#fakedatingtrope

He no longer wore masks, nor did he need them. One look was enough to know he was watching. Not from suspicion, not from hunger for power — but because it was the way he kept his balance in a world that had shifted too quickly.

On Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, everything felt too familiar — almost painfully so — and yet somehow different. The rush of students, the trunks and cages, the smoke curling from the train. Blaise let his gaze drift over the crowd, never lingering, until a flicker of gold caught his eye.

Vivienne Armand. A Ravenclaw. Dark hair spilling over her shoulders, the faint scent of cherries clinging to her — just as always. He had known her before: Slug Club dinners, pureblood gatherings. They had never been close, and yet, each time they crossed paths, there lingered a sense of something unsaid.

She caught his gaze, lifted an eyebrow, and curved her lips into a faint, mocking smile — the kind that seemed to say, “Yes, we’re both here. Let’s see which of us has changed more.”

Blaise didn’t answer. He only let his eyes rest on her for a second longer than he should have.

“Planning to stare all day?” The lazy voice tugged Blaise from his thoughts. Theodore Nott had appeared at his side, slipping his hands into his pockets with practiced ease. His green eyes roamed the platform, searching for familiar faces — and, as always, pretty ones. “Ah, I see you’ve already found someone worth the attention. And I must admit, your taste is still impeccable.”

Blaise only tilted his head, saying nothing.

The train hummed with noise and laughter, the air rich with the scent of sweets from the trolley. The corridors were crowded, but he and Theo managed to claim a compartment, leaving the door half-open. Students drifted by in an endless stream, and Theo, with his usual brand of amusement, provided commentary on everything from hairstyles to the way someone carried themselves.

Blaise heard him only half the time. His mind kept circling back to the platform — to dark hair, the faint trace of cherries, and the cello case he’d glimpsed among her luggage. An oddly specific detail, yet one that snagged his attention and refused to let go. How long had she been playing?

Hogwarts greeted them like a cool breath after a long journey. The castle stood tall and unyielding, its windows glowing softly in the dusk — a quiet promise that life, somehow, went on. Students spilled from the train, their footsteps louder than usual on the boards, as if each needed to prove to themselves that the school was still here.

Up ahead, he spotted her again — Vivienne, the cello case strapped neatly across her back. She moved with quiet poise, just detached enough to seem untouchable, as though this place had always belonged to her.

“Well then,” Theo drawled, straightening his robes as his eyes swept the crowd, “new year, new faces. I wonder how many secrets this castle has collected over the summer.”

“Nott, we’ve only just arrived, and you’re already insufferable. Merlin help me survive another year with you…” Blaise muttered, pushing forward toward the castle gates. But for just a moment, his eyes lingered on Vivienne’s silhouette dissolving into the crowd — and for the first time in longer than he could remember, the thought crept in that something new might be waiting for him.

The first days after their return passed with an unusual stillness. Classes resumed, routines fell back into place, yet every glance at the familiar walls was a reminder — Hogwarts was not the same.

Blaise didn’t seek company, though people seemed drawn to him anyway: some out of curiosity, others out of lingering ties. He responded sparingly, only as much as politeness required.

And yet, whenever he saw her in the hall or on the staircases, his eyes lingered longer than they should have. Vivienne Armand, with her light step and cool precision in every gesture, appeared not to notice. But once or twice, he caught the faintest curl at the corner of her lips — as if she understood perfectly well.

The following days at Hogwarts carried a peculiar kind of silence — the kind that settles after a storm. Students laughed again in the corridors, hurried off to classes, but there was still a trace of caution lingering in the air.

Vivienne sat on the steps of the courtyard, a book in her hands she had been meaning to finish, though her gaze kept drifting to the sky. Autumn had only just begun, and the sunsets were lavish — crimson, orange, gold. Her fingers absently traced the spine of her book as if it were the neck of her cello, a familiar motion when her thoughts wandered.

And it was in that moment Cormac McLaggen appeared. Too confident, too loud for this still-fragile Hogwarts. He carried a bouquet that might have looked decent — if he hadn’t clearly been dragging it around all day.

“Vivienne!” he greeted her with a grin meant to turn heads. “Just the person I was hoping to see.”

Vivienne raised an eyebrow, crossed her arms over her chest, and looked him up and down. “How disgusting,” she thought.

“Come on, Vivienne. It’s just flowers. No need to look at me like I handed you a dead puffskein.” Cormac grinned

Vivienne raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. “Did you just hand me something halfway to compost?” she said dryly. “Is that your new strategy?”

Cormac took a step closer, undeterred by her coolness. “Hey, don’t be like that. I thought you might like… you know, a proper Gryffindor kind of gesture. Loud, bold—irresistible.”

Vivienne arched a brow. “I’m resisting just fine, thanks.”

Cormac frowned. “You can’t keep brushing me off. What, are you seeing someone?”

A sharp glint flashed in her eyes. She glanced around — then spotted Blaise, leaning lazily against the wall nearby, flipping through a book with studied indifference.

“Actually, yes.” She smiled coldly, lying smoothly. “Zabini.”

Cormac blinked. “…Wait, who?”

She nodded casually in Blaise’s direction. He didn’t even look up — but his fingers paused on the page.

“Better a snake than a peacock with dead flowers.” Vivienne’s reply was sharp enough to cut.

Cormac sputtered, caught somewhere between insulted pride and sheer disbelief.

At last, Blaise looked up — slow, deliberate, unreadable. His gaze brushed hers for the barest second. Was that the ghost of a smirk?

Blaise’s gaze lingered on Vivienne a fraction longer this time, silently challenging her. He finally closed the book, letting it slip casually into the pocket of his robes, and pushed himself off the wall with slow, deliberate ease.

He walked over to the group, a cold, arrogant smirk playing on his lips. Stopping beside Vivienne, his eyes flicked to Cormac. “Problem, McLaggen?”

Cormac glanced at Vivienne, surprise and judgment warring on his face. Blaise smirked, calm, almost bored, and muttered to no one in particular: “Some people really overestimate their chances.”

Cormac stomped off, bouquet still in hand — slightly more wilted than before. Silence fell. Vivienne exhaled softly.

Blaise spoke again, not bothering to look at her. “So. We’re dating now?”

Vivienne’s reply was crisp, unflinching. “Only when necessary.”

Blaise’s smirk softened into a barely noticeable smile. Dating Vivienne only when necessary? How very Slytherin.

Finally, he met her gaze, eyes glinting with curiosity and mockery. “Necessary. I see.”

He stepped closer, closing the small gap between them. His tone was low, teasing. “And how often, I wonder, might it be necessary for us to play pretend couple?”

Vivienne didn’t flinch, though his closeness prickled at her skin like static. Her gaze stayed locked on his, cool as ever, but something sharp flickered behind it — not fear. Calculation.

“As often as I need to be left alone,” she said smoothly.

She tilted her head slightly, letting the words settle. “But if you’re offering to be my shield against Gryffindor egos, I hope you can act the part without getting… attached.”

Her tone was light, almost teasing — but her eyes? Unblinking. Testing him.

Blaise almost laughed at her audacity. Acting the part without getting attached? Him? She clearly underestimated him. He let out a quiet laugh, low in his throat. “Attached? To you?” He clicked his tongue once, thoughtful. “That would require you being… what’s the word… irresistible?”

Vivienne smirked with faux innocence. “Oh, I’m sure you’re immune. Like a good Slytherin — always too clever to be caught.”

Blaise’s smirk deepened. “Clever, yes. But never cheap.” His gaze sharpened, voice softening just enough to carry weight. “If I’m going to play the part of your convenient distraction, Vivienne… you’ll owe me something in return.”

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, golden and amused. “And what price does Zabini place on his time these days?”

He leaned in, lips curving like he was savoring the thought. “Favors. Connections. Whatever currency you French purebloods pride yourselves on. You’ll find a way to make it worth my while.”

She held his stare, silent for a beat, then inclined her head just so. A Ravenclaw’s precision, a Slytherin’s acceptance. “Very well. A bargain, then.”

She turned as if to walk away, but paused just beside him — close enough for her voice to drop to a murmur only he could hear. “But you’re curious, Zabini. And that’s always the beginning of the end.”

Blaise had to bite back a retort. He hated the way she always seemed to have the upper hand in their little verbal spars. He wasn’t used to being bested, especially not by a Ravenclaw.

As she leaned in to whisper in his ear, his eyes involuntarily fluttered shut for just a split second, her proximity sending a shiver down his spine.

He quickly schooled his expression, regaining composure. When he spoke, his tone was measured, yet there was a hint of annoyance beneath it. “Is that a threat, princess?”

Vivienne didn’t look back. She simply walked away, leaving the faint trace of cherries and frost in her wake. He hated that too — how easily she exited a scene, as if it had always belonged to her.

Her last words echoed behind her: “Only if you’re the type to break under curiosity, darling.”

***

The Slytherin common room was quiet that evening, shadows flickering on the green-lit stone walls. Blaise lounged on the leather sofa, a glass of firewhisky in hand, while Theo dropped lazily into the armchair across from him.

Theo arched a brow. “So, Zabini. Heard about your new… arrangement.”

Blaise didn’t even blink. He swirled the drink idly, his gaze fixed on the fire. “Arrangement?”

Theo smirked. “Vivienne Armand. Don’t look at me like that. Word travels faster in this castle than owls, and you know i have many ears around.”

Blaise finally glanced at him, cool and unreadable. “She needed a shield. I decided to provide one. Nothing more.”

Theo leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “And you, of course, expect nothing in return. How very altruistic of you.”

Blaise let out a soft laugh, low and dangerous. “I’m not an idiot, Theo. She’s clever, well-connected, and far less tedious than the girls who keep throwing themselves at me. If I must play pretend, it might as well be with someone who adds value.”

Theo tilted his head. “Value?”

Blaise’s smirk deepened. “Reputation, for one. After the war, the Ministry’s eyes are everywhere. Having a Ravenclaw darling on my arm doesn’t hurt. And she… has a certain charisma. Dangerous, but useful.”

Theo chuckled. “So you get to keep the fan club at bay, polish your image, and enjoy some sharp company along the way. Not bad, Zabini.”

Blaise leaned back, his expression momentarily softer — almost weary. “Besides… I’m tired of the screaming fangirls. She’s exhausting too, but at least it’s a different kind of exhausting.”

Theo’s grin widened. “And here I thought you didn’t believe in long-term investments.”

Blaise shot him a look, sharp but amused. “Don’t mistake strategy for sentiment. She’s not the type you win over. And I’m not the type to try.”

Theo smirked knowingly, raising his glass in mock salute. “Keep telling yourself that.”

***

The Next Day. Late Afternoon. The Empty Duelling Hall

The duelling hall wasn’t scheduled for practice that day, but Vivienne knew how to get in. She liked the stillness. The echo of her own breath. The clean, geometric lines of the arena floor, like a ritual circle meant for controlled chaos.

She didn’t expect company. But when the heavy door creaked open, she didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Practicing for your next public rejection?” Blaise’s voice dripped with smug amusement.

Vivienne rolled her eyes, still facing forward. “Breaking into unused school property, Zabini? How thrillingly rebellious of you.”

Blaise descended onto the duelling platform, hands buried in his pockets, his gaze lazily scanning the room. His stance was casual — but there was coiled awareness in it, like a predator toying with the idea of being serious. “I thought I’d see if you could back up all that sharp wit with wandwork.”

Vivienne’s lips curved, dry as parchment. “Oh, darling. I only duel when I intend to humiliate someone.”

Blaise smirked, stepping closer. “Then you must’ve been dying for an excuse.”

This time she finally turned, slow and deliberate, wand rising in her hand. “Five spells. No more. Winner gets… a truth.”

“A truth?” His brows arched, intrigued.

“You ask me anything. I ask you anything. You answer. No lies, no dodging.” She shrugged lightly, as if it were nothing.

Blaise studied her for a long moment, twirling his wand between his fingers like a coin. Then he gave a slow nod. “You do love dangerous games, Armand.” His smirk widened. “Fine. Ladies first.”

Their wands rose. The air between them charged instantly, like the breath before a storm.

Vivienne struck first — sharp, precise. Blaise parried effortlessly, answering with a silent disarming charm that forced her a step back.

“Not bad,” she breathed, spinning her wand between her fingers.

She retaliated with a gusting frost spell that wrapped his ankles, slicking the floor with ice. He slipped, caught himself, and countered with a spell that carved sparks past her shoulder — a deliberate near-miss.

“Getting cocky?” she teased, one brow quirked.

“Getting warmed up,” he returned, eyes gleaming.

Spell three. Spell four. Shields, hexes, even something sharp in French that made him falter for half a beat. But on the fifth — he hesitated. Just long enough.

Her spell struck cleanly. His wand went spinning across the floor, clattering to a stop at the far edge.

Blaise stared after it, surprise flashing briefly across his usually composed features. Vivienne lowered her wand, stepping toward him.

“Well. Looks like the princess wins.”

His eyes narrowed, annoyance laced with reluctant respect. “You fight dirty,” he muttered.

She tilted her head, smirking. “Of course. Did you expect me to fight fair?”

Silence stretched. Blaise brushed imaginary dust from his robes, regaining composure. She stepped closer, eyes bright with mischief.

“So, my truth.” Her voice was silk wrapped around steel. “Tell me, Zabini — when you agreed to play my shield, was it for strategy… or because you wanted to see what it feels like to lose to me?”

His lips curved, slow and dangerous, though he didn’t answer right away. Blaise tilted his head, studying her like a puzzle he refused to solve too quickly. Her words had landed sharp, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of seeing him rattled.

“Strategy, Armand,” he said at last, his voice low, deliberate. He took a step closer, closing part of the distance she’d left. “I don’t play games I don’t intend to win.”

His eyes caught hers, steady, unreadable. Then his mouth curved — not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “And as for losing to you… let’s just say it won’t happen twice.”

Vivienne raised an eyebrow, golden eyes gleaming with something between amusement and challenge. “Confidence suits you, Zabini. Almost makes you look convincing.”

“Almost?” he echoed, feigning offense, but there was laughter under his tone.

For a moment, silence pressed in again. The echo of their duel still lingered in the air — sparks, frost, the ghost of magic. Blaise leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping just for her:

“Careful, princess. You might start enjoying this little arrangement more than you plan to.”

Vivienne’s lips curved in a sly, knowing smirk. She turned away, already walking toward the exit. “Or maybe you will.”

And with that, she left him standing in the empty hall, her words hanging in the air like the last spark of a spell.

***

The library was quiet — the kind of quiet that made footsteps sound like accusations. Dust motes swirled lazily in the candlelight, settling on rows of tomes that smelled faintly of ink and age. Somewhere far off, a quill scratched, but here, tucked in the back, Vivienne had claimed a table all her own.

Her fingers brushed absently over the open book before her. Words blurred, refusing to settle. For days now, her mind had been circling the same unease — the whisper of a conspiracy, shadows moving just beyond reach. And yesterday… that smirk, that wink from McLaggen. It had crawled under her skin like poison. She’d nearly gagged on the spot.

She pressed her lips together, forcing her eyes back to the page. Control, Armand. Control or be consumed.

And then — a shift. That presence again. She didn’t need to lift her head to know. The subtle note of cologne, sharper than parchment and wax, reached her first.

“Is this seat taken?” Blaise’s voice was low, velvet and unhurried. He was already drawing out the chair across from her.

“Only if you plan to sit there silently,” she murmured, a sly smirk tugging at her mouth.

Blaise raised a brow as he settled in, elbows draped over the chair’s back, studying her with that lazy intensity that always unsettled and amused her in equal measure.

“And what if I just enjoy observing you in silence?” he countered, lips curving faintly.

Vivienne arched an eyebrow, ready with a retort — but the moment fractured.

Heavy, arrogant footsteps echoed closer, louder than they had any right to be in a place like this.

“Well, well,” Cormac McLaggen’s voice rang out, brash and intrusive. “Isn’t this cozy.” Vivienne’s spine straightened. Blaise didn’t move — just watched. Cormac crossed his arms, standing just close enough to loom.

“I’ve been thinking,” Cormac went on, eyes narrowing, “either you two are playing some weird game, or Zabini’s actually letting someone get close for once. Which is it?”

A beat. Vivienne and Blaise exchanged a glance. The unspoken oh, for Merlin’s sake kind.

Then — without warning — Blaise reached across the table and casually took her hand.

“You really are obsessed with our love life, McLaggen.” His tone was bored, but his fingers curled just firmly enough around hers to make it feel deliberate. A quiet dare. “It’s flattering. In a pathetic sort of way.”

Vivienne lifted her chin, slipping into the role with flawless ease. “Some people just hate being left out,” she said sweetly. “We should invite him to our next fake argument. He’s clearly invested.”

Cormac blinked. Twice. “So it’s real, then?”

Blaise smirked, running his thumb over Vivienne’s knuckles. The gesture looked too natural, too practiced to be staged. He kept his gaze locked on Cormac, savoring the flicker of doubt on the Gryffindor’s face.

“As real as it needs to be.”

Then, with deliberate ease, Blaise leaned back — tugging Vivienne’s hand with him so she was drawn half across the table. The distance between them collapsed, her breath almost brushing his cheek. His voice dropped, low and silk-smooth:

“Tell me, McLaggen — do you always interrogate couples in libraries, or only the ones that reject you?”

Cormac’s jaw worked. He opened his mouth — then shut it again. With a scoff and a muttered “Whatever,” he turned sharply on his heel and stormed off, footsteps loud and graceless against the polished floor.

Silence fell back over the shelves. Blaise still hadn’t let go of her hand.

The silence returned, thick with the things that weren’t being said. Their hands were still touching. Vivienne looked down at them. Then up at him.

“You’re really committing to the role.”

“You said ‘no lies,’” Blaise replied, voice soft. He didn’t let go.

And she didn’t pull away.

The air between them grew heavier, charged with the unspoken. Blaise’s eyes flickered to her lips. Just a quick glance, but she didn’t miss it. He looked back at their hands. Heat radiated from her fingers, her pulse quick under his thumb. Their hands fit together like puzzle pieces. Almost without thinking, he traced slow, lazy circles against her skin.

He hesitated. His voice came out low, almost a whisper. “When will this game end?”

Vivienne’s breath stayed calm, but her pulse betrayed her, jumping beneath his touch. She met his gaze without flinching. Her tone, though softer, lacked the usual bite. No teasing. No coldness. “When one of us stops pretending.”

The words hung between them like a chalk line drawn on a dueling floor.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then — deliberately, slowly — she withdrew her hand. Not fast. Not retreating. Like setting a promise aside for later. “Goodnight, Blaise.” She stood, not looking back.

Just like the night before, she left him in silence. Only this time… he wasn’t sure who had won.

Blaise watched her go, an unfamiliar coil of something restless tightening in his chest. He wanted to stop her, to say something — anything. But the words stuck.

He sat there for a moment, staring at his own hand. He could still feel her fingers, her pulse.

And then a memory came unbidden — fifth year, in the music hall. She’d nearly dropped her cello while trying to maneuver through the door. He’d caught it with one hand, muttering something under his breath about Ravenclaws being useless with anything heavier than a book. She hadn’t thanked him properly. But she’d smiled that infuriating little smile of hers — and he’d remembered it.

The thought lingered now.

The next time he saw her, he almost surprised himself with the words: “You’ll play for me one day. That cello of yours.”

It was half a challenge, half a flirt. He expected her to roll her eyes, to dismiss it like she always did.

Instead, Vivienne arched a brow and smirked faintly. “Careful what you wish for, Zabini. I don’t play for free.”

But she didn’t say no.

And that unsettled him more than he liked to admit.

On the field, Blaise Zabini cut through the air like a shadow, his broom an extension of his body. Every movement was sharp, controlled — no wasted energy, no hesitation. Slytherin’s new captain after the war. No one had dared to question it. No one would.

From her place in the stands, she could see it — the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his back, the way he leaned into the wind as if daring it to knock him down. She could almost feel it.

Blaise, for his part, felt the weight of her gaze like a flame against his skin. He didn’t have to look to know. Still, his eyes betrayed him once — darting toward the Ravenclaw section, just for a heartbeat, before he forced them back to the quaffle.

But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t shake it. Vivienne. Watching him. The thought was distracting, almost dangerous. He clenched his jaw, pushing his broom harder, the cold air slicing across his face.

And then, during a lull in the game, he looked up. Just once.

There she was. Wrapped in Ravenclaw blue, jaw tight against the cold, eyes fixed only on him.

His lips curved beneath his scarf. Adjusting his gloves on the broomstick, he leaned forward into the wind.

Game on. The match had been brutal, more a storm than a sport. Bludgers cracked through the air like cannon fire, colliding with broomsticks and sending players spinning. Rain threatened but never fell, the wind itself enough of an enemy.

Slytherin fought with precision, each formation sharp and practiced, while Ravenclaw countered with speed and daring dives. The score swung back and forth, the crowd roaring with every goal. By the final whistle, both teams looked half-frozen, half-exhausted.

Slytherin had won — barely.

Cheers still echoed behind the stands as students spilled out, scarves fluttering, voices hoarse from shouting. But Vivienne lingered under the wooden structure, out of the wind, her cup long gone cold in her hands.

That was where Blaise found her — hair windswept, nose faintly pink from the cold, yet somehow still composed. Still infuriatingly elegant.

“Enjoy the match, Armand?” His voice was warm despite the chill, breath clouding between them.

“I came for the blood,” she replied lightly. “Your Seeker nearly fell off his broom. Best part of the morning.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. Typical Vivienne — cutting, but with a spark in her eye. He stepped closer, unwinding the green scarf from his neck.

“And here I thought you came to see me.”

Vivienne tilted her head, amusement dancing at her lips.

“Why would I watch you fly in circles when I already know how you move?”

His brow arched.

“Do you?”

Before she could retort, he stepped behind her, draping his scarf across her shoulders with a quiet finality.

“You’re freezing.”

She stiffened — just for a heartbeat — then stilled, letting the warmth sink in.

His voice was lower now, almost brushing her ear.

“Pretend couple thing again?”

“Obviously.” She murmured, though her tone lacked its usual edge.

For a moment, neither of them moved — Ravenclaw wrapped in Slytherin green, breath mingling white in the cold.

Not pretending. Not quite. Just almost. He almost wanted to scoff at her response — but couldn’t quite manage. Instead, Blaise’s arms slid lower, looping loosely around her waist. His chest pressed flush to her back, her hair brushing against his jaw when the wind shifted. This much, he told himself, could still pass as part of the act.

“Just keeping you warm.” He said it lightly, but his pulse thundered in his ears. She was too close, every breath of hers rising against him, steady and slow, while his own betrayed him.

Vivienne leaned back ever so slightly — not enough to close the distance, not enough to end it either.

“You’re overcommitting to the role again.” Her voice was softer this time, stripped of its usual sharpness.

Blaise lowered his head, lips a fraction from the curve of her neck. “Maybe I forgot where the act ends.”

She turned — just barely — and suddenly their faces hovered a breath apart. Too close. Close enough that the world held its breath.

“Oi—Zabini!” The shout shattered the stillness like glass. Blaise jerked back, instinct breaking through, as a group of Slytherins rounded the corner — Theo Nott at the front, broom slung casually over his shoulder, grin lazy and sharp.

“There you are,” Theo drawled. “Thought you’d gone off to celebrate without us. Oh—” his eyes flicked between Blaise and Vivienne, widening in mock surprise, “—or maybe you are celebrating.”

The others laughed, one nudging the next. “Figures. Explains why Zabini’s been in such a good mood lately.”

Blaise cursed silently, pressing his forehead to Vivienne’s shoulder for half a second before straightening. Theo smirked, already heading toward the path back to the castle. “Come on, Zabini. Bring your… distraction. Drinks are on us tonight.”

The pack vanished with a ripple of laughter, leaving only the echo of it hanging in the cold air.

Vivienne exhaled, cool and composed. “Well. That escalated.”

Blaise raked a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Yeah. And they won’t shut up about this for weeks.”

She crossed her arms. “Your reputation as the unfeeling stone just cracked.”

He gave a low, bitter laugh. “Your fault. Too damn convincing.”

She tilted her head, eyes glinting. “My fault? You’re the one clinging like a lifeline.”

“I was warming you up,” he muttered.

Up in the stands, half-forgotten in the shadows of green and silver, Cormac McLaggen leaned on the railing. He’d seen the scarf. He’d seen the way Zabini held her. His jaw tightened, smirk curdling into something colder. They thought they could fool him? We’ll see.

***

The pub buzzed with noise — laughter, clinking mugs, the kind of chaos only post-match adrenaline could bring. Slytherins had taken over the back half of the room, already three rounds deep and chanting Blaise’s name like he was some dark prince of victory.

“Zabini! Captain of the bloody year!” Theo Nott was leading the chorus, half-standing on a bench with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

Blaise raised his butterbeer lazily, the corner of his mouth curved in a smirk. The light caught on his cheekbone just right — half smug, half untouchable.

Then she walked in. Vivienne Armand, wrapped in his green scarf over her Ravenclaw coat, hair slightly tousled from the wind, lips tinted wine-dark. The moment she crossed the threshold, the noise dipped just a little. Heads turned. Someone actually spilled their drink.

She scanned the crowd — eyes landing on Blaise like she knew he’d be watching. He was.

“Didn’t think you’d show,” he said as she reached him, voice pitched for her alone.

“You invited me.” She replied, cool and flawless.

He stepped aside just slightly, giving her space beside him — not offering, exactly, just expecting she’d take it. She did.

Theo leaned in with a wicked grin. “Zabini, you bastard — bringing your girl to the victory feast? Thought you’d keep her secret a bit longer.”

One of the Beaters gawked. “She’s even scarier up close. Blaise, you really are dating her?”

Vivienne smiled sweetly, sipping from his untouched drink. “You boys always this obsessed with other people’s love lives?”

The Slytherins roared with laughter, slapping the table. Blaise didn’t laugh. He just watched her — glowing in candlelight, a Ravenclaw in a nest of snakes — and thought, Maybe the act isn’t the dangerous part after all.

Across the room, on the far side of the pub, Cormac McLaggen sat with a group of Gryffindors, his jaw tight as he nursed his ale. His eyes never left the pair. Every smile, every brush of shoulders, every shared look — he catalogued it like evidence. If this was all pretend, he was going to be the one to prove it.

The celebration had thinned. Music still played inside, muffled now by thick wooden walls. Frost gathered on the windows. The cold had returned.

Vivienne leaned against the railing outside, cheeks flushed not just from the Firewhisky someone had definitely tricked her into trying. His scarf — Slytherin green against her Ravenclaw coat — hung lopsided around her neck. She was grinning faintly at nothing, eyes half-lidded, lost somewhere between tipsy and dreamy.

“You alright there, Ravenclaw?” Blaise asked, stepping up beside her.

She blinked slowly, focus slipping before it landed on him. Her smile widened. “You’re taller when I’m drunk.”

Blaise had to bite down on a laugh. “Just how drunk are you?”

He leaned against the railing too, studying her. Even dazed, Vivienne managed to look flawless. It was infuriating.

Then, without warning, she looped her arms around his neck, pulling herself closer. “You know what?”

He froze, surprised by her sudden closeness. But his hands found her waist instinctively, steadying her. “What?” His voice had dropped low.

“I’m freezing,” she whispered with a little pout, pressing her cheek to his chest. “And I want to sleep… and… drink… and pee…” She kept mumbling like a child, words slurring together. “And—”

He huffed a quiet laugh, wrapping one arm tighter around her. She was a mess. Adorable, infuriating, completely undone. “You’re impossible.”

Vivienne tipped her head back, eyes glassy as she searched his face. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something clever, but only a frustrated sound left her throat. “And you’re… ugh…” she frowned, trying to wrestle her sharp mind into focus. “…handsome ass.”

Before Blaise could react, she leaned forward and kissed him — quick, unsteady, far too generous for something so fleeting. Her lips lingered a beat too long, then she pulled back, nodding to herself as if she’d just accomplished something important.

Blaise’s eyes widened, a jolt sparking through him. The kiss ended too quickly, leaving him staring at her, throat tight. He swallowed, fighting the urge to claim more. His conscience was louder than his want.

“You really are shitfaced, aren’t you?” he muttered.

Vivienne opened her mouth as if to argue, then swayed on her feet. “Mmhm… not… drunk…” she murmured, but her lashes fluttered and the rest of her protest never came.

Her head dropped against his chest, light as a falling petal. She was out.

Blaise exhaled slowly, adjusting his hold on her before she could slide right down to the ground. He glanced toward the pub door where the laughter still spilled out — and caught sight of Cormac McLaggen standing on the edge of the crowd, arms folded, eyes sharp with suspicion.

The Gryffindor’s smirk said it all: he thought he’d just seen proof. Proof that Zabini and Armand weren’t pretending. Proof worth gossiping about.

Blaise shot him a cold, warning glare, then turned on his heel. He wasn’t about to let McLaggen have the last word.

“Merlin help me,” Blaise muttered under his breath, curling his scarf tighter around her shoulders.

With surprising care, he carried Vivienne through the castle, silent corridors lit by flickering torches, until they reached the Ravenclaw tower. One knock was enough — a girl in blue and bronze robes appeared, eyes widening at the sight.

“She’s fine,” Blaise said curtly, transferring Vivienne into her arms. “Just drunk. Don’t let her wander off.”

The girl nodded quickly, half in awe, half in confusion. Blaise lingered only long enough to make sure Vivienne was steady before stepping back.

“Brilliant,” she muttered, burying her face in the pillow. He’d actually carried her to the dorms, hadn’t he? Perfect. Absolutely mortifying.

The faint scent of him — something dark and clean, like smoke and cedar — still clung to the fabric around her neck. She groaned, pulling it tighter despite herself.

Somewhere across the Great Hall, Blaise Zabini was enduring his own kind of torment.

His teammates hadn’t shut up since breakfast started. “So she is your girlfriend, then?” one of the Beaters pressed, elbowing him. “Didn’t think you went for Ravenclaws, mate!” another chimed in. “Zabini, admit it — she’s gorgeous. That Armand girl’s got everyone talking.”

Blaise gave a long-suffering sigh, eyes fixed on his plate. “Can everyone just shut up?” he muttered, but the smirk tugging at his mouth didn’t help. They wouldn’t believe him anyway.

And then — like a shadow that refused to leave him alone — Cormac McLaggen slid into the seat across from him. Slytherins froze.

“Morning, Zabini,” he said with that grating Gryffindor charm. “Sleep well? Heard you had quite the night.”

Blaise didn’t look up. “Not in the mood, McLaggen.”

“Oh, I think you are.” Cormac leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to make it dangerous. “See, everyone’s talking about you two. Adorable, really. The Slytherin prince and his perfect little Ravenclaw. I almost bought it myself.”

He smiled — sharp and smug. “But I know better. You’re pretending. You always pretend.”

Blaise’s jaw tightened. “Drop it.”

“Why should I? You think you can fool everyone, but not me.” McLaggen’s eyes glinted, catlike. “I’ll tell them all, you know. Let’s see how long your little game lasts when the whole school thinks it’s real.”

Blaise finally looked up — and the calm, cold thing in his stare made even McLaggen hesitate. “Try it,” he said quietly. “See what happens.”

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Blaise stood, collecting his bag with deliberate ease. “Here’s a warning, McLaggen — you don’t get to use her to feed your ego. Stay away from her.”

Cormac leaned back, grin returning, more venomous now. “Or what? You’ll hex me for flirting with your fake girlfriend?”

Blaise didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The look he gave him was promise enough. And as he left the hall, he couldn’t shake the thought that McLaggen’s threat wasn’t idle — that the game had just stopped being safe. The day went by in a blur. Classes. Quidditch practice. Blaise found himself unusually distracted. His mind kept wandering. His gaze kept searching. It was… annoying. He didn’t like feeling this way.

And the worst part was, he couldn’t stop himself. He watched her in between classes, in the Great Hall, in the library, waiting for any sign that maybe — just maybe — she was as off-kilter as he was. But she was flawless. Cool and composed, as always.

Neither of them mentioned the kiss. The morning after, they’d both silently agreed — or maybe just hoped — to pretend it never happened. The day had started separately: she with a pounding headache and a neatly folded Slytherin scarf, he with mocking teammates and too many questions. Then came lessons, gossip, noise — and the moment was buried under routine.

Still, it lingered. Blaise made a quiet mental note: ask her about it someday. Vivienne, meanwhile, prayed he never would.

He caught her eye in Transfiguration that afternoon. Just briefly. No more than a second. Her dark gaze met his, unflinching. It was the first time all day she’d looked directly at him. Blaise felt something tighten in his chest. Then the moment broke. She looked away. He did too. He almost hated how much it affected him.

The next couple of days followed the same pattern. Classes, meals, studying… always with that strange undercurrent. Blaise was used to feeling like he had an edge, but this was something different. It felt more like… anticipation. It was irritating. He found himself watching her more often than he’d like to admit — the flick of her hair, the way her fingers curled around her quill. He even caught himself memorizing her schedule. Ridiculous.

***

“Do you think they even go into hibernation?” Vivienne’s voice broke the quiet of the library, smooth and careless — like she wasn’t trying to be heard, but somehow always was.

It was Friday evening, a week after the incident. They were sitting together at one of the corner tables, “playing couple” again. The rumor had spread like wildfire — that Ravenclaw’s ice queen was dating Slytherin’s most unattainable bachelor — and now, pretending wasn’t just for fun. It was necessary.

Because Blaise’s fan girls were relentless. And Vivienne, though she would never admit it out loud, had started to feel the pressure. The stares. The whispers. The not-so-accidental shoulder bumps in the corridors.

So Blaise had, rather naturally, begun to walk her to classes, sit beside her at meals, and — apparently — spend his evenings guarding her in the library.

“Some do,” he muttered, not looking up from the essay he was half-heartedly writing. He didn’t even know what it was about anymore. His handwriting had devolved into lazy scrawls and crossed-out lines. Restless. Distracted. He wasn’t himself.

Vivienne noticed. She’d already finished her work ages ago. Instead, she’d spent the last twenty minutes watching him fight with the same paragraph, quill tapping irritably against the parchment.

It was unusual — and oddly fascinating — to see Blaise Zabini, the epitome of composure, coming undone over a single essay.

“You’re staring,” he said suddenly, tone sharper than intended, slamming his textbook shut.

Vivienne arched a brow, unfazed. “And you’re flying in the clouds.” She nodded toward his paper and crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair so that her dark hair spilled down over her shoulders.

He exhaled through his nose, glancing sideways at her. “You know, most people look less smug when they’re being stalked by half of Slytherin.”

“Oh, please,” she said with a faint smirk. “I’ve handled worse than jealous schoolgirls.”

“Maybe,” Blaise replied quietly, “but not on my account.”

That silenced her for a heartbeat — the quiet between them suddenly heavier than before. For all their banter and pretense, there was something real in the way his gaze lingered on her now.

And Vivienne, for once, didn’t look away. Blaise was about to say something else — something sharp, maybe teasing — when movement near the library door caught his eye.

Cormac McLaggen. Leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed, grin far too smug for someone who clearly didn’t belong in this part of the castle. His gaze flicked from Blaise to Vivienne, then back again. He mouthed something that looked suspiciously like cute couple before turning and disappearing down the corridor.

Blaise’s jaw tightened.

Vivienne followed his line of sight, brow arching when she saw who it was. “Oh. Him again.”

“Yeah,” Blaise muttered, shoving his books into his bag with a little more force than necessary. “He’s been watching. Since breakfast.”

Vivienne tilted her head slightly, her voice calm, but her fingers stilled on the parchment. “And you’re planning to do what? Punch him in the Great Hall?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

She smiled faintly, gathering her own books. “You’d love the attention.”

He shot her a look, somewhere between irritation and reluctant amusement. “Where are you going?”

Vivienne hesitated, then said quietly, “Astronomy Tower. Thought I’d get some practice in before curfew.”

“Practice?”

She glanced over her shoulder as she walked away. “Cello. Helps me think.”

Blaise stared after her, frowning. At this hour? Alone? In the cold tower with that prat McLaggen skulking around?

Not a chance.

He exhaled sharply, slung his bag over his shoulder, and followed. Maybe she didn’t want him there. Maybe she didn’t even need him.

But that didn’t matter.

Because the thought of someone else finding her there — especially him — made something dark curl in his chest.

***

By the time he reached the stairway to the tower, he could already hear it — low, mournful notes drifting through the stone halls like the echo of something fragile and private.

And for the first time in a long while, Blaise Zabini slowed his step. The sound disarmed him. Soft, aching, beautiful.

He leaned quietly against the wall, listening. And realized — this was the first time he’d ever really heard her.

The tower was half-dark, lit only by a few floating candles. The stone walls breathed cold, but the air was alive — alive with sound.

Vivienne sat by the window, her cello resting against her knee, bow gliding in slow, deliberate strokes. The melody was low, rich — something mournful and haunting that made even the stars seem to pause.

She knew he was there. Of course she did.

Blaise had been standing at the top of the staircase for a full minute now, silent, watching her. He didn’t dare move — afraid he’d break whatever spell she was weaving with that music.

And she didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge him. But the corner of her lips curved slightly, like she could feel his eyes on her. Like she was playing for him — just as he once teasingly asked.

When the last note faded into silence, Vivienne finally lowered her bow and glanced over her shoulder.

“You’re staring,” she said softly, her voice echoing faintly in the high stone chamber. “If you keep that up, I’ll start charging admission.”

Blaise blinked, caught between embarrassment and something dangerously close to awe. “You noticed,” he said.

“I notice everything,” she replied lightly, setting the cello aside and tilting her head, catlike. “You’ve been… distracted lately.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Have I?”

She nodded. “You’re quieter. Moodier. Less of a charming bastard than usual.”

He almost wanted to laugh at that — she sounded so earnestly curious, it was disarming. Why? Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because I still remember how your lips felt. Because you drive me insane.

Instead, he just clenched his jaw.

“Who knows?” he muttered. “Just… a lot on my mind.”

Vivienne frowned slightly but didn’t push. That was new. Usually she’d tease it out of him — corner him with that sharp tongue until he admitted more than he wanted. But tonight, she just watched him quietly. Waiting.

The silence stretched.

Blaise’s eyes flicked to her face — to that calm expression, to the way the candlelight played on her hair. Something inside him gave way. He exhaled slowly.

“I can’t get you the hell out of my head,” he said at last, almost reluctantly, like the words had dragged themselves out against his will.

Vivienne blinked once. Then, softly: “Because of the kiss?”

Blaise looked up sharply — startled, caught.

She wasn’t smirking. There was no challenge in her voice. Just a quiet curiosity. Maybe even a hint of worry.

He could’ve lied. Should’ve. But he didn’t.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice low. “Because of that. And because you… don’t seem to remember it the way I do.”

Vivienne looked at him for a long moment, unreadable. Then she smiled faintly — small, tired, but real.

“Maybe I do,” she whispered, almost to herself. “I just don’t know what to do with it yet.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It was soft. And in it, the wind outside the tower carried the last echo of her melody — something fragile, like a secret neither of them was quite ready to name.

“Are you mad at me for that kiss?” Vivienne asked suddenly, not looking at him — her gaze resting on her fingers, tracing the strings idly.

The question caught him off guard. Mad? Not exactly. Confused, frustrated, and completely haunted by it — yes. But mad? No.

Blaise let out a low huff, trying to sound annoyed, though his voice came out softer than he meant. “No.”

Her brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t look up. “Then… what’s wrong?”

That look she finally gave him — those golden eyes, steady and knowing — was worse than any Veritaserum. She was curious, yes, but there was something else in it — a quiet challenge. She was testing him. Wondering if he’d admit it. If he’d dare.

He looked away first, jaw tight. She was too damn perceptive. It was like she could see right through him — see that he’d been replaying that kiss every night like a fool.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “It’s… not important.” Lie. Lie, Zabini.

Vivienne only nodded and turned back to her cello. Calm. Detached. And that — that drove him insane.

She just went back to playing, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t been losing sleep over her lips for a week straight.

His voice came out sharper than intended. “That’s it? You’re not going to ask why?”

She sighed, setting down her bow. “No. If you want, you’ll tell me. But I won’t ask.”

He stared at her. “What if I want you to ask?”

“Then maybe,” she said, stretching lazily, “you should learn to use your tongue for speaking.” A teasing smile flickered across her lips. “Or do you have… other ways to use it?”

That did it. Blaise straightened, stepping closer — slow, deliberate, the tension thick between them. The air practically crackled.

He leaned down slightly, voice low. “Oh, I have plenty of other ways to use it.”

Her eyes flicked up, amused but unflinching. It was one of those rare, dangerous moments — when something could actually happen.

And then—

“Zabini! Armand!” The voice of the Ravenclaw prefect rang out from the corridor. “What in Merlin’s name are you two doing here after curfew?”

Blaise froze. Vivienne’s lips twitched, fighting a smirk.

“Apparently,” she murmured, “we were about to test if he really has other ways to use that tongue.”

“Viv,” he hissed under his breath, trying not to laugh, “you’re impossible.”

“Thank you,” she said sweetly, already tucking her cello into its case. “Now, shall we go before we both lose points?”