The Great Hall was already in full swing when Blaise walked in with Daphne Greengrass on his arm — and by "on his arm," I mean he was practically surgically attached to her side.

He didn't just walk her to the Slytherin table. No, no. He pulled out the chair right next to his own, the one that had been conspicuously empty for weeks now, and slid it so close their shoulders touched when she sat down.

And people were. Oh, they absolutely were. The Slytherin table had gone suspiciously quiet, the kind of quiet that happens right before someone says something they shouldn't.

Understatement of the century, honestly.

He wasn't wrong. Nothing stays private at this table for long.

Daphne, for her part, looked perfectly composed — because of course she did. She'd probably rehearsed this moment in front of a mirror. But there was something satisfied in the way she sat there, like she'd just won a game nobody else knew they were playing.

And just like that, the Slytherin table exploded into chatter. Questions, teasing, Pansy demanding details, Lorenzo asking how long it'd been going on, Icarus making some dry comment about how Blaise was "finally being useful."

It was loud. It was obvious. It was exactly the kind of public declaration that should've been impossible — except Blaise made it look easy.

Funny, that. Making it look easy.

Almost like he'd been practicing for months with someone else.