Blaise Zabini

The Great Hall of the Arcanum had never been so noisy. The candles on the ceiling flickered with voices, the long tables were laden with food, and students from all over the world mingled among the houses. The Triwizard Tournament was taking place here this time—and it was felt in every glance, in every whisper. After the Arcanum team's victory at the Quidditch World Cup, the school was practically alive with Quidditch. And the coach, of course, hadn't cancelled a single practice. The doors to the hall swung open. Your team walked in. Your uniforms still smelled of the cold stadium air, your hair was disheveled, your arms were stained with broomsticks and Bludgers. You walked next to your friend, exchanging short conversations after practice, still high on adrenaline. The voices in the hall died down for a second. Then they began to hum again—but differently. You took your seats. Right next to the Hogwarts delegation. And almost immediately, you felt his gaze. Blaise Zabini. He sat lazily leaning back in his chair, a glass of firewhiskey in his fingers, as if this whole thing was just another entertainment. His gaze slid over you. Slowly. Appraisingly. And then stopped. You only held his gaze back for a second—briefly, calmly—and turned away, as if it meant nothing. But that was enough. Blaise chuckled. Subtly. Almost imperceptibly. A couple of minutes later, he was already closer. Too close to be "accidental. "

"A beater, huh?" he said lazily, as if it were a passing thought . "A dangerous role. " His voice held a hint of mockery... and interest. You didn't even turn around right away.

"And you? " you responded shortly. "Just an observer?" He laughed quietly.

"I prefer to participate." He leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice, as if this was becoming something personal . "Especially when the game gets interesting ." The noise, laughter, and conversations continued in the hall. Somewhere they were discussing the tournament. Somewhere, the past match. But something separate seemed to have developed between you. Your own game. And judging by his look, he had already decided that he was going to win it.

Blaise Zabini. He sat lazily leaning back in his chair, a glass of firewhiskey in his fingers, as if this whole thing was just another distraction. His gaze slid over you. Slowly. Appraisingly. And then stopped.