16, he/him, novice writer! DNI: maga, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, racist, or any other form of hateful persons.
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the reader is transmasculine and has undergone top surgery. the reader uses he/him pronouns; otherwise, race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used.
You seem to be the only one immune to Blaise’s charms, and it frustrates him more than he’d like to admit.
word count: 2.1k | ao3 version
warnings: mentions of underage drinking.
also, quick disclaimer: I do not support or condone the actions and beliefs of HP’s author in any way whatsoever. I thoroughly believe in fanfiction’s transformative, restorative, and healing power. Therefore, I write HP fanfiction not to encourage JKR’s beliefs, but instead to directly challenge and disprove her prejudice; I write to further strengthen, validate, and support minority identities that are harmed by She Who Must Not be Named’s dangerous ideologies. I won't be taking comments, questions, or criticisms on this. Don't like it? Don't read. (fuck jkr fr)
Blaise Zabini is a relentless flirt.
…It’s his personality. He flirts with everyone. You’re not special to him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself. Everyone around you seems to think otherwise. You want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them in frustration, citing each and every time Blaise has been interested in virtually anyone with a pulse. It’s no secret that Blaise is rather charming, and he certainly has no qualms about using it to his advantage.
But he acts differently with you, your classmates assert.
He always has a glimmer in his eyes when he sees you, your friend says. He likes riling you up.
You think Blaise just doesn’t know what to do with someone who isn’t outwardly affected by his advances. Sure, you’ll often panic internally, but you can never bring yourself to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. The Slytherin has tried many times to get you flustered, but you manage to keep your composure through it all. A kiss on the hand, the “accidental” brush of a shoulder, an intent gaze… And you can’t seem to forget the look on his face as he sweeped into a particularly low bow when the two of you were dueling in Defense…
You suppose you have to give Blaise credit: he just doesn’t know when to quit. You thought your nonexistent reactions would dissuade him, but they only seem to motivate him further. Blaise starts to go bigger: he’ll place a hand on your knee and stare at you as if you’re the only one in the room, imploring you to continue speaking, if only so he can hear your voice again—
He’s insufferable, you’ve decided. You hate him. Or, at least, that’s what you try to tell yourself. But you’ve never really hated him—only the persona he wields with ease. And hell, maybe it’s just envy—maybe you’re just jealous of the way he so effortlessly draws the attention of everyone in a room.
You try not to think about that slippery slope of logic, otherwise you’ll end up at a conclusion you’d rather not accept. Instead, you busy yourself with schoolwork and Quidditch. Since it’s your seventh and final year at Hogwarts, you’re nearly drowning in homework as you prepare for your NEWTs. Your only true reprieve from the hustle and bustle of seventh year courses is the Quidditch elective Madam Hooch introduced a few years ago. In the past, Quidditch was only a first-year course; now, students who are members of their teams have the option to take an extra “class” as an elective. It’s not really a class; rather, it’s a way for players to work on their skills and collaborate with those they’d usually only see on the opposite side of the field. There are mixed scrimmages that take place during every class—and with the course taking place twice a week, it’s a nice break. (And virtually the only one you get, with your weekends dominated by studying and your evenings taken up by Quidditch practice.)
One of these scrimmages lands you on the same side as Blaise. And as much as you hate to admit it, he’s a damn good player. By the end of the period, your team wins by an overwhelming majority. Sweaty and breathless, you head back to the changing room with the rest of the guys.
“Nice flying,” Blaise hums as the two of you walk over to your respective belongings.
“Thanks,” you say, staring down at the pile of folded clothing in front of you as if it’s particularly interesting. You can feel Blaise’s eyes on you and it makes you nervous. “...You too.”
It’s silent for a moment, as you two begin to change. The air is tense and you can only hope that he isn’t staring at you with that damn smile on his face. You almost want to wait until he leaves, but you also don’t want him to think he’s getting to you. Besides, you’ve finally grown a bit more confident when it comes to your chest—and you won’t let anyone take that away from you. You barely get your shirt off before Blaise’s speaking again.
“Are you planning on playing professionally?” He asks.
You shrug. “I’m not sure yet.” It’s the truth—you need to get your career plans figured out first. And in order to do that, you need to get through these damn NEWTs. From how Blaise is speaking, you’d venture to guess that he wants to play Quidditch professionally.
“What a shame,” Blaise says, something of a smirk rising on his face. You feel dread settle in your chest as you wait for an insult. “I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing you like this more often.” He’s staring at your shirtless chest unabashedly; the heat in his gaze alone is sending a shiver down your spine. Lost for words, you pretend not to hear him and instead continue changing. Blaise only laughs. He places a hand on your shoulder as he leaves the changing room, and you promptly pretend not to think about it for the rest of the night.
It only gets worse from there. It’s as if your silent rejections mean nothing to him. Before, Blaise’s actions were subtle. Now, they’re… a lot more straightforward. Not to mention, he seems to have no issue with flirting with you in public, in front of virtually anyone. Hell, one time, Blaise doesn’t even notice Professor Snape looming over his shoulder. You almost feel bad when the Potions Master casts a spell that promptly enforces the distance between you both, sending Blaise sliding to the other side of the bench you’re sitting on.
After that incident—and a few more occasions that will go unmentioned—everyone thinks you’re dating.
And, honestly, you’re starting to wonder, yourself. After all, there are only so many compliments Blaise can give you before you start to suspect that they’re earnest and truthful. But neither of you has acknowledged the tension that always seems to follow your conversations, nor the unseen force that keeps you both at a close distance.
Things come to a head at a party late one night in Ravenclaw Tower. You’re planning to see a few of your friends, who you scarcely get to speak with during the week. All of the seventh years are swamped in coursework, so you’ll often take advantage of any free time you can get.
Someone’s propped open the puzzle door with a book, you note with relieved amusement as you slip through and enter the Ravenclaw dorms. The space is bustling with people—mostly older students. You scan the crowd for your friends, only to lock eyes with a familiar face.
“Well, I certainly didn’t expect to see you here,” Blaise says in lieu of a greeting. He takes a few steps towards you, before looking you up and down. “You look quite ravishing, I must say.”
“...Thanks,” you manage to say. ‘Ravishing’ is certainly a new one—you can’t say you’ve ever heard that before.
Blaise scrutinizes you for a moment, before a smile rises on his lips. “You’re stone-cold, aren’t you?” he remarks, seemingly unaffected by your hesitant gratitude. “I don’t know if I should be offended or impressed.”
“Why not both?” you say before you can stop yourself. Don’t play his games, you admonish yourself. But it’s too late. And, if you’re being honest, it’s been far too late for a while now. This song and dance has been going on between the two of you for at least a year.
Blaise tilts his drink up, as if toasting you. “Fair enough,” he says, evidently hiding a smile as he takes a sip. “Care for a drink?”
You shake your head; Blaise doesn’t seem particularly surprised. “Suit yourself.” He shrugs. “These parties aren’t exactly fun sober, I must warn you.”
“Why are you here, then?” you ask, raising a brow. He clearly isn’t the slightest bit tipsy—and his drink is still mostly full.
“Malfoy is pining after someone yet again,” Blaise sighs dramatically, looking up to the sky as if hoping something will fall onto him and end his suffering. “I regret each and every moment that led me to interacting with him.”
You feel yourself smile in amusement before you can hide it.
Blaise notices, because of course he does. “Ah, so you can smile,” he notes. “I was starting to think you weren’t able to.”
At that, you roll your eyes. Blaise stares at you for several moments and you eventually grow tired of pretending you don’t notice. When you meet his gaze once more, you’re surprised to find his eyes glimmering.
“I fear it must be said,” he remarks, almost frowning as he thinks. “What do I need to do?”
“Hm?” you say eloquently, overwhelmed by both his attentive gaze and the sheer amount of people in the cramped space.
“What do I need to do, to convince you of my feelings?” Blaise asks.
“Your… feelings,” you repeat, your brows furrowing.
“Yes, my feelings for you,” Blaise says, sounding amused. He studies you for a moment. The noise around you all seems to fade into obscurity. “I assumed you knew.”
Oh. This whole time, he was being serious? It seems your classmates were right—hell, everyone was right. Are you really the last person to know about this? “Um… no, not exactly,” you admit hesitantly.
“Really?” Blaise questions. “I was being rather obvious about it. Or, at least, I thought so.”
“I thought you were like that with everyone,” you say with a frown. The justification sounds weak in hindsight.
“Do you really think I’d act like this with just anyone?” he asks, raising his brows. You think back to all the ‘casual’ touches, the way he’d clasp your hand fervently and look at you adoringly.
“I… guess not,” you relent. You feel kind of foolish for not noticing sooner.
“Yes.” He nods. “So… do I have even a slim chance at winning your affections?”
“I’d say you have a good chance,” you answer before you can stop yourself. “Probably better than you realize.”
“Oh?” Blaise hums, raising a brow. Your tongue suddenly feels glued to the roof of your mouth; he’s waiting for an answer, but you’re not sure you can give him one. Blaise seems to sense your sudden apprehension, because he continues to speak. “No, do tell. This is fascinating.”
You’re assaulted with a fond sense of irritation. “You’re enjoying this,” you say with a sigh, struggling to maintain your composure again. You avert your eyes. It feels like the room is getting warmer, but that could easily be your imagination.
Blaise’s grin is so wide that you think it could cut into his cheeks. “Yes, I am,” he says shamelessly. You want to melt into an embarrassed puddle on the ground. How can he just say these things so casually? “But don’t hold back on my account. I’d like to hear your response.”
…Of course he’s going to make you say it.
You think back to the past few months, to his numerous advances and attempts at wooing you. You recall your lives before then—when you were mere acquaintances. You remember your eyes had often wandered to him when your attention drifted from lectures; and you recall he often stole glances at you, too. You try to think of just how to illustrate your feelings for Blaise—how you can possibly summarize this nervous, almost giddy feeling you get around him? It doesn't feel like words will be enough.
With an inexplicable rush of bravery, you take a step closer—waiting a few moments to see his reaction. When he doesn’t immediately shove you away, you take another step forward. You’re standing quite close now. After a moment’s contemplation, you let your hand settle on his shoulder.
“If this is some kind of joke…” Blaise says warily, clearly a bit skeptical of your uncharacteristic boldness.
“It’s not a joke,” you reassure him. “I have feelings for you too.”
You’re not sure who breaks the distance between you; all you know is that you’re in each other’s arms within the blink of an eye. Everything seems to fall away as he kisses you: the loud conversations scattered across the space, the nervousness you’ve been fighting off since you arrived. It all just… fades.
“Zabini,” Malfoy drawls exaggeratedly. Blaise and you break apart in annoyance and confusion, respectively. It seems Malfoy is about to ask for something.
“I’m preoccupied at the moment, Malfoy.” Zabini sighs, his hands still on your waist. “Surely you can survive without me.”
Malfoy groans but eventually leaves, clearly discouraged.
“Now, where were we?” Blaise asks. You roll your eyes fondly, secretly impressed with how smooth and charming he can be. You never plan to actually utter those words; though you think Blaise may know anyway.
The 'ON AIR' bulb flickered to life. Remus slid the master fader up, straightening. "Good midnight, London. You're listening to the Signal 77. I'm your host, Remus Lupin."
"And I'm Sirius Black. Tonight, we’re reading your live submissions. The secrets keeping you awake at this godforsaken hour."
Sirius scrolled his screen. "Let's see. Got one here from a user who hates their flatmate's cooking. Boring. Ah, here." He adopted an easy, conversational rhythm. "Anonymous says: I think I'm ruining my own life by staying friends with the person I'm in love with."
Remus glanced at his own screen. "Classic. Proximity is a killer. Anonymous needs to rip the plaster off and get some space."
"Anonymous says that's not an option," Sirius continued. "They work together. They share a flat. He says he has to sit there every single day and pretend it doesn't completely gut him."
Remus frowned, scrolling to find the post. "Well, he needs to set boundaries. Or move out. It’s masochism at that point."
"He says he can't leave," Sirius murmured. He tapped his tablet's power button and turned the dead, black screen to face Remus. "Because his friend is a stubborn disaster who forgets to sleep, gets entirely too stressed about his university exams, and buries himself in massive fantasy novels to avoid dealing with the real world. Someone has to make sure he actually eats." He paused, locking eyes with Remus. "And he just doesn't want to."
Remus froze. Sirius was staring at him through the red-tinged dark, his usual arrogance completely gone.
A cold spike of panic hit Remus. He slammed Sirius's mute button. "Sirius," he hissed, his radio voice fracturing. "What are you doing?"
Sirius didn't reach for his mute button, letting his voice carry across the physical space of the small room instead. "He says he's sitting across from him right now, and he's terrified he's about to ruin the only good thing he has."
Remus stared, desperately searching Sirius's face for the punchline. For the smirk. "Stop," he whispered. "If this is a bit, Sirius, if this is some stupid joke—stop. It's not funny."
"It's not a joke," Sirius mumbled. "I've never been joking, Remus."
Through the glass, the producer pointed frantically at the dead air monitor. Remus stared at the 'ON AIR' light, fully aware ten thousand people were listening to the silence.
Slowly, his hand slipped off the mute button. He pulled his microphone an inch closer so his words were directly in Sirius's ears.
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