Blaise Zabini kept his gaze on his plate, but his attention was split three ways: the conversation beside him, the rules of the game they were about to play, and the flash of red hair at the Gryffindor table that he refused to look at directly.
Draco’s winter-grey eyes had gone sharp, locked onto Hermione Granger like she was the only thing worth watching in the Great Hall.
Blaise knew that look.
It meant trouble.
“Patience,” he murmured, voice low enough that only Draco could hear.
“And more care, if you don’t mind.
We’ve both read the rules.
Your little stunt in class this morning could have cost us the whole thing before it even starts.” Draco didn’t turn his head, but the corner of his mouth curved in that familiar, dangerous smirk.
He speared a potato wedge, examined it like it had personally offended him, then ate it with deliberate slowness.
“I’m well aware of how close to the edge I can skate,” he said once he’d swallowed.
“Besides, it’s only a bit of fun.
I like riling her up.
I love watching what it does to her.” Blaise sliced into his pot roast, the knife scraping against the plate with a sound that felt too loud in the sudden quiet between them.
Gravy smeared across the blade.
He didn’t look up.
“Just don’t push her into crossing a line she can’t come back from,” he said.
“I want to play this one out to the end.” Draco’s smirk deepened.
He popped another chip into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, and finally glanced sideways.
“Eager to get at our little red bird, are we?” Blaise’s jaw tightened.
His fingers flexed around the silverware until the metal bit into his palm.
“My little red bird,” he corrected, the words coming out low and rough.
“Don’t forget that.” For a moment, Draco just grinned at him through dark-gold lashes, all teeth and trouble.
Then he shrugged, the picture of false innocence.
“Wouldn’t dare.” The understanding settled between them like a signed contract.
Blaise would not interfere with whatever game Draco was playing with Granger.
In return, Draco would keep his hands—and his considerable temper—off Ginny Weasley.
No poaching.
No sabotage.
No public scenes that could get either of them disqualified before the real contest even began.
Blaise returned to his meal.
He ate with restraint, each bite measured, refusing to let his eyes drift back to the Gryffindor table.
He wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him look soppy or impatient.
That kind of weakness was for other people.
Draco could moon over the Gryffindor Princess all he liked; Blaise had no intention of being caught staring at his lioness like some lovesick fool.
Still, he felt her presence like a low thrum under his skin.
Saturday night couldn’t come fast enough.
Later that afternoon, the Charms classroom smelled of old parchment and the faint ozone tang of spent magic.
Professor Flitwick’s high, squeaky voice carried from the front of the room as he went over Lavender Brown’s final exam results with her in what was meant to be a semi-private conference.
Most of the class had already been dismissed, but a few stragglers lingered—Seamus Finnigan among them.
He sat two rows back, sucking absently on a Pixie Pop.
The honey flavour burst across his tongue every time he pulled it from his mouth, sweet and sticky and oddly grounding.
Michael Corner was still talking.
Something about applying for a position in Magical Law Enforcement over the summer.
Seamus nodded at the right moments, but his real attention was fixed on the curve of Lavender’s neck where it met the collar of her robes.
She’d always had a graceful neck.
Long.
Elegant.
The kind of skin that looked like it would warm under a person’s hands.
He remembered the exact shade it turned when she was flustered—pink creeping up from her chest like sunrise.
He hadn’t seen that colour in a long time.
Not up close, anyway.
Not since fifth year.
The memory sat heavy in his gut, the way it always did when he let himself think about it.
He’d been fifteen, cocky, and stupidly inexperienced.
She’d been curious.
Willing.
They’d found a quiet corner of the castle after curfew, hearts hammering, hands shaking.
It had been his second time ever.
Hers first.
He’d been too eager.
Too rough.
Too big for someone who didn’t know how to be careful yet.
She’d made a small, pained sound when he pushed in, and he’d taken it as encouragement instead of what it was.
He’d finished fast—embarrassingly fast—and then tried to cuddle her afterwards like some kind of gentleman, only to feel her go stiff in his arms.
She hadn’t kissed him back.
Hadn’t even looked at him properly when he’d asked if she was all right.
She’d just wanted him gone.
He’d respected that.
Or at least he’d told himself he was respecting it.
Gave her space to clean up, to process, whatever girls needed after their first time.
But the truth was he’d been ashamed.
Of his lack of skill.
Of the way she’d cringed when he touched her after.
Of the fact that he hadn’t made it good for her at all.
By the time he’d worked up the nerve to find her the next day and offer a proper apology—and maybe a chance to make it right, to go down on her slow and careful until she actually came—she’d already decided he didn’t exist.
Every attempt to talk had been met with polite distance or outright avoidance.
She kept people between them in corridors.
Never met his eyes.
Never gave him the chance to fix what he’d broken.
For a year and a half, that distance had been a bruise he carried around.
He’d filled it with other girls, other beds, learning how to last, how to listen, how to make sure the person under him left satisfied and smiling.
He’d gotten good at it.
Really good.
But none of it had ever erased the regret that he hadn’t known any of that the night it mattered most.
Now, watching her stand at the front of the classroom with her head tilted just so while Flitwick prattled on, Seamus felt that old ache twist into something sharper.
Hopeful.
Dangerous.
Because this Saturday night, during the challenge, there was a chance—however slim—that the draw would pair them together.
If it did, he’d have one night to do what he should have done two years ago.
To apologise with his mouth instead of words.
To take his time.
To make her come until she forgot how to speak.
To hold her afterwards like she deserved instead of fleeing in his own embarrassment.
Maybe even multiple times, if she’d let him.
The Pixie Pop clicked against his teeth as he pulled it free again.
Sweetness flooded his tongue.
He sucked it back in and let the flavour distract him from the sudden tightness in his chest.
“Mam always said the luck of the Irish would tell,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for himself to hear.
“Cross your fingers, cross your toes, and hope the draw’s kind.” Michael Corner finally noticed the lack of response and frowned.
“Mate, you all right?
You’ve been miles away.” Seamus blinked, dragged his attention back to the present, and forced a grin that felt only half-real.
“Sorry.
Just thinkin’ about next week.
Graduation and all that.” He waved the Pixie Pop vaguely.
“Big changes comin’.” Corner accepted the excuse without question and launched straight back into his own plans, voice bright with self-importance.
Seamus let the words wash over him like background noise.
His gaze drifted back to Lavender as she gathered her things, shoulders straight, that graceful neck still exposed above her collar.
Saturday night.
He rolled the Pixie Pop between his fingers, the stick tacky with honey, and made a silent, stubborn promise to whatever luck might be listening.
If the draw gave him another chance with her, he wasn’t going to waste it.
Not this time.