Don’t Get It Twisted
Blaise Zabini x Slytherin! reader
Blaise’s Banquet
Summary: 4 times you prove you’re a true Slytherin + the 1 time Blaise finally accepts it.
word count: 3.4k
©obsessedwithceleste. all works posted here belong to me and should not be reposted, translated, or copied in any way or form. I do not consent to any of my content being fed to ai bots or programs of any kind.
Year 1
Blaise wasn't entirely sure how to feel as he watched his friend—a term he used rather loosely in this scenario—scramble to his feet, water sputtering from his mouth.
"They're bloody crazy, that one! A walking, talking safety hazard to the whole school!" Draco shouts, his robes completely soaked and water still gushing into the dungeons from the cracks that webbed across the windows lining the Slytherin common room.
Cracks that you had created. Allegedly.
No one was quite sure exactly how you had ended up here. A muggleborn in Slytherin? Unheard of. Literally unheard of. The very night you had been sorted into the house, Draco had owled his father to complain, and found that in the entire history of Slytherin house—a muggleborn had never once stepped foot inside the dungeon.
Now while Blaise didn't particularly care much for the whole muggleborn, mudblood, blood purity discourse. He also didn't really care much for you. It wasn't anything personal. But he wasn't here to rock the boat, and he had no intent of sticking his neck out for some other eleven year old who was clearly just as displeased about being a Slytherin as the rest of the house was with their mere presence.
"I'm not crazy, you just have the emotional maturity of a toddler!" You shout back, crossing your arms from your notably dry position atop one of the emerald green sofas.
"I'll hex you!"
"Not without your daddy's permission, I bet!"
It takes everything in him not to crack a smile at that jab. Even Blaise had to admit that Draco's dependence on his father was a bit embarrassing. Even if he didn't say so himself.
"You assaulted me! I could have died!"
"Prove it!"
Draco is about to spout off again when the dungeon doors slam open and Professor Snape appears, eyes blazing. Even Draco has the good sense to snap his jaw shut. Blaise can't help but feel the tiniest sliver of respect though when he sees, out of the corner of his eye, your chin jut out as you stare unwaveringly back at your Professor.
As it turned out, Draco couldn't actually prove that you'd done anything wrong. Even after Snape took your wand and cast prior incantato on it. You hadn't cast so much as a small stunning spell.
Draco of course had moaned, groaned, and fumed to his heart's content about it, already composing the letter he'd send to his father aloud. Then you'd exited Snape's office, a nasty grin on your face as you approached their group.
"A tip for next time. Breaking a glass window the muggle way doesn't show up on your wand," you'd hummed, skipping past them to your dormitory.
Blaise thought Draco's head might explode.
But maybe you'd survive the snake den after all.
Year 3
The fireplace crackles softly—the only source of heat in the cold dungeons. And the only source of warmth you ever felt in this hell hole. Why couldn't you have been sorted into any other house? You worked a thousand times harder than any other student to prove that you belonged. That the hat had chosen right. Yet you were still the social pariah of the entire school. Blood too muddy for the Slytherins, and too Slytherin for any of the other houses. And is if that weren't enough, you had to hear Draco bloody Malfoy's grating voice echoing throughout the dungeon on a near constant basis. You were about to commit unspeakable—unforgivable—crimes.
"She's using a time turner. Obviously. For someone who thinks he's better than everyone else just because his family is old and inbred, you sure don't seem to know a lot about the magic you care so deeply about," you say casually, not even bothering to glance up from your book.
You hear a snort, a wheeze, and a rather scandalized intake of breath, and can only assume that Draco's minions are staring at you shocked and aghast. Fine. Let them. It wasn't your fault Malfoy had been whining loud enough for the entire common room to hear him. He always had to make his problems everyone else's. Sometimes you fantasized about sending a good silencio spell his way.
"What do you mean, a time turner?" one of them—Goyle you're pretty sure—asks.
You blink once before snapping your book shut.
"I mean Granger is pretty obviously using a time turner to take all those classes. How else do you think she'd be able to appear in two different classes at the same time? And that's besides the fact that she doesn't exactly go out of her way to hide the solid gold chain around her neck that she keeps the thing on. Really. You all have two eyes. Use them."
"That's ridiculous. Time turners are impossible to get your hands on. Not even my father could obtain one without stacks of permits and multiple rounds of ministry interviews. You would know that if your family was anything in wizarding Britain," Draco sneers.
"Sure, because it's so far fetched to think Dumbledore would go out of his way to get a time turner for one of his golden pupils," you reply dryly, not sure why you'd bothered trying to knock some sense into the boy.
"They make a good point."
All eyes snap towards Blaise who's leaned back lazily on his arm chair, expression blank.
"Shut up, Zabini. No one asked for your opinion," Draco snaps.
Zabini doesn't say anything further, but you can see his face harden ever so slightly, eyes darkening. When they meet yours, just for a split second, you see something there. Thoughtful consideration, maybe? Begrudging respect? Or, almost—admiration.
Year 4
The dungeon felt suffocating with all those bodies packed tightly into the common room. After the Yule ball had died down in the Great Hall, students had flooded down to the dungeons where the older Slytherins had stockpiled enough butterbeer and fire whisky to give McGonagall an aneurysm. Everyone was sloshed and so Blaise took the opportunity to slip away unseen into the darkened corridor.
Going to the ball solo had definitely been the right play tonight. Of course he had considered asking Daph, or even Milli during the early weeks of the ball's announcement, but after seeing how demanding they had been of their dates, he knew he had made the right call. There was the other thing too of course, but Blaise tried not to dwell on that particular conundrum too much.
See for some reason, Blaise had gotten it into his head that he should ask you to the ball. A preposterous idea to be sure. It was basically asking to be ostracized by the entire house. But at the same time—Blaise had seen you over the years. Did what he normally did: watched, observed, analyzed. And what he had seen was that you absolutely were just as much a true Slytherin as the rest of them. Maybe even more so. A schemer, truly calculating. You watched everything going on inside Hogwarts' walls and soaked information in like a sponge, picking and choosing which information suited you best. Then you used it all as armor. You had to; and Blaise understood that. Maybe even revered you for it. Because that resilience—that pure penchant for self-preservation—might just be the most Slytherin thing Blaise had ever seen.
Clearly thinking about you so much had been a mistake, because his treacherous thoughts seemed to have materialized your arm pulling him into an alcove behind one of the many paintings lining the corridor. And just as the sound of approaching footsteps began echoing down the hallway. He might be dreaming, Blaise thinks as his eyes adjust to the dimly lit nook. How else would he find himself pressed up against you, the only light coming from a single flickering candle above?
"Shh. You'll get us caught." Your words slur together ever so slightly and Blaise can smell the faint scent of alcohol on your breath.
Great.
Before Blaise can protest, the sound of footsteps grows louder and Filch's voice echoes eerily though the corridor.
"Mrs. Norris—where are you, sweetheart. Come on out now, be a good girl," he hums as he meanders through the dungeons.
That's the least of Blaise's worries however as he feels your heart beating against his chest, your hands clenched tightly around the lapels of his suit jacket, holding him firmly in place. Salazar's ballsack, he needed to think of something else. And quick.
"Where's your date?" he blurts out.
Stupid. Stupid Blaise, stupid.
But then again, you had made quite the splash earlier in the night, gliding into the ball on the arm of none other than Viktor Krum.
You let out a rather undignified snort. Usually Blaise's lip would curl in disdain at such a noise, but for some reason, it seemed endearing when you did it.
"Probably off with Herm-own-ninny," you giggle, somehow managing to pull him closer to you as your forehead rests gently on his chest.
Blaise had never seen you like this. Just how much had you had to drink? Would you remember anything from tonight come morning? He doubted you would.
"And that doesn't bother you?" he asks instead, genuinely curious in your answer.
You shrug, still leaning heavily against him.
"Don't care, really. Just went with him to prove a point to the rest of those nasty Slytherins. Need to pull the sticks out of their arses, the whole lot of 'em," you reply.
Blaise can only hum in response as you gaze up at him lazily with hooded eyes.
"You're really pretty you know. Almost as pretty as this star."
Blaise feels his heart physically stop in his chest. You'd called him pretty. Then his eyes follow yours upwards.
"That is a candle."
"And you are almost as pretty."
"You are very drunk."
You shrug in his arms before falling into another fit of giggles.
"I never claimed otherwise, to be fair," you reply between hiccups.
"We need to get you back to your dormitory," Blaise sighs, trying to shift you upright in the small nook.
"I'm fine, I can get back by myself. Tie my own shoe laces and everything, I'll be fine," you say, pushing yourself away from him and cracking the portrait hole open.
Blaise tries to ignore the empty feeling at the loss of contact. He wants to say something. Anything. How you do fit in. The others are wrong. You're perfect. But no words come and you disappear out into the corridor as the portrait door clicks shut.
Year 5
"Hurry up and get those lions out of the sky already!" Draco shouts, voice barely heard over the strong gusts of wind that had your robes whipping around you as the two of you race through the sky.
The game was long, but that wouldn't be a problem if Draco would actually do his job and catch the bloody snitch for once, you think bitterly to yourself. He was damn lucky Umbridge had benched Potter and the Weasley twins for the season or this probably would have been a blow out match.
It had been a battle to earn your own spot on the Slytherin quidditch team—Malfoy had fought tooth and nail to keep you on the bench as well—but even Marcus Flint had to admit that you were a better flyer than half the current team. Your fellow Slytherins might not like muggleborns, but they did like to win, and so you were begrudgingly given a beater's bat and a spot on the team. You had fought like hell for your place, and you weren't about to let all your hard work go to waste because of some bratty primadonna on a broomstick.
"I don't take criticisms from someone who spent a prolonged period of time as a weasel!" You shout back, sneering at the whiny blonde as Blaise appears next to you.
"It was a ferret! And my father will be hearing about this!"
"You promise? Send Lucius my love," you retort before diving back down towards the pitch, vaguely surprised when Blaise wordlessly takes your flank, leaving his friend behind.
You're very surprised however, to hear Blaise's voice call out to you.
"Ignore him. He can be a bloody arse sometimes."
Your eyebrows shoot up as you turn to look at the chaser in shock. You'd only ever heard him say a handful of words to you over the years. And they weren't usually anything you'd consider positive. They weren't exactly negative either though. Blaise was kind of just—there.
"'Sometimes' is the understatement of the century," you reply icily, turning just in time to see a bludger hurdling towards the two of you.
There's a sharp crack as your bat makes contact, followed by a shout as one of Gryffindor's chasers begins spiraling rapidly towards the ground.
"That's my—" you register a hint of pride in Blaise's voice, a grin spreading across his face, but you don't get a chance to hear the rest of whatever he was about to say as you speed off to find Goyle.
He was never where he was supposed to be. How were you meant to run your set plays when your other half was off chasing invisible nargles? How he and Crabbe had ever gotten anything done on the pitch was beyond you.
"Goyle! Focus! Let's go!" You shout when you finally track the boy down.
You find your way back to the center of the field, intercepting a bludger that was about to take out Pucey and guiding it back Goyle's way. For once, the bumbling oaf is cooperative and deflects the bludger back to you once more as you locate Gryffindor's seeker in the air above you.
"There!" you yell out, gesturing to the streak of red robes soaring over. "On my mark!"
You lob the bludger into the air, giving Goyle the perfect opportunity to go in for the kill. That was your first mistake. You see the outcome before it happens—Malfoy's shadow appearing overhead, seemingly out of nowhere. You watch in morbid awe as Goyle's bat smacks the bludger with a dull thud. You watch as the bludger barrels past you. (You could reach out and redirect it. You don't.) You let it fly past and watch as the bludger makes direct contact with ferret boy and he lets out a blood curdling scream. Wuss.
Despite your seeker's "tragic injury," Slytherin still manages to pull through. Barely. Mostly due to Zabini and Pucey's heroics—scoring a combined total of 300 points. The snitch had barely mattered at that point.
"Shame what happened out there to Malfoy today."
You turn just as you're about to leave the locker rooms to find Blaise hovering just behind you. A dangerous smirk playing on his lips.
"So unfortunate," you reply dryly as he matches your stride.
"Too bad there was nothing that could have been done to prevent it. No one possibly could have foreseen such a terrible accident."
You feel yourself pause for a moment before looking up to see a shit eating grin on Blaise's face and can't help the small smile that begins to spread to your own face.
"I do hope this doesn't end his quidditch career. How could the team ever go on without him?"
It feels strange walking back to the castle and joking with Blaise. But it's also…nice. It's the most normal you've ever felt.
"It was very… Slytherin of you."
You know exactly what he means when he says it and the realization makes your chest tighten. You didn't expect those words to ever mean much to you; you never wanted to be a Slytherin. But hearing them from Blaise? It made your stomach twist and your heart flutter.
Year 6
You've barely had time to settle back into your dorm when your door slams open and Blaise rushes inside, closing the door quickly behind him. The two of you had been owling all summer and you just couldn't ignore the fluttering in your chest seeing him again for the first time in months. The smile on your face fades into confusion though when you see the look of sheer panic in Blaise's eyes. He never let anyone see him like that. Blaise was the epitome of calm, cool, and collected.
"You're not safe here anymore y/n. You need to go. You need to go back home, or somewhere safe, but you can't stay here."
Blaise is rambling now, pacing back and forth rather frantically. It scared you, honestly.
"What's going on? Why am I not safe? What's happening, Blaise?" you ask, grabbing onto the boy's arm and forcing him to turn and look at you.
"Draco took the mark. He said—he'd been given a task. He wouldn't tell us what it was on the train, but whatever it is, it's not safe for you here. Not with one of them in the castle."
"One of them—what are you talking about? Draco has always been a nuisance, but he's not an actual threat—"
"He has the Dark Mark, y/n. He showed us on the train."
You feel yourself freeze as the words hit you.
"No. He's just a kid. There's no way he got dragged into this."
Blaise takes a breath, eyes locking with yours as if to anchor himself.
"Look. The Dark Lord—"
You can't help the way you recoil at the casual way Blaise uses the name, but you can't help but notice the wounded look in his eye either as you take a step back either. Blaise corrects himself.
"He who must not be named is growing stronger by the day. It won't be safe for you here much longer. Please. I need you to be somewhere safe."
The genuine earnest in his voice makes your heart want to melt. You want to say yes, to go home and run from it all, but you both know the answer before you say it.
"I'm not leaving school, Blaise."
Later
The panicked yelling and loud shouts are disorientating as you stumble through throngs of students gathering out in the courtyard. Your eyes scan every face, frantic as you search for him. You should have listened to him. He had been saying this would happen all year and you didn't listen. He of all people knew Draco, and you still hadn't listened.
When the ambush had begun you hadn't entirely believed it. You'd been in the library tutoring first years when the screams had started. You'd rushed as many of the little ones to safety as you could before one of the Professors had grabbed you by the arm.
Their look had said it all. The green robes didn't matter. You were likely a kill on sight. But you had insisted on staying at school.
A yelp escapes your lips as strong arms grab onto you from behind before pulling you into a bone crushing hug.
"It took me so long to find you."
The words are mumbled into your hair and you feel your muscles instantly relax at the sound of Blaise's soothing voice.
"I was looking for you," you reply, turning in his arms and wrapping your own arms around him.
This was safety.
"Please let me take you somewhere safe. They won't go after your parents, but you can't come back here. My mother has already agreed we won't take part in all this. Let me bring you back to Italy. Please."
Blaise's mother had been trying to get him to retreat back to their estate all year. Apparently it was far out of reach for you know who. The Greengrasses were even moving to America for the time being.
You think about the terror you'd felt when the school was attacked; the anxiety of not knowing if Blaise was okay. If you'd be okay. And the decision comes on its own. This had never been your battle to fight.
"Okay."
The response is simple, but to Blaise it's everything as he pulls you closer to him.
"Thank you."
A moment passes as the two of you bask in the feeling of both being alive. Finding each other.
"You know, I think I liked you long before I ever admitted it," Blaise murmurs softly, voice barely loud enough to be heard over the crowd. "My little Slytherin."
Fucked around and accidentally wrote another Blaise fic whoops
Anyways, everyone say thank you to the lovely beta readers @i-await and @luckycharmedpuff 🤍🤍
Taglist: @cipheress-to-k-pop @ladyelena112 @bubybubsters
