"Nothing Promised, No Regrets"

You supposed you should be surprised, but, after years spent at Hogwarts, nothing really shocked you anymore. This really was just another Saturday at Hogsmeade. With a sigh, you resign yourself to simply waiting out the chaos of above, hoping that someone with more than a few brain cells to rub together would eventually realize that vanishing spells were clearly making an already bad situation worse.

That's when another body ducks into your hiding spot, shoving you unceremoniously into the corner.

"Hey! Find your own spot. Move," you hiss, shoving back at the person who was very much invading your personal space.

"Shove off. I don't exactly fancy the idea of being burnt to a crisp," the person snaps back, twisting around to face you, a scowl clear across their face.

It takes a moment to place him, but you recognize the boy. Blaise Zabini. Trouble tended to follow him wherever he went. And by trouble you specifically meant Mattheo Riddle. Again, you probably should have been surprised, but Blaise Zabini being at the scene of the crime was about as expected as the centuries old rivalry between the snakes and the lions. And it was just your luck that he had to bring his problems to you. Admitting defeat (you didn't need his blood on your hands), you scoot over a bit giving him more room to take cover.

"So, I'm assuming you know who started this whole mess," you say dryly, trying, and failing, to ignore the way Blaise's leg was pressing up against you.

"No," he replies curtly, face remaining unchanged as he pointedly avoids making eye contact with you.

You raise a disbelieving eyebrow and Blaise must be able to sense your skepticism because there's a short pause before he lets out a low grunt, begrudgingly looking over at you.

"I don't know what happened. I ditched Mattheo and the rest of them when we got to Hogsmeade. Didn't feel like serving another detention for something I didn't do," he says.

You don't know if it's the sheer exhaustion laced in his voice, or the unanticipated sincerity in his eyes, but you believe him.

"Well. At least you acknowledge that Mattheo is a problem," you say with a sigh, trying awkwardly to lighten the mood as the sound of rogue explosives continues from above.

Blaise snorts and you swear you even catch a glimpse of a smile. You might have imagined it though.

"I live with them. I am no stranger to the fact that Mattheo has a nasty habit of making his problems, everyone else's problems." He pauses. "It's really Theo you have to watch out for though. He'll scheme right alongside Matt, but he's never the one that gets caught."

His words hang in the air. You couldn't remember there ever being a time where you'd heard Blaise string that many words together. You'd kind of always thought he was a quiet one. Always watching, analyzing, staying three steps ahead of everyone else. It had never occurred to you that maybe he was the one really worth talking to. The fireworks last for several more long minutes which you and Blaise spend in silence—aside from the occasional intake of breath when a loud crack sounds just a little too close.

When all the noise finally subsides, Blaise is the one to peek his head up above the counter first before extending a hand, wordlessly helping you to your feet. The shop is a complete and utter disaster. Rows and rows of shelves have been blasted over, boxes of product are scattered across the floor—burnt, torn, completely spoiled. Even the lights overhead were flickering, the occasional spark threatening to start a whole new problem.

"Bloody fucking hell." The words escape your mouth without a second thought as you stare at the carnage in shock.

You figured the damage would be bad. But this was brutal.

"There! It must have been them!" The voice you vaguely recognize as belonging to the shopkeeper rings out across the store.

Your head swivels as you look around, trying to spot the alleged troublemakers when you realize that the store is completely empty except for—oh. Oh no. The pieces seem to click for Blaise too, as he begins shaking his head.

"It wasn't us. We went for cover under the counter as soon as the fireworks started going off," he states as Minerva McGonagall appears next to the shopkeeper with her arms crossed and a glare already burning a hole through the two of you.

"Really?" The shop keeper scoffs. "Then how did you two know to hide straight away, hmm? And if you were hiding, how did you know it was fireworks being set off?"

"Well, the hiding part was mostly a result of our above average self-preservation skills, and the knowledge of fireworks bit probably came from the fact that we have functioning ears," you reply dryly, agitated by the fact you were being accused of something you clearly didn't do.

Beside you, you hear Blaise try to suppress a snort and can't help but feel pleased that you were able to amuse the boy once again, but that was far from your greatest concern at the moment. The shopkeeper doesn't look convinced. She turns to McGonagall, fists clenched and her mouth in a thin line.

"These two were here before all the explosions started, and they're still here now. I just know it was them and I demand something be done. They cannot be allowed to get away with something like this, my shop is in ruins!"

You have to feel a bit bad for the old woman, her shop had definitely seen better days. And really you couldn't blame her for being so upset. But it just wasn't fair that you were being blamed when you had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. You stand there just stewing in frustration as McGonagall apologizes profusely for the wreckage, promising that everyone involved would be held accountable.

"What do you expect us to do? Pay for all the damages?" you ask, crossing your arms in defiance.

Looking around, your family definitely could not afford to essentially rebuild the entire store from ground up. And quite frankly they shouldn't have to. Because none of this was your fault. Blaise perks up a bit at the suggestion however.

"Yes! My mother would be happy to pay. We can cover all the costs, no need to even involve y/n," he says, a charming smile gracing his face even though the rest of him remains tense.

But McGonagall shakes her head.

"No, no, no, Mr. Zabini. I will not have you believe that you can just throw your family's money at problems to make them disappear. Absolutely not. You and y/n will complete volunteer hours. Here. Starting this week," McGonagall says sternly.

"But Professor, it really wasn't us," you try to protest.

"Well, unless you have the names of the students who did this, the evidence against you is strong enough—"

"What, her just saying she saw us so she knows we did it is enough? That's bull—"

"That is enough. Unless you would like to serve a detention as well, I highly recommend you stop while you are above water," McGonagall says coldly.

You want to argue more, but Blaise's hand on your wrist stops you in your tracks.

"It's not worth it," he mutters under his breath, giving your wrist a light squeeze.

You bite your tongue, but not before shooting a nasty glare the shopkeeper's way. Apparently finished with the two of you, McGonagall turns to working out logistics with the old witch, leaving you and Blaise to scurry off to await your fates.

Your first afternoon spent at Honeydukes was awful. You didn't want to be there. Blaise didn't want to be there. And the shopkeeper? You had words to describe her that would probably get your sentence increased by at least a few months. You had thought she was a sweet, little old lady before, but now she was just miserable to be around—constantly snapping at you and Blaise and ordering the two of you around, then getting upset when you did exactly what she asked. It was infuriating, and you could tell that Blaise was at his wits’ end too by the end of the day.

When you finally returned to the castle that night, you were exhausted. All you wanted to do was fall face first, down onto your bed and promptly pass out. But you had more work to do. A charms assignment, a full translation for ancient runes, 12 inches due for potions, you were going to be up all night. You knew Blaise would be up too. He pretty much had the same class schedule you did. These hours at Honeydukes would probably wear down on him too. Or maybe not. He'd always seemed a bit super human to you. Always above everything.

You force the mental image of Blaise out of your head, willing yourself to focus on the work in front of you. Worrying about him wasn't going to do anything to help you. In fact, it was kind of what got you into this whole mess in the first place. You shake your head to clear it. Focus. Charms. Right. Your quill is just about to reach your parchment when a sharp knock jolts you forward, splashing ink across the blank page. Damnit.

With a huff, you drag yourself across the dorm room, swinging your door open, ready to tear into whatever poor soul is waiting on the other side. Except—you blink. Blaise Zabini is standing there looking rather disheveled. A far cry from his usual clean-cut, pristine presentation, you almost don't recognize him. Gone is his usual perfectly crisp, white button down and tie, and in its place is a worn down jumper that had definitely seen better days. His trousers are loose and wrinkly and it appeared as though he hadn't even bothered to tie one of his shoes. In short, it looked like he'd been run over by a hoard of wild hippogriffs.

"Are you— are you alright?" you ask, unable to keep your shock from seeping into your voice.

"I'm fine," Blaise replies, deadpan.

You give the boy another once over.

"Are you sure? You look awful."

"Tactful as always," Blaise says dryly, ignoring the barb and pushing his way into your dorm without so much as an invitation.

You want to protest, but honestly you're too tired so instead, you close the door and turn to find Blaise seated on the very chair you had occupied just a mere minute ago. You still don't have the energy to fight it though.

"What do you want Blaise, I have so much to do," you find yourself sighing as you lean back against your door.

Blaise mirrors your movement, leaning back in the chair and raising an eyebrow as if to challenge you.

"If you're just going to sit there, I'm not doing this. Please don't waste my time," you huff, feeling yourself growing more and more agitated.

"I'm never a waste of time," Blaise replies plainly, still refusing to elaborate on why he had shown up at your door so late at night.

"Yes, yes. I know. You're god's gift to the world and you're better than everyone else. I should be groveling in your presence. Can you please tell me why you're here, or leave me to work in peace."

You can't quite read the look that flashes across Blaise's face at your words, maybe hurt? Begrudging respect? You can't tell, but Blaise opens his bag that you hadn't really noticed before and pulls out his own stack of parchment.

"We're going to work together," he says as if the decision had already been made unilaterally.

"Are we?" you ask, arms crossed as you tilt your head at the boy.

You weren't exactly opposed to the idea. Blaise was wicked smart, you knew he was right up there competing for top marks in most subjects. But he was also Blaise Zabini, and while he might be nice to look at, his reputation certainly preceded him. Though he had surprised you a fair bit in the few interactions you'd had with him so far.

"We are. Look, we both have a heavy course load this term and with all the extra hours we'll have to spend outside of Hogwarts, I've done the math and there's just no way we'll be able to get all of our course work done without working together," Blaise says bluntly.

As much as you hate to admit it, you know he's right. Just thinking about all the work you had to do before Blaise had knocked on your door filled you with dread. Looking at Blaise, you can tell he already knows he has you so you let out another sigh, throwing your hands up in defeat.

"Fine. But you're taking the lead on ancient runes. I'm horrible at it."

Blaise was exceptionally difficult to get a read on, you were coming to understand as you spent more and more time with the boy. For the first few weeks of your mandatory community service at Honeydukes, you had been particularly bitter and it seemed like Blaise was on the same page. It simply wasn't fair that you and Blaise were taking the hit for something neither of you had done, and you made sure to make that point perfectly clear. But for Blaise, nothing seemed to affect him. It was like he didn't even care.

As the weeks went on though, you came to find that you didn't really mind the work you were doing—it was actually a bit therapeutic. The reason you were there aside, it wasn't actually so bad and getting out of Hogwarts was a nice perk. And Blaise, well, you were making progress with him you supposed. He wasn't nearly as snarky with you as you'd seen him be with others and you could swear you'd caught him staring before. But he was still…aloof. Hovering, as if he could never quite find the right words.

When the two of you did speak, words between you and Blaise were exclusively related to work: what aisle was stocked with exploding bon bons, which price tags went with the fudge flies, who was going to take the arithmancy notes, and who was going to write up the summary on the 6th—or was it the 7th—Goblin War. So it was a surprise to you when Blaise was the one to bring up a topic outside of your usual subject matter. Of course it was quidditch.

It was something about Malfoy being his usual primadonna self on the pitch and Riddle and Goyle, the team's beaters, making a pact to use him as their moving target for the day. Apparently they bludgered too close to the sun and Malfoy went down. Dramatically. In your personal opinion, the boy probably had it coming, but you didn't voice that particular opinion. Blaise had just been venting and honestly, you were happy to let him do so. It made him so much more…human.

Of course you had to pick his brain for all the details, because please, it was hilarious, but Blaise insisted that he didn't know what Malfoy had said in the locker rooms that day to get Riddle so pissed off, or how Riddle had then successfully roped Goyle into the whole mess.

"Blaise, how could you not think to ask what got the whole thing started? Mattheo got Gregory to turn on Draco, I need to know everything that happened. This is historic," you'd insisted between giggles.

Something about the whole thing must have been infectious, because Blaise was smiling too now, and you'd decided then and there that you liked it very much when Blaise smiled. His whole demeanor softened, seeming to draw you in.

Of course the lousy shop keeper had had to go and ruin it all, snapping at the two of you to work more and chat less.

"Rest be assured, we will be circling back to this," you'd told Blaise before turning on your heel to continue stocking shelves.

And then Blaise actually did. Later that night when Blaise was once again at home in your dorm room, he'd turned to you, quill hovering above parchment, eyes lighting up as if he'd just remembered the most important thing in the world.

"I found out what happened between Malfoy and Goyle," he'd announced proudly, eyes gleaming as your face lit up.

"Tell me everything."

"Apparently Malfoy took the whole 'Goyle can't read' bit a little too far."

"You're joking."

You don't really remember a lot of that night because you and Blaise stayed up so late that you didn't realize that you hadn't gotten any work done until the sky started to turn light again. It was worth it though, because by the time the two of you were ready to head down to the Great Hall that morning, it felt like you'd known Blaise your entire life. It was strange to think that just a few weeks ago you'd known so little about him.

As the weeks stretch on, you develop a bit of a routine. Go to class, stop in the library, report to the Headmaster's office to floo to Honeydukes, grab a late dinner, wait for Blaise's knock on your door. It was nice. And your relationship, if you could even call it that, with Blaise was nice too. He wasn't always as snobbish as people made him out to be and really, his haughty attitude could be rather comedic at times. Not that you'd ever let him know that, his ego was already big enough for the both of you combined.

You feel a soft jab at your arm.

"Are you going to do your side, or are you going to make me do it since I'm clearly the more talented wizard," Blaise quips, a taunting grin on his lips as he glances down at you.

"Oh shove off, would you."

With a roll of your eyes, you quickly cast a levitating charm and watch as the last of the glittery, pink banners that normally decorated the shop floats up to its familiar position on the ceiling.

"I'd say we did rather good," you decide, standing back to admire your work.

You'd spent much of the day redecorating the shop and it was almost looking back to normal if you did say so yourself. And you did.

"Of course it looks good, I did most of it," Blaise teases, his smile only growing.

If you were delusional, you'd think the boy was flirting with you. In his own twisted way. So you roll your eyes again, and shake your head disapprovingly.

"What do you even do when you're not being an absolute headache," you sigh dramatically.

"Look pretty." Blaise's shit-eating grin is unmistakable now.

"Ugh. You deserve this place. We could put you on the shelf, call you eye candy," you scoff before fully thinking through your words.

"So you agree, I'm pretty?" Blaise preens, looking all too smug.

You needed to get this back under control.

"If I actually thought that, I wouldn't let you know. Your head is already too big as is."

With that, you quickly turn your back to the boy, hoping he'd missed the heat that was now creeping up to your cheeks. You really needed to get your head on straight. But it was hard. Now that you were actually thinking about it and watching as Blaise's lean, quidditch muscles flexed as he moved boxes around the shop—he really was the definition of a pretty boy. It was almost mesmerizing watching him.

Seeing Blaise sprawled across your bed had to be some kind of sick joke. It had been meant as just a lighthearted, harmless quip, but since that afternoon at Honeydukes, all you could think about was how freaking attractive the boy that you'd been spending all of your time with for the last several weeks was. Of course you'd always seen it, but now you just couldn't get it out of your damn head. You wanted to bang your head on the wall. Or climb him like a tree. You weren't sure which. But there he was, none the wiser, lounging on your bed like some kind of godly entity. Sick.

You really needed to clear your mind. Slumping back in your chair and silently chastising yourself for being so distracted, you crack open your potions textbook. Surely a deep dive into bezoars would take your mind off things, or at least be so dull you'll have no choice but to focus on not falling asleep.

Laying across your bed, scribbling away at a translation for ancient runes, Blaise was riding high. Your words "eye candy" echo in his mind as he writes. You thought he was attractive. His chest tightens at the thought. See, Blaise was many things. Observant and decisive were two of those things. And what he had observed for the past year was someone who was cheeky and intelligent and fit, and what he decided was that they would be his. You would be his.

Of course in order to make that happen, Blaise would have had to actually do something about it. And he always told himself he would, he just…never did. And his pride wouldn't even allow him to consider why that might be, but now he had a chance. You thought he was attractive. You might even like him. He would take it. For now.

Glancing up, Blaise had to stifle his in take of breath. You really were perfect in his opinion. And he had high standards. But looking at you now, the way your eyes slowly scanned the pages of your book, the soft curve of your lip as your tongue flicked out to wet your fingers as you turned the page, it was almost enough to make Blaise want to combust right then and there.

Instead he clears his throat, pulling your eyes away from your book and towards him, exactly where he preferred them.

"There's a quidditch game tomorrow," he mentions casually in that cold, steady tone that was so practiced it was basically second nature to him.

"Oh, exciting. Who's playing?" you ask, head tilting in a way that told Blaise he had your full, undivided attention. And he reveled in it.

"Slytherin and Hufflepuff."

"Right, well, good luck in case I don't see you in the morning."

There's a moment of pause.

"I thought you might like to come watch," Blaise finally spits out, desperate to hold your attention for even a few moments longer.

"Why, because you're playing?" you ask, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Especially because I'm playing," he responds with a cocky grin.

"I suppose I'll be there then."

Your eyes lock back in on your book and for once, Blaise thinks it might be for the best because his grin is now threatening to take over his entire face.

Blaise was thoroughly convinced that the world was on his side. It was a perfect day for quidditch—warm but cloudy enough that there was no sun beating down, barely a breeze, and stands packed with spectators. And of course there was you, right there in front surrounded by Pansy Parkinson and Lorenzo Berkshire. Oh. That might actually be a problem, but he would have to mitigate that particular issue later.

"Blaisey!"

Blaise is greeted by Mattheo with a thump on the back.

"Don't call me that," he monotones, his familiar scowl finding its way to his mouth.

"Oh don't be like that, I heard you finally got that special someone in the stands. Eh? Exciting day," Mattheo sings, voice intentionally loud enough to draw the attention of the rest of the team.

Blaise was going to murder him later. Painfully.

"Oi, Riddle. Shut your trap and stop trying to sabotage your own team, yeah?" Flint shouts.

He was still pissed about Malfoy getting mauled, but at least ferret boy had been cleared to play today.

"Sorry, sorry," Mattheo relents, holding his hands up in surrender, but that troublemaker grin doesn't fade from his face. "I'll be expecting a thank you at the wedding though," he taunts quietly as he passes by.

The quidditch stands are crowded and you aren't exactly sure where you're meant to be as you're funneled forward through the wooden rows. Somehow you manage to end up right in the front, standing next to a girl with short, sleek hair and a brunette boy that looked like he could be on the cover of a magazine. Pansy Parkinson and Lorenzo Berkshire. You knew the two of them ran in the same circle as Blaise, but you weren't exactly sure how friendly they all were. It seemed you were about to find out though as Lorenzo leans forward on the rail to get a good look at you.

"You here for Zabini?" he asks. "Took him long enough, been wondering how long it would be before you started coming around."

You blink. You'd never talked to Lorenzo Berkshire before in your life and you had no idea what he was on about. Thankfully, Pansy comes to your rescue.

"Ignore him. Bloody idiot, that one," she sighs as if it were a common disclosure she gave out often.

Lorenzo seems completely unfazed by the comment, so maybe it was.

"You know the rest of the team?" Pansy asks, making easy conversation.

You didn't want to seem ungrateful, but you were surprised by how willing these two were to ease you into their little group.

"I know a few of them. A bit hard to tell though from this distance," you reply timidly.

"That's fine. Only thing you really need to know is which one Zabini is anyway. But look down there," Pansy points to the group of boys in emerald green down on the field. "Obviously that one is Blaise, I'm sure you're familiar," she says with a smirk, "The two he's standing with are the other chasers Nott and Pucey. Then the blonde who's not paying attention? That's Malfoy. The two next to him are the beaters, Riddle and Goyle. And that last one who's been monologuing this whole time is the team captain Flint. He's the keeper."

Your eyes follow Pansy's movements as she lists off each of the players, doing your best to soak in the information. Seemed easy enough, especially once Pansy put a name to the faces you hadn't quite recognized. Pansy and Lorenzo bicker back and forth some more as you watch the players on the field get ready to begin. It had been a long time since you'd come down to watch a quidditch game.

Once the game starts though, you realize that there was one thing you hadn't taken into account when accepting Blaise's invitation to the match. And that was his quidditch uniform. Sweet Salazar, you hoped no one noticed you salivating over the way his robes clung to him as he soared through the sky. And every time he flew past you caught a glimpse of that cocky smile of his that was growing to be all too familiar. It was definitely worth coming out.

The match is a quick one, and according to Lorenzo, the matches against Hufflepuff usually are. By the time Malfoy finally catches the snitch, Slytherin had already scored enough points that it wouldn't have even mattered if Diggory had been the one to catch the snitch first. You can't quite bring yourself to hoot and holler like Enzo when the match finally comes to an end, but the way Blaise's eyes find you as soon as the whistle blows tells you that you didn't have to. He knows you were there and he's the only one that matters.

After, you stand with Pansy and Lorenzo and wait for the team to trickle out of the locker room. Draco is one of the first ones out and when he spots Pansy, is quick to scoop her up into a hug. Mattheo and Greg are next, quickly joining Lorenzo off to the side where he's busy chatting up some of the Hufflepuffs. Then, finally you see him—hair still damp, either from sweat or a shower, but practically glowing as he spots you waiting there for him.

There's nothing grand or romantic about the way he saunters up to you, and there's no sweeping hug like when Draco greeted Pansy, but you can't help but feel your heart flutter as Blaise appears before you, perfect as always.

"Did you enjoy the game?" is the first thing Blaise asks, his hand brushing the back of yours as he stands in front of you.

You feel yourself short circuit for a split second at the contact before quickly recovering.

"Yeah. It was fun. You looked good out there," you hear yourself mumble as you try desperately to cling to the feeling of Blaise's skin against yours.

"Did I?" Blaise preens, that shit eating grin appearing once more.

He'd been doing that a lot recently. Smiling. Or at least a lot more than you'd ever seen. Not that you had really noticed before of course.

You reach out and give the boy a light shove on the shoulder.

"That's not what I meant," you reply as heat rises to your face, but even you can tell there's no sincerity behind your words.

"It's alright if it was." Blaise's voice is lower now. Hungry almost as he takes a step closer.

You feel your heart stop while your mind races at a mile a minute, repeating Blaise's words in your mind over and over making sure you heard right. That you weren't imagining it. But before you can respond properly, a voice calls out, pulling Blaise away while words sit at the tip of your tongue. All you can do is watch as Blaise turns away to rejoin the rest of the team, throwing one more parting glance your way before his face returns to its typical stoney expression.

You would think that, with its magical organization system, the Hogwarts library would be much easier to sort through. Yet here you were on what seemed like a wild goose chase, trying to track down the one book that would help you to complete your transfiguration essay. You'd been searching for nearly forty minutes now and it really was frustrating because the more time it took for you to find the blasted book, the more time your brain had to microanalyze every interaction you'd ever had with Blaise Zabini. You were driving yourself mad.

"What do you think the chances are that Zabini completely fumbles, despite everything we've done?"

Wonderful. And now your delusions were causing you to hear voices talking about Blaise out loud. Would you ever escape—wait. You take a step closer to the shelf, holding your breath as you try to hear through the rows of books.

"He better not. You know how hard it was to sneak those fireworks into the school? Told him today that I expected a thank you at their wedding. Course he doesn't know that we're the masterminds behind it all yet. Expect he'd be a little more grateful if he did, yeah?"

That voice you distinctly recognize as belonging to Mattheo Riddle, and, peering through the gaps in the shelves, there he was sat directly across from none other than Lorenzo Berkshire. But fireworks? Whose wedding? What did Blaise have to fumble? Your brain goes into over drive, straining to put the pieces together, and when it all starts to click you let out a breath you didn't realize you had been holding. Huh. You could confront the two right then and there, but instead you decide to take your new found discovery and file it away for later.

As it turns out, 'later' would actually be later that night. It's dark out when Blaise finally knocks on your door. You were expecting it of course, but this time he marches in with his usual confident swagger before you even have the chance to roll off your bed.

"Hey," is all he says as he drops his book bag on the ground before taking a seat next to you on the bed.

The mattress dips beneath him causing you to slide towards him until your legs are pressed against each other. You're not sure if you should curse gravity, or thank it.

"Hi," you squeak out, acutely aware of how close the two of you are sitting.

"Did you ever finish that transfiguration essay? I thought we could swap ideas," Blaise says, bending down to pull out parchment and a quill.

Your mind stutters at how inhumanly calm Blaise is while sitting so close that you could smell every individual note in his expensive cologne.

"Yeah, but, I don't think I want this to end. Once we've stopped going to Honeydukes and have more free time again," you blurt out. No plan, just words cascading out of your mouth.

Blaise doesn't even look up, just continues scribbling his name onto his parchment.

"That's fine. This arrangement has been working well."

You shouldn't feel surprised at this point, but you were always a little bit stunned by how nonchalant Blaise could be at times.

"No. I'm saying I think I like you," you try again, hoping to get your point across.

"Obviously. What's not to like?"

If it weren't for that obnoxious smile that had grown on you so much over the past weeks you'd have thought he was being an arrogant prick.

"You're an absolute headache. You know that?" you pout, giving the boy a smack and jolting his quill sharply across the page.

With a wave of his hand, the parchment and quill are magicked back into his bag as Blaise turns to face you know, eyes burning.

"A good looking one though, hm? That's what you were going to say this morning no?" he asks, as he slowly moves closer.

You shake your head no, but you both know that it's a lie.

"I decided that you would be mine a long time ago. It was just a matter of getting you on the same page, so of course you like me, you've always been mine."

You simply don't have the words to respond. All you can do is remember how to breathe as your eyes fully train in on the way Blaise's mouth moves as he tells you exactly who you belong to. And then that mouth is on yours and you forget how to function all together.

It's soft and sweet, and much more gentle than you ever imagined Blaise capable of being. As the kiss deepens, you feel Blaise pull you closer, hand sweeping against your thigh, guiding it until you're seated on his lap. His lips trail down your jaw, your throat, fingers pulling at the neck of your jumper as he nips at your collar bone.

"Blaise."

His name slips out from between your lips—breathy, airy and Blaise growls. His touch feels like it's burning away at your skin yet you still press yourself against him, desperate for the feeling. His mouth finds yours once more, kissing you until your lips are swollen and you're left gasping for air. When you finally pull apart, Blaise is looking up at you with something that can only be described as pure, unadulterated admiration.

In that moment you wonder how long Blaise had had his eye on you. How long you'd unknowingly pulled his attention. How long you'd occupied his thoughts, driving him mad just as he had been to you these last few weeks. You'd have to find out another time.

You shift your weight in Blaise's lap until you're at eye level, a teasing grin pulling at your lips. One that clearly said 'I know something you don't'.

"Blaise?" you ask, voice sing-song as you look at the boy with wide, innocent eyes.

"Yes, angel face?"

You feel your nose scrunch up.

"Is that a no?" Blaise chuckles, breath warm against your cheek.

"We'll circle back. But I heard the most interesting thing this afternoon in the library. Do you know what it was?"

Blaise shakes his head.

"I'm sure there are lots of interesting tidbits to pick up in the library, sweet cheeks."

You give him an unamused look.

"That's just bad and you know it," you huff, giving the boy a quick peck on the lips. "Now hush, I know who set off those damn fireworks at Honey Dukes."

Blaise raises an eyebrow and you can tell you have his interest piqued.

"It was your beloved teammates. Riddle and Berkshire. They outright admitted to it in the library earlier. Were worried you would fumble after 'all the hard work they did' to get you some alone time with me," you chirp, giving Blaise a playful poke on the shoulder. "Said you should be thanking them."

"Is that right?" Blaise asks, eyes suddenly dark as his expression becomes unreadable.

You feel yourself hesitate at the change in Blaise's demeanor and it seems like Blaise picks up on the shift because his face immediately softens again.

"I'll have to handle those two myself," he mutters. "But first—"

His hands make a trail down from your waist, dragging tantalizingly against your thighs, and hooking behind your knee caps before he yanks you close once more. Your arms wrap around his neck as a laugh escapes you. It's quickly smothered though as lips collide and you find yourself lost in a hazy bliss once more. You decide in that moment that if Blaise isn't going to thank his friends for framing the two of you, then you just might.

…But probably not.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

First and foremost, I have explicitly stated on my pinned Tumblr post that I do not want my works translated or redistributed elsewhere.

Long story short, there were a lot of red flags that this account has displayed.

They blocked someone who had questioned them if they had my permission to translate my works.

They have never even reached out to me asking for permission.

They translated my works even though I have stated very clearly that I do not want my works translated.

They never replied to me and even deleted my comment politely asking them to remove my work because they never had my permission and that I don’t want my works translated (though, fortunately they did remove the translated works as asked, so at least that’s the plus side). This once again wiped clean evidence of permission issue on their account, very much continuing a “covering up their track” behavior.

They also translated one of the original author’s usernames into Portuguese too, which is strange and improper crediting because that defeats the whole point of crediting overall, as readers won't even be able to trace back to the original author at all (especially if you are not linking to the original work or the original author’s page, which they are not doing).

Given their highly questionable and suspicious behaviors to my case (did not ask for my permission, translated works from an author who does not want their works translated, attempted to hide the fact that they have never gotten permission from me (the original author), blocked those who question it, shows signs of improper crediting), I have reasons to suspect that many tumblr authors of the other 370 translated works on this Wattpad account also do not know that their works have been translated, and that this Wattpad account have translated without their permission and/or improperly credit them.

I did contemplate for a while whether to write and publish about this too. However, I feel like it’s all too suspicious for me to just ignore and 300+ fics is a lot. Also, the fact that they straight up blocked the person who questioned if they had my permission implied that they must feel like what they are doing is not right.

So…if you are a tumblr writer of any of the characters mentioned above (especially Theodore Nott because 186 is INSANE if most of them don't have the original author's permissions and/or authors don’t want their works translated), just be aware that your works may have been translated without permission. And if the issue of translation without permission is personally important to you, maybe check to see if your works are on their account and ask them to take it down if you want to.

“Fuck. No. I’m trying to get into my apartment, but this bloody key doesn’t fit the lock,” he replies, bending down to snatch the key off the ground, not bothering to glance at the stranger who’d snuck up on him.

“That’s probably because you’re at the wrong door. Empty apartment is one door over,” the voice says, clearly trying to hold back a laugh.

Mattheo freezes, blinking once before slowly turning his head to glare at the apartment one door down the hall, and then finally turning fully to face the stranger. His plea to not call the cops on him is quickly replaced by a sharp in take of breath as he gets a good look at his new neighbor.

Tall with soft brown hair, sharp eyes, and a devious smirk grinning down at him; Mattheo feels his chest tighten, bobbing his head in a quick nod before shuffling over to the correct door, a cold sweat washing over him. Why did it have to be him? He wonders to himself as his key finally turns allowing the door to swing open.

"Name's Theo by the way. If you ever need anything," his neighbor calls out before disappearing into his own apartment.

As soon as Mattheo steps into his new home he wants to melt into the floor. Great first impression he thinks bitterly to himself. New neighbor is hot as hell and the first thing he does is try to break into his apartment. Unknowingly to be fair, but still.

Not allowing himself to dwell too much on it, Mattheo begins lugging boxes inside, letting a pile grow in the middle of the would-be living room. It was going to be a long fucking day.

The first thing Mattheo notices the next morning, other than the pain in his lower back from sleeping on a mattress on the floor, is the distinct lack of anything edible in his new home.

He hadn’t wanted to deal with the hassle of moving food and all the nasty smells of spoiled, rotten food that could come with it. But by the way his stomach was now rumbling, he was beginning to see why that had been rather short sighted.

With an agitated groan, he rubs the sleep from his eyes, barely making the effort to brush his teeth and throw on a new hoodie before venturing out to find some food. As soon as Mattheo exits the apartment complex, he’s blinded by the early morning sunlight. Grumbling, he makes his way over to his car, an old beater sure, but one of the first he’d ever worked on.

The door closes with a gentle thud, and Mattheo turns the keys, the engine slowly spurring to life before sputtering out just as quickly.

“Oh for the love of-“ Mattheo throws his head back, groaning as he swings the door back open.

Stupid spark plug had probably come loose again. He really needed to find time to fix that, it was starting to get annoying. Opening the hood of his car it’s clear his suspicion had been correct and he’s about to adjust the damn thing once more when a voice calls out behind him. Startled, Mattheo jumps, the back of his head slamming on the hood of the car as he lets out a string of curses.

“Need a ride?”

Mattheo turns and of course as luck would have it, finds Theo standing behind him, once again attempting to hold back a laugh, his own set of car keys dangling between his fingers. Why did the world hate him?

“Ah, no! Nope! Everything’s fine over here, thanks,” Mattheo replies, tripping over his words as if he’d never strung a sentence together before.

Theo just raises an eyebrow at him, looking between him and his rather beat up car unconvinced.

“It’s really not a problem,” Theo says, tipping his head towards the car parked directly next to Mattheo’s.

“I—“ Mattheo pauses, looking down at the loose spark plug.

It would take him seconds to fix. But what the hell? If his smoking hot neighbor wanted to give him a lift, who was he to decline?

“You know what? That would actually be great,” he hears himself declare, closing the hood of his car with a dull thud.

Theo looks rather pleased with his answer, unlocking his car and gesturing for Mattheo to hop in.

"I never actually got your name," Theo trails off as Mattheo gingerly steps into the cars.

"Mattheo. Matt. Whatever you want," he rushes out, mentally face palming as Theo lets out a soft laugh.

"So where were you headed?" Theo asks as the car hums to life.

"Just to pick up some food and stuff," Mattheo mumbles back as he takes in the tidy interior of the car.

Clean leather seats and not a single piece of trash littering the floor. It was nothing like his own beater, but that car had been the only constant in his life these past few years.

"Convenient. I was headed to the store myself," Theo replies easily as he backs out of his parking spot.

Mattheo can feel his heart stop when Theo's hand lands inches away from him, resting on his seat as Theo turns to check out the back window. He can't tell if his mouth has gone completely dry or if he's salivating uncontrollably as his eyes lock in on Theo's forearm and the veins protruding from it. God he needed to snap out of it. Get a grip.

Mattheo spends the rest of the ride trying to survive awkward small talk and looking out the window at the new city he found himself in. When they finally pull into the parking lot, he finds himself following Theo inside like a lost puppy. There's an awkward pause where Mattheo isn't quite sure if he's supposed to go off on his own or not, but Theo answers that question when he gives him a strange look.

"Never been to a grocery store or something? Come on," he says, grabbing a basket.

Mattheo feels like he’s shopping with his mother, carefully putting items into the basket and hoping he doesn’t get any strange looks or raised eyebrows. Theo on the other hand goes about as if it’s business as usual, tossing this and that carelessly into the shopping basket.

It all feels terribly domestic, especially for two people who’d barely ever spoken before, but somehow, with each aisle they meander through it grows increasingly more comfortable.

When they finally make it to check out, Mattheo has to fend Theo off, insisting that he’ll pay.

“Can’t hijack your grocery run and let you pay,” he grumbles, shoving his card into the reader.

The following weekend Mattheo finds himself pulling yet another batch of cookies out of his oven. The sugary sweet aroma filled his apartment and flour coated every surface of the kitchen. He’d always liked baking growing up and seemed to have a bit of a knack for it. That was a lie. He did not like baking and he was actually terrible at it. But Theo didn’t have to know that.

Unfortunately, Mattheo’s first batch of cookies had come out hard as rock on the outside, but still raw on the inside. He had no idea how that was even possible. The second batch had almost caused the fire alarms to go off after he’d gotten distracted and forgotten them in the oven. But this batch. Well, they looked normal, tasted normal, and Mattheo hadn’t immediately gotten sick after trying one so they’d have to do.

Over the course of the last week, Mattheo couldn’t keep track of how many times he’d accidentally run into Theo. He swore he’d never seen any of his other neighbors this frequently. It seemed like every time he turned around, Theo was there with his smug grin and some little quip that made Mattheo putty in his hands. It was driving Mattheo insane.

Not to brag, but Mattheo had always considered himself to be a smooth talker if he did say so himself. Charming, charismatic, the works. So to be left a blubbering fool every time Theo so much as breathed in his direction. Well that simply wouldn’t do.

Carefully picking out the best looking cookies from the pan and dumping them into a plastic container, Mattheo is ready for battle. He straightens his shirt and smoothes out his hair one last time before swinging his front door open and marching the twenty feet over to the neighboring unit.

Taking a deep breath of determination, Mattheo steels himself before giving a solid, firm knock on the door. A moment passes. Then two. Maybe this was a bad idea. Another moment goes bye. Mattheo is about to turn tail and flee back to his apartment when the door swings open, revealing Theo leaning casually against the door frame.

Nothing could have prepared him for what was waiting on the other side of the door. Nothing. All the confidence he’d built back up. Gone.

Theo’s eyes burned into him leaving scorching trails, his god forsaken smirk dancing across his lips as he stands in front of Mattheo in nothing but a grey bath towel that clings dangerously low on his hips. He doesn’t even flinch at the way Mattheo’s eyes rake his body up and down before forcing their way to the ceiling, the floor, anywhere else.

“Can I help you?” Theo’s voice comes out smooth, but Mattheo can still detect a hint of a snicker as his neighbor continues leaning on the door frame as if it were just another Tuesday.

“Uh, yeah, I mean no,” Mattheo hears himself stuttering like a bumbling idiot, and forces himself to stare at the ground, trying to compose himself. “I made cookies. Thought I’d bring some over as a thanks for the ride.”

He can feel the bob of his adam’s apple as he shifts awkwardly, thrusting the container out and trying not to ogle his neighbor’s very bare chest.

“I’d let you ride any time,” Theo replies, that sinister smirk securely in place as he accepts the container of cookies.

His fingers brush against Mattheo’s for a moment too long as Mattheo feels his brain short circuit. So much for being cool, confident, and collected.

“whAT,” Mattheo wheezes, sure he must have misheard.

But Theo just tilts his head cockily, eyes raking over the curly haired boy in front of him.

“You can ride any time. I know car stuff can be— inconvenient,” Theo replies smoothly, clearly enjoying Mattheo’s flustered state.

“Right! Yes. Thanks again. I’ll just— be going now,” Mattheo responds, tripping over his words once more before retreating back to his own apartment, Theo’s eyes burning into the back of his head.

As soon as the door closes behind him, Mattheo feels himself sink to the floor; face red, palms sweaty, and heart beating out of his chest. The hell was that. He was being messed with surely. There was no conceivable way a guy like that was flirting with a guy like him. No, he needed to calm down, and chill out before he embarrassed himself further.

God, what had he become.

Theodore Nott generally liked to keep to himself. He observed others from afar, kept his head down, and minded his business. He liked it that way.

What he did not do was greet new neighbors. And he definitely did not offer them a ride in his car, much less to go grocery shopping with him. And answering the door half naked and sopping wet? Absolutely not. So how he had gotten to this point, he really didn't know.

It had all started when Theo had returned home one day to find Mattheo jamming a key into the lock of his door with a look of sheer rage and determination. From the stacks of boxes lining the halls, it was clear that this was his new neighbor.

“Are you— are you trying to break into my apartment?” he'd asked, trying to make light of what was surely about to be an awkward situation.

What he hadn't taken into account was the fact that his new neighbor was ridiculously attractive. Theo could feel his chest tighten, feet shifting awkwardly as the new neighbor fumbles with the key, clearly agitated as Theo directs him to the correct door.

He does his best to keep his eyes from raking the new stranger up and down, but he can't help the way they lock onto the soft brown curls, or the faint scar on the bridge of his nose.

The new neighbor doesn't even spare him a second glance when he calls out his name before Theo escapes into the safety of his apartment. Well. That was enough social interaction for the week. Humbling as always.

Theo has no clue what comes over him the next morning when he sees his handsome neighbor bent over his car, the hood propped up, shielding him from the early morning sun. When he offers him a ride, he's sure the curly haired boy will say no and they'll both move on with their day, so he can't help the perhaps overeager grin that spreads across his face when the boy gives in.

He finally learns his new neighbor's name, Mattheo, on their drive to the nearest grocery store, and really Theo is too focused on the mantra of 'stay calm, don't be weird' repeating in his head to pay attention to much else other than the giddiness of being within arms reach of Mattheo for an extended period of time.

When it comes time to pay, Theo tries to insist that it's no big deal as he pulls out his wallet, but one look from Mattheo has him melting into the floor. His cool, care-less attitude had Theo in a choke-hold, and paired with those big, brown eyes? Theo feared he was in over his head.

What Theo had now dubbed 'the cookie catastrophe' truly felt like an out of body experience in which Theo had no choice but to watch on in absolute horror.

The knocking had started shortly after Theo had stepped out of the shower. He was going to ignore it like he usually would, but against his better judgment he shuffled over to the door, peeking through the peephole to find Mattheo waiting on the other side. Not a single thought was running through Theo's brain as he swung the door open, not realizing until it was too late that his hair was sopping wet and he hadn't even had the decency to throw on sweatpants.

He tried to play it cool, leaning casually against the door frame and just hoping that if he didn't acknowledge it, neither would Matt. He watches though as Mattheo's eyes widen slightly, taking in the sight before him and clearing his throat. A hint of red appears in his cheeks and Theo can't help but grin as Mattheo stutters a bit over his words. But as soon as Mattheo presents him with homemade cookies, Theo just knows he's done for.

He doesn't even hear the words come out of his mouth, “I’d let you ride any time,” until Mattheo is sputtering in front of him, cheeks burning red as he laughs nervously, arm reaching up to scratch the back of his neck.

Theo can't help but admire the flexed bicep before quickly jumping to clarify that car issues could be annoying and hoping he'd saved any of what little dignity he had left. When Mattheo finally retreats back down the hallway, Theo slams his door shut with a resounding thud, the past several minutes feeling like a blur. What was wrong with him? He thought to himself, ripping the lid off the container and shoving a cookie into his mouth.

That's how he ended up here though, towel slung over his shoulder and clutching a bottle of shampoo in his free hand as he knocked shakily on Mattheo's door. He couldn’t help it. The only things he’d been thinking about these past few days were the way that blush had creeped up onto Mattheo’s face when he opened his door, and the way his muscles had flexed when he had reached up behind his head. But oh god, what was he doing here?

It's clear Mattheo is wondering the same thing when he opens the door, brows furrowing as his head tilts. Theo lets out a nervous cough.

"Ah, sorry to bother, the water's out in my apartment and I just got back from a run so I was wondering—" he lets the question hang in the air and Mattheo blinks once before rushing to pull the door open further.

"Yeah, of course, I mean sure. No problem," he replies, that familiar tinge of red once again painting his cheeks as Theo brushes past him. “Bathroom’s just there,” Matt says, directing him past the living room.

“Right, thanks,” Theo replies, taking his time to subtly glance about the apartment.

There was a sofa that looked like it had seen better days, a coffee table with take out containers littering the surface, the television had some movie flickering across the screen, and more boxes that needed to be unpacked.

As soon as the bathroom door closes behind Theo, his head falls back, a dry laugh escaping his lips. What had become of his life? This was psychopath behavior he thought wryly to himself. But he’d come this far.

Quickly switching the water on, Theo takes what has to be the fastest shower of his life before stepping out and doing his best to dry himself off. His sweatpants go on and then he looks at the ratty old shirt he’d worn over, another scandalous plan forming in his head. He really shouldn’t.

When he exits the bathroom, Mattheo’s head snaps onto him from his spot on the couch and Theo watches as the blood rushes to his face once more. He would never get tired of that.

“Whatcha watchin?” He asks, trying to keep a casual, straight face as Mattheo’s eyes noticeably lock in on his bare torso.

It takes a moment for Mattheo to respond and Theo can feel himself preening at the attention.

“Uh, whatever you want,” Mattheo replies, still openly gawking.

Theo raises an eyebrow, a smirk spreading across his face, a newfound confidence beginning to grow.

“You inviting me to stay?”

The question seems to shake Matt out of his stupor as he finally seems to realize he was staring and blinks up at Theo.

“Only if you want. I don’t want to hold you hostage or anything,” he jokes with a sheepish grin.

Theo finds himself letting out a low chuckle, humoring his neighbor as he takes a seat next to him, his shirt and towel all but forgotten in a heap on the floor.

“I’ll order us a pizza. Least I can do since you let me rack up your water bill.”

Mattheo knew that he was going crazy. He'd accepted it really because every time he closed his eyes, visions of his shirtless neighbor eating pizza on his couch and laughing at his bad jokes flooded his mind. It was like the images were burned into the back of his eyelids.

This however, was an entirely new level of insanity, even for him. See it started simple enough, Theo had caught up to him in the parking lot and walked into the building with him. Only when Mattheo had gotten to his door, he'd reached into his jacket pocket for his key only to come up completely empty.

His frantic search had apparently caught Theo's attention because his neighbor had turned towards him, head tilted in that annoyingly sweet way and asked if he'd forgotten his key. And then of course his neighbor had to be all benevolent and chivalrous and offer to let Mattheo stay over in his apartment because the office was closed and calling a locksmith would be annoying and expensive. And how could Mattheo possibly say no when Theo was looking at him with eyes like that?

Mattheo was just about to bashfully accept the offer when his hands slid into the back pockets of his jeans, fingertips grazing across the cool, hard metal of his key. Clutching his fist, he shoves the key deeper into his pocket before following Theo into his apartment.

And now here he sat on Theo's pristine leather sofa eating Chinese takeout while being hyper aware of how often Theo's knee was knocking into his own.

"I can grab you a pair of shorts or something so you don't have to sleep in jeans," Theo is saying, breaking Mattheo out of his thoughts.

"Sorry?" Mattheo mumbles, clearly having not been paying attention to Theo.

Theo just laughs though, setting down his box of noodles.

"I was saying that you could borrow a pair of shorts or something so you don't have to sleep in jeans. Unless you like sleeping in denim of course."

"No, no, that would be great, thanks," Mattheo replies quickly, shoving another bite of eggroll into his mouth before he could say anything else stupid.

Theo lets out another soft laugh, his head shaking slightly as he gets up and disappears into what Mattheo would assume to be the bedroom. He reemerges just moments later with a pair of black athletic shorts, tossing them onto the couch next to Mattheo.

“I’ll find a movie or something to watch if you want to get changed. Bathroom’s over there,” Theo tells him.

It only takes Mattheo a minute or two to change and settle his heart rate before he re-emerges, settling back down on the couch. He knows he must look stiff as a board sitting there, but he can’t not focus on the way Theo’s eyes flicker as he watches the television, or the way his arm is slung casually across the back of the sofa, his hand mere centimeters away from the back of Mattheo’s head.

Mattheo could not tell someone a single plot point of the movie they’d just watched by the time the screen goes dark. He was far too busy over thinking. Too busy in fact that he barely hears Theo announce that he’s going to run to the bathroom.

“Hey, you left your jeans in the bathroom,” Theo calls out as he opens the door.

As he goes to toss the crumpled pile of fabric, to Mattheo’s absolute horror, a gleam of metal shines through the air before clattering onto the floor. Two pairs of eyes lock onto the familiar looking metal key. Mattheo lets out a nervous laugh.

"It was in there all along?" he chuckles, decently sure that there was fear written across his face.

But Theo just raises an eyebrow, a smile growing on his lips.

"Yeah, you know that's crazy. I'm sure you didn't just happen to forget it was there so you'd have an excuse to hang out with me," he replies cockily, inching towards Mattheo like a lion hunting its prey.

Mattheo gulps.

"Nah. No. That would be crazy," Mattheo laughs.

Theo is directly in front of him now, bent down to look him straight in the eyes.

"Crazy like pretending the water is out in your apartment so that you can use your hot neighbor's shower instead?" he asks.

Mattheo can feel his eyes widen slightly at the implication, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he searches for words.

"I have never baked cookies before in my life. Also, that day you gave me a ride to the store, it was just my spark plug that was loose. I could have fixed it in two seconds," he blurts out.

Theo is laughing now, collapsed on the sofa beside him as Mattheo also lets out a loud laugh, the insanity of it all finally crashing down on the both of them.

"That actually feels really good to have off my chest," Mattheo says once they'd both calmed down.

His head is resting against Theo's shoulder and his hand is entrapped between Theo's fingers.

"I hope you know I think you're a psychopath," Theo says, though there's no real bite to his words.

Mattheo just snorts in response.

"Oh you're one to talk. By the way, who the hell answers the door half bloody naked? What was that about?" he asks.

"I was excited to see you," Theo defends.

Mattheo can hear the sheepish smile in his voice as he tilts his head to rest on top of Mattheo's and it's quiet for a moment.

"So does this mean I can convince you to sleep in the bedroom tonight instead of on the couch?" Theo asks.

"Won't take a lot of convincing," Mattheo replies.