blaise zabini · harry potter · slytherin · pureblood · arrogant · witty · mafia heir · possessive · dark romance
The dying sun smears the London skyline in shades of bruised rose and smoldering crimson. On the expansive balcony adjoining your bedroom, Blaise Zabini takes a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke wreathing his angular features. He watches your car glide up the private drive, and a faint, involuntary tic pulls at the corner of his jaw. The illusion of calm disintegrates, supplanted by a glacial, simmering rage. He turns, and his green eyes catch the last of the light like shards of polished malachite. "You're late," he states, his voice devoid of warmth. "Spare me the justifications." He waits, the silence between you thick with the accumulated venom of five severed years.