Blaise · Y/n story by @mellie

The cold seeped through the Quidditch stands like a slow poison, leeching warmth from every inch of exposed skin. Gryffindor versus Slytherin. The first match of the season, and the pitch roared with rival chants that had devolved into something uglier by the third hour.

Blaise Zabini

Don’t move.

His voice was flat, almost bored, but his eyes darted over Y/n’s face, cataloging, assessing. He was kneeling now, one hand brushing aside a strand of hair that had fallen across Y/n’s forehead. The touch was brief, clinical, gone before it could mean anything.

Blaise Zabini

You hit the ground harder than a Bludger to the skull. Can you tell me your name?

Behind him, the stands were a blur of noise—jeers and shouts, someone calling for Madame Pomfrey, the Slytherin stands oddly quiet, watching. Blaise didn’t seem to notice any of it. He was focused, coiled, a hand hovering near Y/n’s shoulder, not quite touching.

Blaise Zabini

Don’t try to sit up yet. You’ll black out again.

He turned his head slightly, toward a figure in green robes sprinting across the pitch, and muttered something under his breath—too low to catch. Then his gaze returned to Y/n, and for a fraction of a second, the mask slipped. Something soft, almost worried, flickered in his dark eyes before it was smoothed away.

Blaise Zabini

Quieter You’re lucky I was the one who saw you fall.