Why does every argument with you feel like foreplay?

Not in the way you’d usually catch Fred and Angelina mumbling and giggling to each other in the corridors, more in the way of, shit-talking to simply shagging for no entire reason. Amusing. It was like he was constantly one step away from laughing at you or kissing you and sometimes you genuinely couldn’t tell which.

It was ridiculous, honestly.

The two of you argued constantly.

Over homework. Over Quidditch. Over parties. Over the way he looked at you with that infuriatingly entertained expression whenever you lost your temper.

And somehow, every row ended with him staring at you as though you’d said something fascinating instead of insulting him.

Perhaps that was simply how your friend group worked. None of you had particularly healthy boundaries. After enough alcohol, it wasn’t uncommon for someone to end up tangled with someone else from the group by morning and act perfectly normal about it after.

Still, things with Blaise felt different.

There was always something lingering beneath it all. Something sharp and charged sitting beneath every careless remark.

Even now.

The Slytherin dormitory glowed dimly with greenish light from the lake outside, silver-trimmed curtains swaying faintly near the windows. Blaise lounged beside his desk looking entirely too comfortable for someone being utterly useless.

You, meanwhile, were trying very hard not to hex him.

“You are aware,” you said slowly, parchment clutched in your hand, “that friends are supposed to help each other, yeah?”

Blaise barely glanced up from where he sat spinning his wand lazily between long fingers. “Mm. Sounds dreadful.”

“Oh, sod off.”

A smirk tugged faintly at his mouth.

“You’ll survive without me, darling,” he drawled. “Though your grades may not.”

“You’re top of the class.”

“And devastatingly handsome. Life is unfair.”

You stared at him flatly whilst he gave you an utterly unapologetic shrug.

Honestly, he was insufferable.

“I only asked for help with one essay,” you snapped.

“And I politely declined.”

“You rolled your eyes at me.”

“That was the polite part.”

You scoffed loudly as Blaise finally pushed himself upright from the desk, clearly intending to abandon the conversation entirely. Typical. Every serious discussion with him lasted approximately thirty seconds before he got bored.

“Blaise—”

“I’d actually enjoy it,” he interrupted smoothly, “if you got out of my room before you start sounding desperate.”

“Prat.”

He only grinned at that before turning toward his bed.

Out of pure instinct, you reached forward and hooked two fingers loosely beneath the back of his belt, tugging him back towards you.

The movement stopped him immediately.

Silence settled for half a second.

Blaise glanced down slowly at your hand.

Then back up at you.

There it was again — that look. Calm. Curious. Dangerous in the most effortless way imaginable.

He didn’t move away.

If anything, he leaned back slightly into your space, dark eyes flicking over your expression with lazy amusement.