BLURRY | Blaise Zabini x Reader

𝟒 : REDEMPTION . . .

. . .

Blaise had had to beg to get you to sit in the common room with him on the next cold weekend night, but you had at last obliged. This time, finally, it seemed he knew that he had done something wrong, but he didn't ask outright what it was. You assumed, actually, that he already knew.

So why wasn't he sorry?

"Slughorn assigned that three-parchment essay on the antidote to common poisons to the sixth-years, too, didn't he?" You asked vaguely, bringing up the first topic that your brain offered up.

Blaise, who had been about to sit down in a low chair near the fire, stayed standing. He simply looked at you, apparently deciding how to respond. A moment later, he crossed the area in three large strides and sat down at the end of the couch you were on. It was tight, black leather, and only squeaked, but didn't sink, when he sat. "I don't want to talk about Slughorn," he said, back slouching a little, hands in his lap. He looked over at you, and his gaze was very soft.

"What do you want to talk about?" You bit back your nervousness, knowing that whatever it would be, it wouldn't be as good as an apology.

"I'm sorry."

You had been wrong. It was as good as an apology– it was an apology. "Why– what for?"

He glared at you, but it was obvious he was only angry at the fact that he had to explain, or maybe angry at himself for being mad. "For Daphne," he said.

"You can't apologize for her." Where was this coming from?

"I'm not."

"You just said you were."

He seemed to force himself away from a retort. "I meant to say, 'for how I reacted to Daphne'."

"And how did you react to Daphne?" This felt strange, having a power over him, watching him stammer out replies where he was usually so bold.

"Don't be condescending," Blaise said, and you immediately felt your heart soften.

"Thanks. For apologizing."

"Sorry I did it."

"I know," you said, not entirely sure if it was true. The image of how he had looked back at you was still clear in your mind. He smiled sort of awkwardly; then he looked pointedly down at the distance between the two of you, and raised his eyebrows. You wanted to be mad at him, you wanted to yell; seven weeks you had been practically going out with him, and he let Daphne do what she liked? But he was already sliding across the couch, and you held out your arms.

"Mmf," Blaise sighed, sinking into the hug, wrapping his own muscular arms around your back. His head was down, creating some distance between your chests; his hair was scratching the inner corner of your neck. Unblinkingly, you pulled him tighter, sitting up on your knees so that you could bridge the distance between your cross-legged divide.

"Come on," you whispered, and surprised yourself by doing so. Was that about him or about Daphne?

"Hm?" He said. Blaise had his eyes closed, and besides his sighs all you could hear was the steady crackling of the fire, and the quiet squelching of the couch each time you moved.

"Kiss me." Why you said it, you had no idea. Right after an apology? Right when he, for once, was not already kissing you? He looked up at you, and it was obvious he was thinking the same thing. His eyes were a dark brown, smooth and liquidy; they were locked onto yours. His brows drew together, kindly.

"Really?" He asked, half like he was asking if you were okay, and half like he was excited that he would get to.

You didn't speak. Really? "Of course," you answered, and gave him much more power than you wanted him to have.