Midoriya's words shiver through sensitivities of threat apprehension strung through Paul like spiderweb, each one decoded, processed, and encoded again in the space of a near-instant. It's a flare of perceptual awareness that skims Paul's eyes over pale (but not blue) as long as it lasts, dissipating into untroubled calm.

"Not a word," Paul says, solemnly, reversing his hand to grip Midoriya's scarred one, "By our friendship and my House."

Then he smiles, as bright and fleeting as the Paleblood in his eyes, but (he hopes) more reassuring. His breathing shifts back to a less measured rhythm as he releases Midoriya's hand to clasp his shoulder instead, letting himself sink sideways and forward against the couch in the wake of all of that.

"It's a good thing I was here," he tells Midoriya, in slightly shaken relief, as if the looming possibility of 'dying instantly' or 'losing limbs' never came up at all, "I don't think you should have any more spice."