“You look good too”, her words landed closer than he expected. You look good too. Simple. Casual. And yet it slid under his skin with unsettling ease. He noticed the way she bit her lip, the spark she didn’t even bother to hide, and for a brief, dangerous second he allowed himself to enjoy it. Nervousness. Curiosity. He saw both. He felt it mirror inside him. He tilted his head slightly, studying her as she stepped closer. Too close. Close enough to turn this into something reckless if he wasn’t careful.

Afraid of looking ridiculous? O, darling… The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile tho, but close to.

“Changed?” he repeated calmly; his voice stayed even, grounded. “I stopped caring who gets to laugh.”

Her challenge didn’t unsettle him. It sharpened him. A joke. A story. Something light. Something loud. He could have played along, could have offered something clever, something safe. Instead, he leaned in just enough to lower his voice, not to charm, but to claim control of the moment.

“You want a story?” ,he said, “All right.”

Let the silence stretch. Let her wait.

“When I first started at the Ministry,” he continued, “I watched a man spend three hours arguing that a Hungarian Horntail should be classified as ‘misunderstood.’ He lost two fingers making his point. Still filed the paperwork.”

His eyes stayed on hers. Measuring. Testing.

“I didn’t laugh,” Rabastan added quietly, “That’s when I realized I’d changed.”

Then finally, a faint smile appeared; dry, restrained.

“As for your wish,” he went on straightening slightly, reclaiming distance without retreating, “be careful what you ask for. I’ve learned people regret their wishes far more often than they regret their laughter.”

He held her gaze unblinking.

“And you?” he asked, tone steady, “Are you testing me… or yourself?”

Rabastan knew he’d crossed a line he usually respected. He stood still, expression unreadable, but inside his thoughts sharpened, tightening around him like a drawn wire. He rarely asked questions he didn’t already know the answer to. This one was different. This one wasn’t calculated… it was personal.

Careful, Lestrange. You don’t get to want things.

He had spent years mastering restraint. Silence. Distance. The art of being present without being seen. It had kept him useful. It had kept him alive. And now, with a single question, he had invited uncertainty into the space between them.

This isn’t your role. You observe. You prepare. You don’t reach.

Yet part of him leaned forward anyway, listening not for her words, but for the shift in the air — the smallest sign that she understood what was being offered and what it might cost. He thought of the oath again. The cold ground beneath his knee. The certainty he’d felt then, clean and absolute. How simple everything had seemed when the path was laid out for him.

This isn’t defiance. It’s curiosity.

A lie. Thin, but convenient.

Because the truth was harder to admit: that for the first time in years, he wanted something that had nothing to do with power, loyalty, or the future he’d been promised.

For a fraction of a second, Rabastan didn’t breathe. Her finger against his chest was light, almost careless and that was precisely what made it dangerous. Not the touch itself, but how easily she crossed the space he guarded so carefully.

A Blood pact.

Of course she would choose that.

He didn’t step back. His gaze dropped briefly to where her finger rested, then returned to her face, steady, controlled. No surprise. No indulgence. Only attention.

A blood pact is not a game. Not a flirtation. Not a promise you undo.

Blood was magic stripped bare. Honest. Binding. It remembered. He knew that better than most. He had already given blood once, not to her obviously, but to something far colder, far more absolute.

You don’t get to offer this lightly. And I don’t get to accept it.

And yet the idea lodged itself in him with quiet force. How much had he changed? Enough to know exactly what she was doing. Enough to understand that this wasn’t about trust, it was about power, curiosity, and the thrill of crossing lines that should remain untouched.

She’s not asking for loyalty. She’s asking for proof.

He covered her hand gently with his own; not pressing, not restraining. To claim the moment without surrendering to it. A faint, unreadable expression crossed his face. Rabastan tightened his fingers around hers just enough to mark the boundary, not to push her away.

“How much have I changed?” he echoed quietly,“Enough to know the price of blood.”

He eased her hand from his chest, but not abruptly, almost carefully, and straightened.

“A blood pact isn’t a test,” he continued, “It’s what you make when questions are already gone. When you know exactly what you’re willing to pay.”

His gaze stayed on hers; cool, attentive, unflinching.

“If you want to know who I am now,” he said, “you don’t need blood.”

He paused deliberately.

“You need time.”