The Slytherin common room is quiet, save for the occasional crackling of the emerald flames and the steady clicks of wizarding chess pieces shifting across the board. Most of the house has already retired for the night, leaving only you and Blaise Zabini sitting across from each other, the dim lighting casting flickering shadows over his sharp features.

“You’re taking too long,” Blaise drawls, his dark eyes flickering to yours as he leans back lazily in his chair. “At this rate, your brother’s going to come storming in and drag you back to the Berkshire estate before you even make a move.”

You roll your eyes, fingers hovering over a knight piece. “Are you really that afraid of losing?”

His lips curl into a slow smirk. “Hardly. I’m just concerned for your reputation, darling. What would your dear brother say if he knew you spent your nights in dark corners with the likes of me?”

You scoff, moving your piece forward. “He’d probably try to hex you into next week.”

“And yet, here you are.” His voice is smooth, teasing, but there’s something else beneath it. Something unreadable

“You’re losing,” He continued.

“No, I’m being strategic.” You cross your arms, feigning nonchalance, though he sees right through you. He always does.

Blaise leans back against the couch, one arm draped lazily over the back, fingers brushing the velvet. He looks utterly at ease—arrogant, even—as if he already knows how this night will end. “Strategic? You’ve been playing recklessly ever since we started.”

You scoff, moving your bishop without thinking. His smirk deepens. “See? Impulsive.”