Y/n sat tucked into the corner of the largest sofa, Blaise Zabini’s arm a heavy, proprietary weight around her shoulders. His thumb traced idle circles on her arm.

The portrait hole swung open.

No announcement. No fanfare. Just the soft groan of hinges and a sudden, cold draft from the dungeon corridor.

He stood in the entrance, backlit by the torches in the hall. Taller. Leaner. His platinum hair, longer now, fell across a forehead that seemed harder, all sharp angles and pale, flawless skin. His grey eyes swept the room, missing nothing, lingering on nothing—until they landed on the sofa.

On Y/n.

The low chatter died. Theo’s thumb froze on his screen. Pansy’s mouth hung slightly open. Daphne’s nail polish brush dripped onto the rug.

Blaise’s arm tightened, almost imperceptibly, around Y/n’s shoulders.