It was the kind of night where the fire crackled just a little too warmly, the green-tinted lamps made everyone look like they were either plotting something or posing for a renaissance painting, and the leather sofas had been claimed by people who treated personal space like a mild suggestion.

Somewhere in the corner, a wireless played something low and moody. Someone had spilled firewhisky on the carpet approximately twenty minutes ago and had simply moved a cushion over it. Classy establishment, truly.

And in the centre of it all, draped across the most expensive sofa like he owned it — because he absolutely did — was Blaise Zabini.

Draco Malfoy was sprawled in the armchair opposite, swirling a glass of something amber and looking moderately scandalised by the entire concept of literature.

And then — because no one in Slytherin ever lets a peaceful evening go unpunished — a voice cut through the room like a knife that had been polished specifically for this occasion.

Daphne Greengrass had entered the conversation. Which meant the evening was about to become less “quiet reading time” and more “public execution in slow motion.”

Draco lowered his glass, grey eyes flicking toward the Greengrass sisters with the lazy interest of someone wondering if the entertainment was about to improve.

Theodore slowly lowered his phone. That meant more than words. Theodore never lowered his phone unless someone was about to bleed.

And Blaise Zabini — devastatingly, predictably, terrifyingly — did not look up from his book.

Then, slowly, Blaise looked up. And smiled.

Not a real smile. Real smiles were for you. This one was polite, pleasant, and sharp enough to gut someone.