This was a game.

Between you and him, it had always been a game.

Blaise Zabini—of course it was him. The jester of his lot, though he’d never admit it outright. Draco had called it a right laugh when Blaise decided to “befriend” you—cornering you in the library, all effortless charm and persistence until you finally looked up. Theodore had muttered something about it being a rite of passage, getting with a “quiet girl.” Mattheo had congratulated him like he’d won something.

And Pansy—

Pansy had sworn you wouldn’t give him a second glance if the world ended and he was the last boy left in it.

So Blaise called you a friend.

And then did everything but act like one.

He’d carry you back to your dorm when you’d had too much, steady and unbothered, like it was routine. He’d sit beside you in the common room and, without asking, pull your legs across his lap as if they belonged there. He’d lean in behind you, voice low at your ear, just to watch you still before drifting off again like nothing had happened.

And sometimes—worse—his hand would linger. Casual. Careless. Just enough to make you think about it far longer than you should.

But you were friends.

Weren’t you?

He told you about the girls. Older years, your year, whoever caught his interest that week. You’d sit beside him, helping with Potions, listening as if it didn’t matter. And in return, you’d offer up your own tragic attempt at a love life—one date in three years, and even that had been underwhelming.

Friends.

So why did it feel like something else?

You were in his dorm now, supposedly working. The low greenish light from the lake filtered through the windows, casting shifting shadows across the stone walls. His space was neat but lived-in—expensive things placed without care, like they didn’t matter enough to be admired.

“Homework’s rubbish. Only gets you so far,” Blaise muttered, tone smooth, faintly bored as he abandoned the parchment altogether.

He crossed to his desk, flicking open his lighter with practiced ease, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp features before he lit the cigarette between his lips. One hand hovered lazily over the flame, the other resting against the desk as he leaned back, completely at ease.

You rolled your eyes, watching him.

“It’s ridiculous, I swear. All of it,” he went on, pacing once before settling again, like the thought itself bored him.

You pushed yourself up and walked over.

He looked at you then—properly. And you noticed it, like always. His eyes, dark and unreadable, the kind that didn’t give anything away unless he meant them to. His expression stayed easy, almost indifferent, but it never quite matched the way he watched people.

You reached up, brushing your finger lightly along his jaw.

Simple.

Quick.

“You’ve got such a fit face,” you said, careless, almost teasing. “Reckon you don’t even need to do your work, yeah? Got that going for you and all.”

It was sarcasm. Obviously.

A joke.

He blinked. Once. Slowly. No shift in expression—just that pause, like he was deciding what to do with you.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched, faintly.

“Those are proper snagging words, that is,” he said smoothly, voice low, amused in that quiet, dangerous way of his.