Hello darlings,
And here comes the last couple, objectively the most chaotic duo in the room.
Ginny sat at his cluttered desk, the weight of another mundane day pressing down on him. He shuffled through the stack of letters with a weary sigh, his gaze drifting until it landed on one bearing the Ministry of Magic's official seal. With trembling fingers, he broke the wax seal and began to read.
Ministry of Magic
Department of Magical Law Enforcement
Forced Marriage Act Division
Ginevra Molly Weasley
[The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole]
Dear Ms. Weasley,
We write to inform you that in accordance with the Forced Marriage Act of 2004, you have been selected to participate in a binding magical union.
This act, designed to ensure the stability and prosperity of the wizarding community, necessitates the pairing of eligible individuals for the purpose of procreation and social cohesion.
After careful consideration of various factors, including magical aptitude, blood purity, and familial ties, we have determined that your lifelong partner will be Blaise Zabini.
A formal ceremony will be arranged to solemnize this union. Further details regarding the date, time, and location of the ceremony will be provided in due course.
Please be advised that any attempt to circumvent or disobey the provisions of the Forced Marriage Act will result in severe penalties.
Yours sincerely,
Penelope Puffington Plimpton
Head of the Forced Marriage Act Division
Ministry of Magic
Ginny's heart slammed against her ribs, the sound of her pulse roaring in her ears.
Blaise Zabini.
Her eyes darted back over the words, searching desperately for a loophole, a mistake, anything that could undo what she had just read.
But the words remained, unchanging. Cold. Unyielding.
Blaise Zabini. The Death Eater.
A sharp, hollow laugh escaped her, but there was no humor in it. The name that had once been whispered in the Gryffindor common room with wariness and disdain was now carved into her fate. Her husband.
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if she could block out the reality pressing in on her. This wasn't just about stolen freedom anymore. This was something darker.
They were forcing her to marry a symbol of everything she had fought against.
Her mind reeled, spinning through flashes of memory—Voldemort's reign, blood-stained battlefields, the acrid scent of fire and death in the air. The war had taken everything from her family once. Now, the Ministry was doing the rest.
The nausea rolled through her in waves. She felt trapped, suffocated.
Her hands trembled as she traced the inked words once more, as though rereading them might soften the blow. But the parchment did not lie. The weight of her fate had been sealed, stamped, and delivered by the very government that claimed to be rebuilding their world.
Ginny Weasley—fiery, independent, unbreakable—was being handed over like a commodity.
Her dreams, her choices, her freedom—all gone in the stroke of a quill.
And her future now had a name.
Blaise Orion Zabini.
~~~~~~
The Burrow had always been her refuge, the one place in the world that felt like a heartbeat she could fall into and trust. Today it sat crooked in the countryside and felt like it had grown bars.
Ginny shoved the front door open and stepped inside, breath coming too fast, the letter crushed in her fist until the parchment creased and bit into her palm. The familiar rush of warmth met her. The smell of her mother's cooking drifted from the kitchen, thick and comforting. From the sitting room came the sound of her brothers laughing at something on the wireless, voices rising and overlapping the way they always had.
Instead of easing the tightness in her chest, it made her stomach twist. The normalcy felt wrong. Cruel. How could the house sound the same, smell the same, breathe the same, when everything inside her had been cracked open and left bleeding.
She did not bother with her coat. She barely remembered she was wearing one. She moved straight through the hallway and into the kitchen, the heels of her boots hitting the floor harder than she meant them to.
Her mother stood at the stove with her sleeves rolled up, humming under her breath as she stirred a cauldron of stew. It was such an ordinary sight that for a brief, disorienting second Ginny wanted to scream. Molly turned slightly at the sound of her daughter entering, a greeting already forming on her lips.
Ginny did not let it land. She stepped forward and thrust the letter out with a hand that would not stop shaking.
"Read it," she managed, her voice raw and tight.
Molly, who had held this family together through war and grief and empty chairs at the table, took one look at her daughter's face and went very still. The smile slipped away. Her eyes dropped to the parchment. She unfolded it with careful fingers and began to read.
Ginny watched the change happen in real time. The familiar softness in her mother's features hardened, line by line, as the words sank in. Shock flickered first. Then disbelief. Then something darker, a furious kind of hurt that did not flare bright, but settled low and steady.
When Molly looked up again, there was a fire in her eyes that matched the one burning in Ginny's chest.
"Oh, Ginny, darling," she breathed, and then her arms were around her, pulling her close, holding on like she could shield her from the world and whatever decree the Ministry had decided to hurl at them now.
Ginny let herself fold into it for a moment. The smell of her mum's hair, the press of her cardigan against Ginny's cheek, the familiar weight of being held. It should have soothed something. It did not. The anger pushed back, hot and choking, crawling up from the place where fear had just started to settle.
She pulled away, breathing hard, just as footsteps thudded in the hallway.
They came in one after another, filling the kitchen with tall bodies and red hair and questions. Ron first, expression already tight, then Bill and Charlie with their quiet, assessing glances, George hovering at the edge of the table, half a joke on his tongue that never made it out.
The letter made its way around the table. Every time a set of eyes dropped to the parchment, the air grew heavier. Curiosity blurred into confusion, then into outrage and something like disbelief. No one spoke. The only sounds were the soft rustle of paper and the slow bubble of stew on the stove.
By the time it came back to Molly, the room had fallen into a silence that pressed against Ginny's ears.
Ron's face had gone an ugly shade of red, his jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides like he needed to hit something and had no idea where to start. Bill and Charlie stood close, shoulders squared, eyes already dark with a familiar, protective calculation. George stared at the table where the letter lay, his mouth open as if the right punchline might still arrive if he waited one more second.
It did not.
A Death Eater.
Ron's voice, when it finally came, was rough enough to scrape. "How could they do this to you, Gin?" The words landed heavy, thick with disbelief and disgust. His worst fear sat in front of him in ink and Ministry seal.
His little sister, the one he had grown up defending from everything and everyone, was being handed off to a man he did not trust.
She swallowed hard and tried to keep her spine straight, tried to breathe through the burn creeping up her throat. This was not just her nightmare. It sat in the centre of the kitchen table now, bleeding out into every corner of the room. It belonged to all of them.
Her mother's hands tightened around the back of a chair. Molly's eyes glistened, but she did not let the tears fall yet. Ginny could see the moment something inside her cracked. This was the woman who had buried a son and still found a way to set the table straight and feed whoever was left.
Now the thought of losing her only daughter, not to death but to something she could not shield her from, seemed to hit just as hard. For a second, Molly looked smaller. Then her jaw set. Whatever the Ministry believed it could demand from them, it would have to get through her first.
Arthur stood just behind her, one hand on his wife's shoulder, the other resting flat on the table beside the letter. Ginny had never seen him so quiet. Her father, who always had a soft word, a small joke, some curiosity to brighten a bad moment, stared at the parchment like it was something poisonous. His eyes were tired, older than she remembered, but under the shock she saw something settle there. A steady, stubborn resolve. He had given so much of his life to that institution. If he had to stand against it now, he would.
Bill leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, the scar along his cheek pulling tight as his teeth ground together. He had faced things that wanted him dead and walked away. This, though, left him looking oddly helpless for a moment, his gaze flicking from the letter to his sister and back again.
Ginny saw his fingers curl into fists. She did not need Legilimency to know what he was thinking. Whatever this law demanded, whatever man they tried to put in front of her, Bill would be there, ready to make it as difficult as humanly possible.
Percy stood rigid, arms folded too neatly across his chest, face pale. For a few beats he looked like he was listening to some silent argument only he could hear. Ministry. Family. Order. Law. The things he had clung to once, the things he had almost lost them all for. Then his shoulders dropped, just a fraction. His eyes left the parchment and settled on
Ginny, and something gentler pushed through. Whatever loyalties he had tried to rebuild at work, they were not stronger than the sight of his sister biting down on her fear in their childhood kitchen.
Ron's fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. He kept pacing a short, restless line between the table and the counter, like if he stopped moving he might explode. "They cannot expect us to just accept this," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Protective anger burned off him in waves. He had lost enough already. Ginny could see the thought in his eyes. They were not taking her too.
George stood slightly apart from the rest, hands shoved into his pockets, a strange, thin smile twisting the corner of his mouth. He looked like he wanted to say something flippant, something sharp enough to cut through the tension. Nothing came. His gaze dropped to the letter, then lifted to her, and for a moment she saw the shadow of Fred there, a ghost of what his twin might have said or done if he were still here to share the outrage.
George swallowed hard and forced his jaw to unclench. Whatever joke he might have made sat unspoken on his tongue. Instead, he stepped closer to Ginny's chair and let his shoulder brush hers, quiet but solid.
Charlie was not here, but Ginny could almost hear his voice in her head, could see the way he would read the letter once, swear loudly, and start packing without another word. Dragons or no dragons, no continent was going to keep him away from this.
The kitchen, with its worn table and cluttered counters and familiar warmth, felt changed. The same space, the same people, but the air vibrated with a different kind of energy. Not just fear. Not just anger. Something more focused. The sense that a line had been drawn and none of them intended to step back from it.
Ginny drew in a slow breath and let her eyes move from face to face. Her mother, furious and heartbroken. Her father, quiet and steady. Her brothers, all shaped differently by the war, all looking at her like they would gladly stand between her and anything that tried to claim her.
She had walked in feeling like a single person pinned beneath the weight of a decree she had not asked for. Now, for the first time since opening that cursed letter, she felt the pressure shift. It did not vanish, but it spread, shared itself out across the room. She was not standing alone on this ground.
Fear still sat in her, cold and heavy, but something else rose up beside it. She felt seen. Held. Surrounded.
The law still existed. The name on that parchment still waited like a shadow at the edge of her future. Yet as she looked at the people who loved her most, that shadow felt thinner somehow. Less suffocating.
This was no longer a battle she had to fight on her own.
Whatever the Ministry thought it had unleashed with this letter, it had not counted on the Weasleys.
~~~~~~
She woke to the scent of roses.
It slipped into her dreams first, soft and sweet and impossible to ignore, then pulled her up toward waking until her lashes fluttered and her eyes opened. For a moment she simply lay there, staring, her mind too slow to understand what it was seeing.
The room was no longer just her room.
Everywhere she looked there was colour. Deep crimson, pale pink, soft ivory. Roses climbed over the white walls in thick garlands, their stems threaded through charmwork that held them suspended without wilting. Bouquets crowded the dresser, spilling out of crystal vases and old jam jars alike. Petals had scattered across the carpets in a careless, decadent trail. They dusted the bedcovers, clung to her hair, brushed her bare arms whenever she moved.
She pushed herself upright, heart beginning to pound, and watched a few petals slide from the blanket and drift to the floor. The air felt heavy with perfume. It filled her lungs and curled around her like a spell she had not agreed to but could not quite shake off.
Someone had done this for her. For her.
Ginny swung her legs over the side of the bed. The soles of her feet met softness instead of the usual rug. Pink and red petals crumpled under her toes with the faintest sigh of sound. She moved slowly, almost afraid to disturb it, picking her way through the floral maze that now covered the floor. Every step carried more scent, more colour, as if she were walking through the inside of a bouquet.
The hallway was the same. Roses tucked into picture frames, petals resting in the corners of each stair, vines coaxed to curl along the banister. It should have been ridiculous, too much, a caricature of romance. Instead, it felt strangely hushed. Intentional. Like every single bloom had been placed with her in mind.
She followed the trail to the kitchen.
There, on the scrubbed wooden table that had seen a lifetime of Weasley breakfasts and battles over toast, waited a box the colour of cream, tied with a deep red satin ribbon. More petals surrounded it like a wreath. For a heartbeat she simply watched the sunlight slide across the polished lid, throat tight.
Then she pulled the ribbon loose.
Inside, resting on a cushion of white tissue, lay a single, long-stemmed rose, the darkest red she had ever seen. Beside it was an envelope with her name written in a hand she recognised immediately. Elegant. Confident. Infuriatingly smooth.
Ginny swallowed and broke the seal.
Mia cara,
My heart feels too small for what it carries when I think of you as my future wife. Every day with you adds another thread to something I did not know I wanted, and now I cannot imagine my life without it.
I count the moments until I can stand in front of you, look into your eyes, and tell you without hesitation how entirely you have undone me.
Until then, let these roses speak for me where I fall short.
Your devoted, impatient, soon-to-be husband,
B. Z.
Her fingers lingered on the ink for a moment, tracing the curve of his initials. The words were beautiful, almost too polished, like something from a storybook. Her chest ached with a feeling she could not quite name.
It should have made everything simple. It did not.
Was Blaise Zabini truly thrilled to be engaged to her, or was this entire spectacle the work of a mind trained to charm, to manipulate, to dress intention in perfect gestures and pretty words. Roses, letters, declarations. All of it could be real. All of it could be part of some Slytherin strategy she had not yet deciphered.
Ginny could feel her own discomfort with the engagement pressing against her ribs like a bruise. It was still there, no matter how many petals Blaise scattered at her feet.
~~~~~~
Ginny stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the delicate chain around her neck as she smoothed the fabric of her blouse. The sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, casting a golden glow over the room, but despite the warmth, an uneasy feeling settled in her chest. She was supposed to meet Hermione for their usual Sunday brunch—a sacred ritual they had kept alive through war, heartbreak, and everything in between.
But today felt different.
She had originally planned for the usual gathering, surrounded by their friends, laughter echoing through their favorite café as plates of pastries and steaming cups of coffee were passed around. It was tradition, a comfort, a slice of normalcy in a life that had been anything but normal. But the thought of a crowded brunch table, of voices overlapping and conversations diverting, didn't sit right with her today.
No—today, she needed Hermione. Just Hermione. No distractions, no outside noise.
Something tugged at her, an unspoken understanding that this morning was meant to be theirs alone. Maybe it was intuition, maybe it was the heaviness that still lingered between them, the lingering ghosts of past conversations left unfinished. Or maybe, it was just that she missed her best friend in a way she hadn't realized until this very moment.
So, with a decisive nod to herself, she reached for her coat and grabbed her purse. No crowded cafés, no large gatherings. Just the two of them, just like it used to be.
"Hello, love," Ginny greeted, her voice laced with sympathy and just the tiniest hint of amusement. "Condolences."
She rolled her eyes as she sat down. "I'm so glad my impending doom is entertaining to you."
Ginny gave her a pat on the hand, like she had been diagnosed with a terminal illness. "At least you got one of the better-looking ones," she teased.
She scoffed. "Yes, because aesthetics are such a comfort when legally bound to a man I once wished would get hexed into oblivion."
Ginny smirked. "At least you won't have ugly children."
"Not happening."
Ginny raised a skeptical brow but let it go.
After a moment of silence, she sighed. "Congratulations on your match, by the way."
Ginny grimaced, looking down at her hands. "Thanks. It's... strange, but I suppose we'll make it work. He's already sent me flowers three days in a row, so I quite like the Italian."
Her eyebrows lifted. "Three days in a row? That's… aggressive."
Ginny exhaled dramatically. "Italians. They flirt like it's a professional sport and send gifts like they're courting royalty."
Hermione snorted. "So, what you're saying is, you're already being seduced against your will?"
Ginny narrowed her eyes playfully. "Look, I'm not saying I enjoy the attention, but I'm also not not saying it."
She smirked, taking a sip of her tea. "Noted."
Ginny leaned forward slightly, her expression turning more serious. "And you and Malfoy?"
Her smile immediately vanished. "Complicated," she muttered.
Ginny tilted her head, intrigued. "Complicated?"
Hermione sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. "Forced marriages are never easy, Ginny. But we're... trying to make the best of it."
Ginny's eyes narrowed slightly. "Trying? That's very noncommittal."
She hesitated, chewing on her lip. "He's... surprisingly trying, too. He's been respectful, considerate, even…"
Ginny arched an eyebrow. "Even...?"
She shifted uncomfortably, as if saying it aloud would somehow jinx it. "Even not completely insufferable."
Ginny let out a dramatic gasp. "Hermione Jean Granger, did you just imply that Draco Malfoy has redeeming qualities?"
She glared at her, taking another aggressive sip of her tea. "Don't make me regret confiding in you."
Ginny chuckled. "I'm just saying, things must be changing if you're not actively trying to strangle him every second."
Hermione sighed. "It's complicated. There are moments when I... see a different side of him. But then I remember everything he's done to me, and I just… I don't know."
Ginny nodded understandingly. "That's okay. You're allowed to be conflicted. Just take it one day at a time."
She managed a small smile. "That's what I'm trying to do."
They laughed then, shifting the conversation to lighter things, but she still felt the weight of her reality pressing down on her.
And then Ginny decided to ruin the moment.
The Ron Weasley Problem™
Ginny hesitated, tapping her nails against the rim of her cup, clearly bracing herself for whatever unfortunate information she was about to dump on Hermione. That was never a good sign.
"Mione, I need to tell you something…"
Sheimmediately lowered her fork, instincts screaming at her to prepare for something terrible, possibly world-ending. "That's never a good introduction."
Ginny sighed, running a hand through her hair like she was mourning a loss. "Lavender got matched with Ron."
Hermione froze mid-sip, her tea burning its way down her throat as she spectacularly choked on betrayal, indignation, and quite possibly the very concept of karma itself.
Ginny winced, already reaching for a napkin to dab at the tea she had nearly spat across the table. "Yeah, I figured you wouldn't love that news."
For a long moment, she said nothing, just set her teacup down with extreme precision, her fingers flexing like they were resisting the urge to snap the porcelain in half. She stared. Blankly. At the table.
"That's… great."
Ginny raised an impressively skeptical brow. "Is it, though?"
"No," Hermione muttered through clenched teeth. "But I'm attempting grace."
Ginny sighed, watching her closely, her 'I'm your best friend and I know when you're full of shit' expression firmly in place. "I know it's not ideal, but you're not still—"
"No, Ginny, I'm not still in love with Ron," she cut in swiftly, her voice sharp enough to slice through steel. "That ship crashed, burned, exploded, and then was used as a feeding ground for bottom-dwelling sea creatures. It's gone."
Ginny did not look convinced.
Hermione let out a sharp exhale, forcibly arranging her features into something vaguely resembling serenity. "I hope they have a wonderful, fulfilling life together."
Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Hermione."
Hermione took an obnoxiously large bite of her croissant, chewing as if it were her mortal enemy.
Ginny waited.
Until finally—
"Thank fuck, I hate that bitch," she muttered under her breath, eyes still trained on her plate.
Ginny snorted so violently she nearly knocked over her drink. "Merlin's saggy left tit, Hermione, don't hold back or anything."
Hermione groaned, dropping her head onto the table like a woman in mourning. "I just—I despise her. I know it's irrational, I know I should be above this, but something about her existence makes my skin crawl."
Ginny nodded sagely, the wisdom of generations of Weasley pettiness guiding her response. "It's not irrational, it's called having taste."
She sighed dramatically, poking at the remnants of her food with a kind of existential despair. "Whatever. It's fine. Ron will have his perfect little life with Lavender, and I will continue legally tolerating Draco Malfoy."
Ginny grinned, wicked and delighted. "There's a sentence I never thought I'd hear."
Hermione rolled her eyes, already regretting the words that had left her mouth. "Welcome to my personal hell."
Ginny raised her glass in mock salute. "To absolute nightmares, then."
She clinked her own against it with all the enthusiasm of a woman on death row.
And as they continued eating, she realized that no matter how utterly catastrophic her situation was, at least she wasn't alone.
Even if she still, deep in her very soul, hated that bitch.
~~~~~~
Ginny carried the weight of brunch home with her.
The warmth of shared food and half-hearted laughter faded step by step, replaced by that familiar tightness in her chest. By the time she pushed open the door to the Burrow, the air inside felt heavier, as if the house already knew something waited for her.
She did not have to look long to find it.
A single letter lay in the centre of the kitchen table, placed with almost ridiculous precision. The parchment was rich and smooth, the ink a deep, confident black. The handwriting, all elegant curves and controlled flourishes, was one she could recognise from across a room.
Her pulse kicked up, not with anticipation but with irritation that sat low and hot. She crossed the room in three strides and snatched it up.
Of course it was from him.
She broke the seal, a little harder than necessary, and unfolded the parchment.
Mia cara,
I would like to invite you to a casual dinner tomorrow evening, a small gathering with friends to discuss our upcoming nuptials at the Malfoy penthouse.
Joining us will be Pansy Parkinson and Neville Longbottom,
Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy,
and Luna Lovegood with Theodore Nott.
I hope you can join us.
Your soon-to-be husband,
B. Z.
She read it twice, then stared at the words until they blurred slightly.
A casual dinner. Friends. As if this were some charming little evening out, rather than a summons tied in silk to the fact that the Ministry had rearranged her life without asking.
Ginny snorted, the sound sharp in the quiet kitchen, and turned on her heel. She marched up the stairs to her room, the letter clenched in her fingers until the parchment began to crease.
Once inside, she paced from one end of her bedroom to the other, the same short path beside her bed worn into the rug over years of arguments, late-night worries, and decisions she did not want to make.
"A casual dinner," she muttered, voice heavy with disbelief. "How generous."
She stopped by the window, looked down at the letter again, and felt her jaw tighten. The arrogance of him. Did he truly believe that a room full of expensive wine, clever conversation, and the right company would make this feel like anything other than what it was. A cage, dressed up and perfumed.
Sweet Italian phrases. Roses. Invitations written as if she were lucky to be included. Blaise Zabini was wealthy, magnetic, and very used to getting his way. That much was obvious. If he had convinced himself she was the sort of girl who would swoon over a few romantic gestures and forget the part where her choices had been stripped away, he had severely miscalculated.
She pulled a face and dropped her voice into a mocking imitation of his smooth tone. "Mia cara, please grace me with your presence so we can politely discuss how your life is now on my schedule."
The words tasted sour on her tongue.
"He has another thing coming," she said, louder this time, heat starting to rise in her chest. "If he thinks I am going to sit there like some well-behaved little fiancée, sipping wine and smiling while he talks about my future as if I am not in the room, he can think again."
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. The anger felt good. Clean. It burned away the helpless feeling that had been clinging to her since the letter from the Ministry first arrived.
She was being forced into this. That part she could not change. But how she walked into that room, how she spoke, how she held herself, that was still hers.
She moved to her desk and dropped into the chair, the wood creaking softly under her. For a moment she just sat there, breathing slowly, the letter lying open in front of her like a challenge.
Then she reached for a fresh sheet of parchment.
She dipped her quill into the ink with careful, deliberate movements, watching the dark liquid gather at the tip. A slow smile pulled at her mouth, sharper than before, something closer to mischief than despair.
If Blaise Zabini wanted to invite her into his world, he could have her. Just not in the way he expected.
With a steady hand and a glint in her eyes, Ginny began to write a reply that would make it very clear he was not the only one who knew how to play games
Mio Caro,
I received your gracious invitation, and I must admit, you are making it remarkably difficult to stay unimpressed. Roses, carefully arranged dinners, love letters written as if you have stolen every line from the heart of some tragic poet. It is almost enough to make a girl blush. Almost.
Since you have gone to such trouble, I suppose I can be persuaded to attend. It would feel rude to deny you the pleasure of my company when you are working so hard to win it.
A casual dinner with friends does sound charming. However, I feel I should offer a small warning. If you are expecting a quiet, compliant bride who smiles sweetly while other people make decisions about her life, you will be sorely disappointed. I have never been very good at staying quiet when someone tries to speak for me.
So yes, I will be there. Just do not mistake my presence for surrender. You invited Ginevra Weasley, and that is who you will get. Every sharp word, every stubborn opinion, every piece of me that refuses to be owned.
I will see you at Malfoy's. I will be the one with the sharp tongue, the quick wand, and the dress you will have trouble looking away from.
Yours,
Ginevra Weasley
She leaned back in her chair and read it over, then read it again, and felt her smirk stretch into something downright wicked. It was polite enough to pass, just pointed enough to sting, and honest in a way that made her chest feel a little less tight.
Blaise Zabini might think he was in control. He could send roses and invitations and sign his name like a promise, but he had absolutely no idea what he had invited into his orbit.
Ginny folded the letter with careful fingers, sealed it, and tied it to the waiting owl's leg. She watched from her bedroom window as the bird rose into the sky, wings beating against the pale afternoon light until it blurred into the distance.
For the first time since the Ministry's decree, she felt a spark of something that was not fear or anger, but anticipation.
If this was going to be a game, she intended to play it properly.
~~~~~~
Ginny's nerves felt like they had been wired directly into a live spell.
She paced the length of her bedroom again, the soft carpet swallowing the sound of her footsteps, which somehow only made the tension worse. She kept telling herself the same thing. Confidence. That was what she needed. That was what they had to see. Chin up, shoulders back, mouth ready with a bite before anyone could get close enough to hurt her.
The knot in her stomach did not seem to care. It sat there, solid and stubborn, pressing against her ribs every time she tried to draw a steady breath.
She blew out the air in a sharp sigh and turned toward the vanity.
At least the girl in the mirror looked like she knew what she was doing.
The dress hugged her like it had been made with her body in mind and nothing else. Black as midnight, smooth and sharp all at once, it traced the line of her waist and hips before falling in a way that suggested movement even when she stood still. The neckline plunged just enough to ensure no one in the room would be able to pretend they had not noticed her. Freckles stood out against her skin, pale and warm against the dark fabric. A slit along her thigh bared just enough leg to be considered shameless by at least three of her brothers and highly effective by everyone else.
If Blaise Zabini wanted a show, she was going to give him one he would remember.
She leaned in closer and took one last sweep with the deep red lipstick, pressing her lips together until the colour settled. The shade made her eyes look sharper, turned her smirk into something dangerous. For a moment she simply studied herself. She saw the tension in her jaw. Saw the flicker of fear she refused to let anyone else glimpse.
Then she straightened.
"He can deal with this," she muttered to her reflection, voice low. "Better men have tried and failed."
She grabbed her clutch, feeling the familiar weight of her wand inside, and stepped away from the mirror before she could talk herself out of it.
In the fireplace downstairs, the jar of Floo powder sat waiting. She took a pinch, tossed it into the flames, and spoke her destination with clear, steady words. Green light rushed up around her, swallowing the cosy clutter of the Burrow and spitting her out somewhere altogether colder.
The foyer of Malfoy penthouse was enormous and flawless in the most unsettling way. High ceilings. Marble floors. Dark wood that gleamed like it had been polished within an inch of its life. The air smelled faintly of expensive cologne and something older, the kind of magic that clung to old families and older secrets.
And standing there like the manor had grown him out of its own stone was Malfoy.
She took him in for all of half a second, then let a slow, wicked smile pull at her mouth.
"Well," she said, her voice taking on a lazy drawl. "Look what crawled out of the walls. The ferret himself."
His eyes moved over her, cool and assessing, taking in the dress, the hair, the set of her shoulders. The corner of his mouth lifted in that infuriating way she remembered far too well. "Ginevra," he replied, smooth as ever. "As subtle as always. I see the war did not touch your sense of volume." His gaze flicked down, then back up. "The dress, however, is doing impressive work."
Ginny rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Are you posted here just to admire me, or were you given an actual job?"
"Both," he said lightly, because of course he did. "Your soon-to-be husband is already inside."
The words snagged. Her grip on her clutch tightened before she could stop it. For a fraction of a second her smile slipped.
"He is not my husband," she said, each word clipped and sharp.
"Not yet," Malfoy answered, and the ease in his tone made her want to hex him into the nearest decorative vase.
Her glare could have lit the sconces. "Fuck off, Malfoy."
He laughed under his breath, unruffled, eyes bright with some kind of private amusement, but she had no intention of standing there and serving as his entertainment. She lifted her chin, shifted her clutch under one arm, and walked past him as if he were nothing more than expensive furniture in her way.
Her heels struck the marble with a clear, steady sound that echoed down the corridor. Every step felt like a statement. She would not arrive hiding. If they wanted a spectacle, they were getting one.
The dining room swam into view a few turns later, light spilling out into the hallway before she even crossed the threshold. Inside, a chandelier gleamed overhead, scattering gold across polished mahogany and crystal. The table stretched long enough to host a small war council. Voices drifted through the air, low and careful, like everyone knew they were sitting on top of something volatile and were pretending they were not.
The smell of rich food, expensive wine, and old magic wrapped around her as she stepped into the room, and for a heartbeat she just stood in the doorway, letting them see her before she chose a single seat.
Luna and Pansy were already seated with their so-called "chosen ones," a phrase that made Ginny want to hex whoever at the Ministry had come up with it. Chosen implied agency. Agreement. Desire. None of which applied here. Randomly assigned hostages felt closer to the truth, but apparently that did not look as pretty on official parchment.
Her gaze moved slowly around the room.
Neville sat beside Pansy, looking both out of place and stubbornly steady, as if he had decided that if he had to be here, he would at least do it on his own terms. Theo lounged beside Luna, deceptively relaxed, with that sharp, quiet focus in his eyes that always made Ginny think of knives wrapped in velvet. All of them dragged into the same future without being asked.
And then Hermione walked in.
Ginny's breath caught for the briefest moment, knocked loose by something like pride. Hermione did not sweep or glide; she simply arrived, and the room made space for her. Her dress was simple, elegant, cut close enough to her figure to be flattering without trying too hard. The fabric moved softly when she did, understated and intentional. Hermione had always been like that. No need for dramatics. Just presence. Just the kind of quiet, steady beauty that did not fade when the lights went down.
Ginny felt that old familiar tug in her chest. The reminder that Hermione Granger had not just survived a war. She had helped win it. And still somehow managed to step into a room like this and look like she belonged more than any of them.
The thought barely finished forming before the air shifted again.
Because then he stood up.
Blaise Zabini rose from his seat at the far side of the table, and for a second she hated the way the room seemed to notice him too. He moved with an easy, controlled grace, the kind of quiet confidence that came from knowing eyes followed you wherever you went. His suit was dark and perfectly cut, the fabric catching the light just enough to show it had cost more than her childhood home. Under the glow of the chandelier his skin looked warm, smooth, impossibly polished, like he had been carved for exactly this kind of evening.
Ginny's spine stiffened even as something low in her stomach twisted.
He did not hesitate. He crossed the distance between them with calm, measured steps, every inch of him composed. When he reached her, his hands found hers with a touch that was gentle, but there was nothing uncertain in it. His fingers slid around hers like he knew they belonged there.
She had a heartbeat to register the warmth of his skin before he lifted her hand.
The kiss he pressed to her knuckles was slow and deliberate. It was the kind of gesture that would have made half the witches in the room swoon, if it had not already been directed at her. His lips lingered just long enough to make it feel personal. Devoted. Dangerous.
"Mia cara," he said quietly, and his voice felt like it had been softened just for her. His dark eyes swept over her, from the line of her jaw to the fall of her dress, taking in every detail. "You look absolutely radiant. As if the stars dressed you themselves."
For one moment, against her will, her breath stalled. It was ridiculous. Over the top. A line polished to a shine. Yet the way he said it, the way his gaze held hers and did not waver, made it land somewhere uncomfortably close to the truth.
No. She was not going to let him tilt the ground under her feet.
She tilted her head, letting a slow, sharp smile curve her mouth as she gently pulled her hands back from his. "Radiant. Stars," she repeated, her tone light, almost amused. "You do not know when to stop, do you?"
His mouth curved in answer, the sound of his chuckle low and unhurried. He looked at her like she was the only thing worth focusing on in the room, and that unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. "Why should I?" he asked. "The truth deserves to be said."
She fought the urge to look away first, lifting one eyebrow instead. "Well, if I had known I would be personally improving the atmosphere, I might have arrived earlier."
Something flickered behind his expression. It was not just amusement, although that was there, warm and intent. Interest, perhaps. Curiosity. A glint of something that felt a little like challenge.
"Then I am fortunate you came at all," he replied, his voice dropping just a little, rich and quiet in a way that brushed against the edges of her composure.
Her stomach gave an unwelcome little flip. She ignored it. She could ignore a lot of things. Terror. Fury. Attraction.
Blaise Zabini might be her forced future, but that did not mean he got to see her falter.
She let her smile sharpen, then stepped to the side, moving past him before he could press his advantage any further. "Try not to trip over your own charm," she said lightly, already turning toward the table.
She felt his gaze follow her as she walked away, but she kept her head high, every step measured, every line of her body a silent reminder.
He was not the only one in this room who knew how to play a game.
Dinner behaved itself.
Knives and forks moved in neat little patterns, plates passed from hand to hand, wine flowed whenever a glass dipped below halfway. People made an effort. They smiled, they asked tame questions, they laughed a little too loudly at safe jokes. It was the kind of evening that would have looked perfectly normal to anyone who did not know half the people at the table were engaged by decree.
Conversation slid along the surface of things. Pansy and Neville bickered in a way that left an odd softness under every barb. Luna asked a question about the structural integrity of the chandelier that made Theo stare at the ceiling for a full thirty seconds, calculating. Hermione and Draco traded comments that sounded almost like professional discussion and felt like anything but.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, Ginny ate her food, sipped her wine, and pretended her heartbeat was not so loud.
Every now and then, when the clink of cutlery dipped, she felt it again. That awareness.
She could sense Blaise on the other side of the table, the same way you could sense a wand pointed in your direction even before the spell left it. Not looming. Not crowding. Just present. Watching her. It was not a heavy stare, and that made it worse. It felt patient. Interested. Like he was trying to learn a language she had not realised she spoke.
Eventually, curiosity won.
She swirled the wine in her glass, pretending to study the colour, then glanced up. "So, Blaise," she said, her tone casual, "how is work treating you these days?"
He leaned back a little in his chair, the corner of his mouth lifting as if he had been waiting for her to address him directly. "Busy," he replied, voice smooth. "Challenging. Nothing I have not been able to manage so far."
Ginny tipped her head, letting a small, knowing smile tug at her lips. "Managing things seems to be a recurring theme with you."
His eyes warmed with amusement. "You noticed."
"Hard not to," she said lightly.
He accepted that without argument, which somehow felt like more of a confession than anything else.
She took another sip of wine, then decided to nudge him further. "And your Sundays?" she asked. "Have you surrendered to the concept of brunch yet, or are you still pretending it is beneath you?"
His mouth curved. "I am adjusting," he answered. "I find myself looking forward to it more than I expected. The company has improved."
She raised her eyebrows, feigning mild curiosity. "Is that so? And who, exactly, is responsible for this sudden appreciation of eggs and alcohol before noon?"
He did not look away.
"Someone interesting," he said, the words slow and deliberate. "Sharp. Stubborn. Rossa." His gaze lingered on her mouth before lifting to her eyes again. He brought his glass to his lips, took a measured sip, and watched her over the rim. "Someone who has absolutely no idea how captivating she is when she is trying not to care."
Warmth crawled up the back of her neck before she could stop it. She told herself it was the wine. The room. The chandelier above them trapping heat. Anything but him.
She shifted in her seat, forcing her expression into something dry and unconcerned. "Careful, Zabini," she said. "If you keep talking like that, people might think you actually mean it."
"I do," he said simply.
The table did not go quiet, but for a moment it felt like the sounds around them blurred. Pansy laughed at something Neville said. Luna reached for the salt and passed it to Theo without looking. The world carried on as if nothing had shifted.
Across from them, Hermione's eyes flicked up, sharp as ever. Ginny saw the way her gaze travelled from Blaise to her, saw the faint, thoughtful crease between her brows. There was no judgment in it. Just observation. The kind Hermione had used on battle plans and legal documents and people she cared about.
Ginny looked away first, breaking whatever thread had been stretched between her and Blaise, and busied herself with the fork on her plate. Her pulse was still too fast. Her cheeks felt too warm.
She did not know what to call the thing that had started humming between them. Attraction. Resentment. Challenge. All of it layered together in a way that made her feel like she was walking along the edge of something she could not yet see the bottom of.
What she did know, with absolute clarity, was that nothing had been settled tonight.
After dinner, the room softened.
Chairs scraped back, laughter thinned into something quieter, goodbyes were exchanged with hugs and tired smiles. The tension did not vanish, but it settled into something almost bearable, threaded through with a strange kind of solidarity.
Blaise waited until the others were distracted. He stepped a little closer, his expression losing its polished charm and slipping into something more open.
"Blaise, what is it?" Ginny asked, watching him carefully.
"Mia cara," he said, voice smooth but not as playful as before, "I would like to invite you to my home. It would be good for you to see where we will be living."
"Living together," she replied, dry. "You mean being forced to spend the rest of our lives under the same roof."
He did not flinch. A small smile pulled at his mouth. "It does not have to feel like a sentence," he said. "We could decide to make it something closer to a fairytale."
"Sure," she answered, rolling her eyes even as a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "A fairytale. Let us see how long that lasts."
They travelled together, and when they arrived outside his home, the first word that came to her mind was excessive.
The house rose up in front of her, three stories of stone and glass, elegant lines softened by magic and old wards. The entrance alone looked like it had never seen mud, mess, or anything as human as a Weasley child with a jam-stained face.
"Oh, hell," she breathed, taking it all in. The wide steps, the tall doors, the glimmer of light through impossibly clear windows. "You live here?"
He glanced sideways at her, a playful smile appearing. "Does that mean you approve?"
"I am almost afraid to touch anything," she admitted, eyes wide. "It looks like I could break it by breathing too hard."
"It is yours as well," he said quietly. "If you want it. Come on. Let me show you."
Against her better judgment, excitement flickered. She nodded. "All right. Lead the way."
Inside, the space opened up around her in ways that did not make sense without magic. High ceilings, long corridors, rooms that seemed to stretch further than the outside walls allowed. Every surface looked deliberate. Paintings shifted in their frames. Tall bookcases lined one wall of a sitting room, filled with leather spines and old parchment. Warm light pooled from chandeliers and sconces.
Three stories, easily, probably more if you counted whatever he had tucked away with enchantments. It was absolutely violating about ten Ministry regulations on magical expansion, but Ginny could not bring herself to care. It was beautiful, and she felt like she had stepped into a life that did not belong to her.
"So," she said, trying to sound casual while her eyes roamed over every detail, "where is my room?"
There was the briefest pause. Blaise's gaze flicked toward the far end of the hallway, then back to her. A faintly sheepish look crossed his face. "I thought," he said slowly, "that we might share the master bedroom."
"Absolutely not, Zabini," she shot back. No hesitation. Her brows climbed toward her hairline. "You have lost your mind."
He lifted his hands slightly in surrender, laughter in his eyes. "All right. I hear you. I will have one of the guest rooms on the second floor set up for you."
Ginny folded her arms, smirking. "Did you really think we would be trying for a baby the first week?"
"Whoa now," he protested, crossing his own arms and leaning against the doorframe. "Who said anything about that? Are you always this dramatic, or is it just with me?"
"Obviously with you," she replied, giving him a pointed look.
He chuckled and shook his head. "We will have to work on that."
"Good luck," she muttered.
She took another slow glance around the room they had ended up in, trying to anchor herself in something stable. The sofa looked absurdly comfortable. The bar in the corner glimmered with crystal decanters and amber liquids.
"Can we have a drink?" she asked. "I feel like I deserve one."
"Firewhiskey?" he offered, already moving toward the bar.
"Make it a double," she said, rubbing her temples.
He poured generously, handed her a glass, and jerked his head toward the seating area. "Come on. Sit with me."
The couch was soft enough that she sank into it more than she intended. The silence that settled between them was not entirely uncomfortable, but it was not relaxed either. It crackled with possibility, with everything unspoken and waiting.
She took a sip, feeling the burn loosen something in her chest.
"What exactly do you expect from me as your wife?" she asked finally, turning her head to look at him.
He tilted his glass, considering her over the rim. A slow smirk formed. "Just be gentle with me," he said.
She snorted. "Try again. Are you expecting some perfect pureblood wife? Quiet, polite, decorative?"
"Mia cara," he said, and this time his voice lost its teasing edge. "You can be whoever you want. Work. Stay home. Run the Ministry. Open a Quidditch stadium. It makes no difference to me. I am not interested in folding you into a role you did not choose."
Ginny crossed her arms tightly over her chest, studying him. The light from the chandelier caught the firewhiskey in her glass and cast small golden flecks across the table, but she barely noticed. She was too focused on his face, on the way his expression had shifted.
"Zabini, that sounds nice," she said, her tone steady, "but it is not an answer. I am asking you to be honest. What is expected of me here?"
He leaned back against the cushions with a soft exhale. For the first time that evening, he looked a little less composed, like she had peeled back something he usually kept hidden. His hand went through his hair, disturbing its perfect smoothness, and when he met her eyes again there was no distance in them.
"Listen," he said quietly. "I do not want to put rules on you. I do not care whether you fit someone else's idea of a good wife. You can swear at me, argue with me, move the furniture and repaint the walls. You can be everything you are now and more. That is the point." He hesitated for a heartbeat. "I grew up watching men try to control the women around them. It never ended well. I have no interest in repeating it."
Her eyebrow lifted, doubt still there, but softer. "Most pureblood men have a list," she said. "Appearances. Duties. Heirs. Why are you not like that?"
A small smile touched his lips, one that did not feel calculated. "Because you would burn the list," he replied. "You would set it on fire in the middle of the drawing room. And I would probably enjoy watching." The corner of his mouth quirked a little more. "You are too wild to pen in, Ginny. Trying to force you into a shape you do not fit would be like trying to command a storm. I would rather stand beside you and see where it goes."
She blinked at him, thrown off balance in a way she had not prepared for. She had expected him to charm, to deflect, to joke. She had braced herself for something patronising, or something cold.
Not this.
There was no denying it. For the first time since the decree, his words felt like they were not part of a game. They felt like something real being laid carefully between them, waiting for her to decide what to do with it.
"What about kids?" she asked after a beat.
Her voice sounded calm to her own ears, but her heart tripped over itself as the words left her mouth. It was not a question she had ever pictured herself asking Blaise Zabini, yet here she was on his absurdly expensive sofa, a glass of Firewhiskey in her hand, discussing hypothetical children with a man the Ministry had handpicked for her.
"Do you expect me to start popping out babies the second this marriage is official?" she added, lifting her glass as if that might make the question feel less real.
Blaise's expression shifted. The usual lazy smirk faded, replaced by something thoughtful. He looked at her properly, as if he was turning the question over in his mind rather than reaching for a quick line.
"One day," he said at last, his voice low and steady, "I would like to have a child. Maybe more than one." His gaze did not drift away. "But only with the right person."
Her heart stuttered, just once. She swallowed it down and leaned back further into the cushions, aiming for sarcasm like a shield. "And you think that person is me?"
He did not hesitate.
"Yes," he answered, leaning in slightly, his eyes locked on hers. There was no smirk now, no flirtatious tilt to his mouth. "One day, you will be exactly that person. I am certain of it."
She blinked.
The certainty in his tone washed over her like a physical thing. There was no arrogance in it. No careless charm. Just belief. Simple and clean and disarming.
It made her skin feel too tight.
She cleared her throat, needing to pull away from whatever had just passed between them. "Well. Until that day," she said, her tone hardening, "let us set one rule. You do not cheat on me. Ever. I do not care how glamorous or convenient this arrangement looks from the outside. You disrespect me like that, and I walk. I do not care what the law says."
He held her gaze and lifted both hands, palms out, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Mia cara, I understand. Truly. I am not interested in keeping someone on the side. If I wanted a different life, I would have refused this one."
She narrowed her eyes, not quite willing to trust that. "So that is it," she said. "You are telling me you are content with this ridiculous forced marriage, and you are just going to behave?"
His smile changed, slow and deliberate, wrapping itself around her nerves. "I am telling you I chose to accept this," he said. "Because when I looked at your name on that parchment, I saw an opportunity that did not disgust me. I have seen enough of you to know you are not like anyone else. I like that. I want that. I have no interest in chasing something lesser when I already have you in front of me." His eyes dipped briefly to her mouth and back. "And yes. I like the idea of having all that fire aimed in my direction alone."
Heat crawled up her neck before she could stop it. She hated that he could do that to her with a handful of sentences and a look. She was used to men who flirted, joked, tried their luck. Not men who spoke plainly and looked at her like the truth did not scare them.
"Fine," she said, setting her empty glass down with more care than she felt. "So. No secret expectations. No pureblood puppet-wife routine. No cheating. We take this one day at a time." She met his eyes, letting her voice sharpen. "But understand something, Zabini. I am not an accessory. I am not some pretty thing you parade at parties and then ignore when the doors close."
He laughed quietly, not mocking, more like she had just confirmed something he already believed. "I know that," he said. "You are not a trophy, Ginny. You are a storm in human form. I am just trying to make sure I am not flattened when you move through the room."
For the first time since they had both been dragged into this mess, something in her chest loosened. It was not trust. Not yet. It was not hope either, not fully. Just a small flicker of possibility that this might turn into something survivable. Maybe even something more.
She stood, stretching her arms overhead until her spine popped, then let them fall back to her sides. "All right then, Zabini," she said. "If we are doing this, you should know I am not going to go easy on you."
He rose as well, stepping closer, the amusement back in his eyes but layered now with something steadier. "I would be disappointed if you did," he replied. "And do not make the mistake of thinking I will be easy on you either. We are in this together now, like it or not."
She gave him a long, challenging look, her mouth curving into a slow smirk. "Oh, I am counting on it."