Blaise’s grand entrance
The party was in full swing by the time Hermione arrived. The ballroom of the exclusive wizarding venue in Diagon Alley was an exquisite display of wealth and refinement—grand chandeliers suspended by invisible enchantments, casting a soft, golden glow over the polished marble floors. Floating lanterns bobbed lazily above the guests, their warm light flickering like fireflies, while enchanted violins played an elegant tune from a corner of the room. The scent of aged Firewhisky and expensive perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the occasional burst of floral fragrance from the enchanted bouquets that adorned the long banquet tables.
It was the kind of gathering that exuded quiet opulence, attended by the upper echelons of the Ministry and select members of high society. Hermione had come out of politeness rather than any real enthusiasm, knowing that skipping it would invite more scrutiny than simply showing up. After all, Hermione Granger, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, had a reputation—practical, no-nonsense, married to her work. People liked to gossip about how she “never had time for fun,” how she was too focused on changing the world to enjoy it.
And so, she was here, drink in hand, nodding along to Kingsley Shacklebolt’s measured observations about international policy, playing her part with effortless grace. It was easy, comfortable—until it wasn’t.
The shift in the room was almost imperceptible at first. A subtle ripple of awareness spread through the guests, a momentary lull in conversation, a turn of heads toward the grand entrance. It was the kind of pause that preceded something unexpected, something—or someone—who demanded attention simply by existing.
Then came the murmur. The hushed whispers.
And then, he arrived.
Blaise Zabini had never done subtle a day in his life.
He entered the ballroom like a man who owned it, moving with an effortless confidence that made it seem as if he expected the room to turn in his direction. His emerald-green robes shimmered under the warm light, enchanted to catch and reflect the glow just so, highlighting the precise tailoring that clung to his lean, athletic frame. The color, deep and decadent, contrasted beautifully against his smooth, dark skin, and the cut of his robes suggested the finest of Parisian wizarding designers—expensive, exclusive, undeniably striking.
His features—high cheekbones, sharp jawline, full lips curled into a knowing smirk—were illuminated as he cast a slow, deliberate glance across the room. He was the epitome of composed arrogance, the kind of man who didn’t seek attention because he already knew it belonged to him.
And, just in case his mere presence wasn’t quite enough, the air behind him crackled.
A swirl of golden sparks erupted in a cascading display—a dramatic, delayed effect from the custom Apparition charm he had undoubtedly paid extra for. The shimmering embers hung in the air for a moment before fading into nothingness, leaving only the faint trace of a cooling charm in his wake. The scent of his cologne—something rich and intoxicating, like amber and dark spices—mingled with the air, as if he had crafted the perfect arrival down to the last detail.
The reaction was immediate.
A woman near the bar let out a small gasp, her hand fluttering up to her chest in either shock or admiration. A cluster of younger Ministry interns exchanged frantic whispers behind their hands, wide-eyed and intrigued. Even the more seasoned officials—those who prided themselves on their unshakable composure—couldn’t quite mask their surprise.
Blaise Zabini was infamous, but not for this. Not for Ministry gatherings or dull political soirées. He was a fixture of the wizarding elite, yes, but in a way that was more selective, more exclusive—more Mysterious Absentee than Willing Participant. His presence here, in this setting, was unexpected.
And, of course, he knew exactly what he was doing.
His gaze swept across the room with an air of lazy amusement, taking in the attention with the kind of practiced ease that suggested he had anticipated it. Expected it. Perhaps even counted on it.
And then—when he had ensured that every pair of eyes in the room were on him—his focus narrowed.
His sharp, knowing gaze landed on her.
And without a moment’s hesitation, without so much as a glance at anyone else, he moved.
The murmurs grew louder as he strode forward, his steps unhurried, but deliberate. The crowd parted instinctively, as if the sheer force of his presence demanded it. Hermione could feel the curiosity thickening around her, the weight of speculation pressing in, but she didn’t move, didn’t look away, didn’t react—not yet.
By the time he reached her, the ballroom had fallen silent.
And then, just as the moment reached its peak, Blaise smirked, reached out—
—and pulled her in.
The kiss was not polite. It was not reserved. It was not the kind of kiss one exchanged at a formal Ministry function.
It was decadent, slow and sure, his lips brushing against hers with a confidence that made it very clear this was not their first kiss, nor would it be their last. His fingers skimmed the small of her back, warm through the fabric of her dress robes, his other hand coming up just enough to brush against the side of her jaw before drawing back—just slightly, just enough to let her breathe.
There was a distinct clang as someone’s goblet hit the polished marble floor, its contents splashing across the gleaming surface. The sound cut through the room like a siren, drawing everyone’s attention. A moment of stunned silence followed, and then a loud, coughing fit came from across the ballroom.
Harry Potter, ever the composed figure, had spat his drink all over his best friend’s dress robes. He was bent over in a desperate attempt to stop the choke, his hands flailing as he tried to regain control of his breath. Hermione’s gaze flickered to him briefly before it was drawn back to Blaise, who was still standing with his lazy, self-assured smirk that was as much a part of his identity as his dark eyes and sharp cheekbones.
Ginny, standing beside Harry, didn’t flinch. She merely sighed, rolling her eyes with an exasperated air. "Oh, for Merlin’s sake," she muttered, setting her drink down with a clink before knocking back the rest of her Firewhisky in one swift gulp. A few of the nearby guests glanced at her, but she ignored them, her gaze flickering between Harry and the spectacle unfolding in front of them.
Kingsley, ever the unflappable figure, made a soft hum, his lips curling slightly in amusement. It was hard to tell if it was approval, entertainment, or simply the quiet acknowledgment of the chaos that had suddenly unfurled. But it didn’t matter; the room was now fully aware of what had just happened—and more importantly, who had just made their grand entrance.
The effect was instantaneous.
Alicia Spinnet, who had been in mid-conversation with a colleague about a new Quidditch pitch regulation, froze mid-sentence. Her mouth hung open slightly as her wide eyes fixed on the pair of them. “Am I hallucinating?” she asked aloud, her voice wavering slightly in disbelief. “Is Hermione Granger snogging Blaise Zabini—at Eldridge Carmichael’s birthday party?” She blinked rapidly as though trying to rid herself of the image, but the sight was very much there, burning itself into her mind.
Seamus Finnigan, Ron’s old Auror partner, let out a low whistle from across the room, clearly entertained. “Well, damn,” he muttered, leaning toward the person next to him, but his gaze never leaving the pair standing near the center of the ballroom.
Meanwhile, there was the unmistakable clang of something heavy dropping—most likely Percy Weasley’s fork onto his plate, though it could’ve been anything at this point. The sound echoed through the room, signalling just how shocked the crowd was at what they were witnessing.
Hermione, utterly aware of how all eyes were on her, finally managed to breathe again when Blaise, that infuriatingly charming man, pulled away. His smirk deepened as he looked down at her, noting the faint flush creeping across her cheeks—betraying the swirling mix of emotions she was doing her best to hide. His voice was pitched low, just for her, rich with amusement and something more.
“Well, darling,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’d say they know now.”
Hermione inhaled slowly, her heart hammering beneath her ribs like a drumbeat. Her breath was slightly unsteady, but she had to keep her composure.
She narrowed her eyes at him ever so slightly, a look that would have sent most men backing away in fear. But not Blaise. No, he thrived under her scrutiny. “You planned that,” she muttered under her breath, her voice barely above a whisper, though it carried through the quiet hum of conversation around them.
Blaise’s eyebrows shot up in mock surprise, feigning innocence as he leaned in closer. “Would I do something so calculating?” he asked, his tone dripping with playful sincerity.
Hermione arched an eyebrow, her arms crossed in front of her. The challenge was clear.
“Alright, fine,” Blaise admitted, with a shrug that was nothing less than the epitome of casual confidence. “But in my defence, I knew you’d never announce it yourself.”
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, torn between exasperation and the undeniable tug of amusement that was dangerously close to cracking her façade. She wanted to scold him, to demand he be more considerate, but how could she? Deep down, she knew he was right. She would never have announced their relationship herself—certainly not in a room full of Ministry officials. But Blaise, in his typical fashion, had done it for her, and now... well, now everyone knew.
Across the room, Harry was still standing there, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. His face had gone brightly red, though whether from embarrassment or shock, it was hard to say. He turned to Ginny, still blinking in disbelief. “This—this is a prank, right?” Harry spluttered, his voice rising in pitch. “Some kind of elaborate joke?” His eyes darted nervously around, clearly looking for a sign that the scene before him was, in fact, an illusion. He turned to Ginny for confirmation, clutching his drink like a lifeline. “This is a joke, yeah?”
Ginny, to her credit, was unfazed. She simply sighed, clearly over Harry’s dramatics. “Oh, Harry,” she muttered, a small, wry smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she turned her attention back to the dance floor.
Meanwhile, Kingsley Shacklebolt—always the picture of calm—gave Hermione a knowing, sidelong glance. His expression was full of amusement but not judgment, as if he had anticipated the inevitable, though he seemed quite pleased by the turn of events. “Well,” he remarked, clearly trying to keep his voice neutral but unable to mask the light in his eyes, “I must say, this is the most exciting Ministry gathering we’ve had in years.”
From somewhere behind them, Percy Weasley was spluttering in horror, his voice rising above the hum of conversation. “This is highly unprofessional!” he shouted, clearly scandalized by what he had just witnessed.
Blaise, ever the provocateur, caught the sound of Percy’s outraged outburst and, without missing a beat, turned just enough to shoot him a lazy, unapologetic grin. “Relax, Weasley,” he drawled, his voice dripping with mock sincerity. “We are off the clock.”
Percy’s face turned a remarkable shade of red. His mouth opened and closed as if he was struggling for words, but nothing came out. He just stared, absolutely flabbergasted.
Hermione, resigned to the circus that her life had become, sighed softly and took a slow sip of her wine. The cool liquid burned down her throat, offering a brief moment of solace in the midst of chaos. This was it. This was her life now, and somehow, in a bizarre twist, she couldn’t bring herself to be angry about it.
And the worst part?
She wasn’t even mad.
She closed her eyes for just a second, inhaled, and then—reluctantly—let herself smile.