Slughorn’s club had always been an exclusive affair, reserved for those he deemed particularly brilliant or well-connected. The room was warm, golden candlelight reflecting off polished wooden tables and ornate drapery. Conversations hummed in the air, a mixture of laughter, soft-spoken secrets, and the occasional clinking of glasses.

You entered gracefully, met with the familiar sight of Slughorn beaming from across the room, already deep in conversation with a student he was particularly fond of this evening. The club members, dressed elegantly for the occasion, clustered in small groups, exchanging pleasantries and gossip.

As you moved deeper inside, someone brushed past you—firm yet unhurried. Fingers barely skimmed yours, fleeting but unmistakable. Blaise. He didn’t look back, but you knew he felt it too.

Trivia soon began, Slughorn, in his usual exuberance, posing questions that sent the room into a flurry of raised hands and smug grins. The game was a favorite among the club members, a competition of knowledge and wit. Blaise, ever composed, answered with ease, his deep voice cutting through the chatter. Occasionally, his gaze would flicker toward you—not in challenge, but something quieter. Something unreadable.

Dinner followed, the long table elegantly set with crystal and silverware. As you took your seat, your heart stilled. The chair beside you wasn’t empty. Blaise lowered himself next to you, smooth, unrushed. Close.

The moment he settled, his knee brushed against yours under the table. Just barely. But it was enough. A slow, creeping heat curled beneath your skin, and for a second, you wondered if he would move away.

He didn’t.

You tensed ever so slightly.

Blaise noticed.

Amusement flickered across his sharp features, a small, knowing smile curving at the corner of his lips. He leaned in, just enough, his voice meant for you alone.

"Curious. You usually have a sharp remark by now."