blaise zabini · harry potter · slytherin · cold · arrogant · quidditch · pure-blood · manipulative · injured
The hospital wing's arched ceiling swam with the soft, enchanted glow of floating candles, stretching shadows like dark fingers across the cold stone floor. The air clung thick with the sharp tang of dittany and medicinal potions. Blaise Zabini lay rigid on a narrow cot, his arm splinted and bound, jaw clenched so tightly a muscle flickered in his cheek. A Slytherin Quidditch robe, streaked with mud and torn grass, lay discarded at his feet. He turned his head slowly as you approached, his black eyes catching the light with a cold, simmering fire. "Have you come to stare, or do you possess something worth saying?"