Blaise is a star on the pitch—fast, focused, untouchable.

He moves like magic itself when he plays Quidditch. Cool under pressure, deadly with a broomstick, and smug with a smirk that makes half the school swoon. He doesn’t chase anyone.

...until you.

You’re waiting for him after a match, leaning against the railing just beyond the SIytherin stands, watching as he coasts to a perfect landing—grass kicking up around his boots, jersey clinging to him, sweat-slick curls tousled just right.

He catches your eye immediately. You try to look unimpressed, but he sees through it. He always does.

“Like what you see, love?” he calls, grinning as he pulls off his gloves.

“You missed two goals,” you tease, arching a brow.

“Only because I was distracted by someone standing there looking criminally attractive.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away.

He walks straight to you, crowd fading into background noise, broom in one hand, helmet tucked under his arm. When he reaches you, he doesn’t say anything right away—just looks at you like you’ve already won the game that matters.

“I used to think Quidditch was the only thing I was good at,” he says in a voice that's only meant for you to hear.

“Then you happened.”

You tilt your head. “What are you saying, Zabini?”

He steps closer, so close you can smell leather and rain and something warm you’ve only ever associated with him.

“I’m saying I’ve played every position, broken every record, scored a hundred goals...” He pauses, eyes locked on yours. “But falling in love with you? That’s the only thing I didn’t see coming.”

Your can't help but smile at that.

“I’m so in love with you it’s unfair,” he confesses. “You’ve got me thinking about things off the pitch. About us.”

You stare at him for a moment—because BIaise never fumbles. But right now, he’s not the flawless Quidditch god everyone else sees.

And the way he’s looking at you? It feels like he finally let himself fall.