As he paced, waited, and stressed himself out, his mind wandered. He had been flatmates with Hermione for nearly two years now, and he’d never known her to react this strongly to anything. She was quintessentially stoic, borderline apathetic, and clinical in the extreme. Whatever was going on was undoubtedly major, to have her acting the way she was last night. Earlier today? Fuck he hadn’t slept enough for this. Whatever it was, she was worried. A little scared, by the looks of it. Potentially out of her depth. A not unfamiliar urge swept through him. He wanted her to be safe, to be protected. Wanted her to trust him, confide in him, turn to him when she needed someone. He knew (because she had damn well told him about a hundred different times) that he shouldn't expect so much from her. That she wasn't capable of giving him what he had come to want: her, completely. But he couldn't help it. They had fallen into bed together the same night he had quite literally run into her at a back-alley club in Muggle Verona two years ago and had, on occasion, slept together in the years since. She had become his flatmate and sometimes bed-buddy, but it was never consistent. Never a relationship. Never anything but sex, at least to her. Blaise knew in his bones that he shouldn't have slept with her in the first place, and shouldn't have kept sleeping with her in the second place, but he just couldn't help himself. He wanted her. Despite the absolute fuck storm it was going to cause if (and when) those back in England found out. He was so desperately in love with the woman, he'd be willing to take her in any way that she would let him. Even if it was never all. Never everything. Eyeing the fireplace as he made yet another pass in front of it, Blaise checked his watch. Cursing at the slow moving hands, he continued his vigil.