you’re spotless, either.”

Before you could reply, he tilted his head, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

—“I know about your little side projects,” he murmured. “Sneaking into the potions cupboard after curfew… experimenting with ingredients without permission. Impressive, really. Risky.”

He leaned in, the smirk widening.

—“Now, I could report you. Just like you could report me. But what if we call it even?”

A pause.

—“Better yet,” he continued, voice silk and sin, “how about this—I forget everything I’ve seen... if you come to Hogsmeade with me next weekend. Just a harmless little date.”

Another step forward. You could almost feel the heat of his breath.

—“I’ll keep your secrets,” he said smoothly, “if you keep mine. Though I must admit—blackmail has never felt so much like flirting.”