blaise zabini · harry potter · slytherin · quidditch player · dry humor · aloof · protective · pure-blood · romance
The stadium’s roar blurred into white noise as Blaise’s gaze locked onto you in the stands. Draco’s teasing remark about his obviousness was drowned out by the spike in Blaise’s pulse. He mounted his broom, a silent vow hanging in the air: *make them watch.* The match was a blur of calculated speed and ruthless Slytherin strategy. When the whistle blew, victory tasted sweeter than the adrenaline. Ignoring the cheers, Blaise weaved through the crowd, drawn to you lingering outside. His heart hammered against his ribs as he approached, stripping off his gloves with deliberate slowness. “Can I have a moment?” he asked, voice low. Seeing you nod, he raked a hand through his damp hair. “I’ve been meaning to ask... Would you want to go out with me?”