Ginny came home with too much energy under her skin and nowhere sensible to put it.
That was usually Blaise's problem.
By the time she kicked off her boots and shrugged out of her coat, she already knew how the evening would end. Not with quiet, not with calm. With words. With that familiar push and pull that had somehow become their favourite way to breathe in the same room.
Arguing with him had stopped feeling like conflict a long time ago. It had turned into something else. A sport. A habit. A kind of intimacy that neither of them was ready to name out loud. It sharpened her, lit him up, and left both of them standing closer than they had meant to when it was over.
She was on the edge of the sofa now, one knee tucked under her, hair falling forward as she leaned in. Her eyes were bright, narrowed in focus, the stubborn line of her mouth set for battle. Most men would have backed down already, or tried to change the subject.
Blaise only sank further into the cushions, loose and controlled, an arm stretched along the back of the couch. He watched her with infuriating calm, like he had all the time in the world.
"I am telling you now," she said, every word clipped and clear, "I am not some trophy wife you can parade around so your friends can applaud your taste."
Her voice landed like a curse in the quiet room. Strong. Certain. Except he knew her well enough to hear what sat underneath it. Her chin was up, but there was the faintest tremor in the hand that had curled into the cushion between them.
He did not pounce on it. He just watched.
Ginny had spent years being told who she was. Little sister. Seeker. War hero. Weasley. She had carved space for herself in a world that tried to hand her labels and shut the door. She knew how to stand alone. She was good at it.
Still, there was a part of her, small and stubborn, that leaned toward the warmth when someone chose her and did not ask for proof. A part that liked the idea of being looked at like she was the best thing in the room. A part that wanted, quietly and furiously, to be adored without having to earn it first.
She loathed that he could see that part so clearly.
Blaise did not look away. His gaze held hers, dark and steady, his attention so focused it almost felt like touch. He had learned the shape of her over time. The sharp tongue, the quick temper, the way her anger flared to cover fear. Beneath all of that, he had found something softer, something she hid even from herself.
"I never said you were a trophy," he replied, his tone smooth, edged with amusement. There was something gentler buried inside it though, a kind of quiet respect that caught at her ribs. "But if you think I do not want to show you off, then you do not know me as well as you think."
The words should have annoyed her. Instead, they sent a flicker of heat down her spine. She felt it and stamped on it at once.
"I do not need to be spoiled," she muttered, leaning back, crossing her arms over her chest like a shield. It came out more defensive than she meant it to.
His eyebrow lifted, that maddening curve of his mouth appearing again. "You say that," he murmured, "and yet you did not complain about the roses."
She scowled. "The roses were ridiculous."
"You kept one," he said.
She hated that he was right. She hated that he noticed.
Because the truth she kept swallowing was that it was not about the luxury. Not really. It was the thought behind it. The way his attention felt targeted, specific, like he was trying to learn her instead of impress her. He remembered what made her laugh. He watched when she paced. He listened when she talked about the war and did not look away.
It felt less like he was flaunting what he had, and more like he was saying, over and over in a language made of small acts, I see you.
And that was harder to fight than anything else.
She looked at him across the short space between them, at the relaxed posture that hid nothing of his focus, at the patience in the way he waited for her to speak.
"Stop looking at me like that," she snapped, more unsettled than angry.
"Like what?" he asked, voice soft.
"Like you already know how this ends."
For a brief moment his smile faded. What replaced it was quieter, almost serious. "I do not know how it ends," he said. "But I know what I want. And I know you deserve more than being treated like some pretty ornament. That is not why I am here."
She looked away first, lips pressed together, pulse louder than she liked.
He understood far too much for her comfort. And still, she stayed on that couch, close enough that her knee brushed his when she shifted, close enough that the argument could have ended at any time.
One morning she found a box on her dresser, small and heavy, wrapped in deep green paper. No note. No flourish. Just her name. Inside, resting on dark velvet, lay a pair of diamond earrings that caught the light every time she turned them between her fingers, and a bracelet so finely worked in gold it felt like water when she draped it over her wrist.
She had frowned at it, at all of it. Too rich. Too polished. Too much. Ginny Weasley was not supposed to come with diamonds.
She told herself she would give them back. She set the box to one side, lid closed, chin tilted in defiance.
A week later the earrings were in her ears at brunch, winking when she laughed. The bracelet had found a home on her wrist on the days she needed to feel like something more than tired.
Then came the fur coat.
It appeared one bitter morning, spread out across their bed like it belonged there. The fur was impossibly soft, thick enough to make the drafty winter air feel like a minor inconvenience. Beside it lay a simple card in his smooth handwriting.
For when the cold feels too much, mia cara.
She stood there, fingers pressed into the fur, lip caught between her teeth. Every part of her wanted to scoff, to call it ridiculous, to ask him if he thought she was the sort of woman who needed to be wrapped in luxury so she would stop complaining about the weather.
She left it on the bed.
Hours later, when the house had gone quiet and there was no one left to see, she slipped her arms into it. The weight settled across her shoulders with shocking ease. Warmth rose around her at once, rich and steady. The mirror showed a woman she half recognised and half did not. Less soldier. Less girl. Something in between. For a fleeting moment she felt treasured.
That feeling scared her more than any enemy ever had.
She kept arguing with him. That did not change. She rolled her eyes at the extravagance, made scathing comments about his taste, called him insufferable whenever a new box appeared. But in the back of her mind she knew he was not trying to buy her silence. He was not trying to leash her. If he wanted control, there were easier ways to reach for it.
The dress made that harder to deny.
It arrived in a long garment bag, hanging from the wardrobe door like something that had stepped out of a magazine and lost its way into her life. When she unzipped it, rich crimson spilled out, smooth beneath her fingers. Valentino, the discreet tag said, from his latest line. Custom.
When she pulled it over her head and let the fabric slide into place, it fit so perfectly she felt her breath catch. The dress traced every line of her body as if it had been cut from the idea of her rather than her measurements. It nipped in at her waist, fell over her hips like poured wine, left her shoulders bare and her back framed in one long, elegant line.
The woman in the mirror did not look like she had grown up fighting brothers for bathroom time and sneaking hand-me-down robes out of second-hand trunks. She looked like she could walk into any room in the world and make it stop.
After the dress came the flowers.
They arrived in waves. First roses, deep red and velvety, their scent spilling into the hallway before she even opened the door. Then tulips in shades of gold and orange, bright as sunrise. Lilies so white they seemed almost unreal, their petals like porcelain. Vases appeared on every surface. Some were overflowing, wild and sprawling. Others were simple, a single stem in a thin glass bottle.
The house changed around them. Rooms that had once felt practical and lived-in now looked like the inside of a painting. Colour everywhere. Life everywhere. The air heavy with perfume that clung to her hair and her skin.
Every gift carried the same quiet message.
You are worth this.
She fought it. Of course she did. She told herself, over and over, that she was not the sort of woman who could be softened by silk, by gold, by flowers that arrived for no reason at all. She reminded herself of battlefields, of blood on stone, of the years she had spent carving out her place without anyone lifting her up.
You are not someone's princess, she thought. You are your own rescue.
Yet there were moments she could not ignore.
The way her shoulders straightened when she buckled the bracelet. The extra inch of spine she seemed to find when the red dress settled around her like armour. The ache in her chest when she stepped into a room filled with flowers that had been chosen because he had listened to her talk, months ago, about what she liked.
Blaise was not trying to make her smaller. If anything, he was trying to underline every part of her the world had tried to overlook.
He was not treating her like something delicate.
He was treating her like something rare.
She knew she should resent him for it, should throw the gifts back in his face, should tell him that she did not want adoration wrapped up in designer fabric and crystal vases.
Instead, she found herself standing in front of the mirror in that crimson dress, shoulders back, chin lifted, and thinking, with a quiet, dangerous little thrill:
So this is what it feels like to be worshipped.
She sat across from him with her wine glass balanced between her fingers, the stem cool against her skin. The room was quiet in that way it sometimes was with him, where the silence did not feel empty, just full of things neither of them had said yet. Her pulse felt a little too loud in her ears.
She took a breath and let the words come out slower than usual, like she was testing them as she spoke. "You know," she said, eyes on the dark liquid in her glass, "just because you keep sending all these gifts does not mean I am going to… soften."
His low chuckle slipped across the space between them. It was not cruel, not mocking, just annoyingly sure of itself. He leaned forward a little, the candlelight catching the angles of his face, and fixed his gaze on hers.
"Mia cara," he said, voice warm and smooth, "I am not trying to turn you soft. I am trying to give you what you should already have."
Her fingertip traced the rim of her glass, round and round, a small distraction from the way his words settled inside her. She scoffed, lifting her chin, clinging to sarcasm because it felt safer than whatever was happening in her chest.
"You think I deserve all of this?" she asked, tilting her head toward the flowers on the sideboard, the coat draped over the chair, the bracelet at her wrist.
He studied her for a long heartbeat, then nodded. "I think you deserve more than this," he said. The certainty in his tone left no room for argument. "This is the bare minimum of what you should have been given a long time ago."
Her breath snagged for a moment. She had expected something flippant. A joke. A line. Not that.
Because the truth hanging between them was simple. Neither of them had chosen this arrangement. The Ministry had signed their names and expected them to live with the consequences. No choice. No consent. No neat story about fate.
And yet he was sitting here, looking at her like she was something he would have chosen anyway.
She shifted in her seat, ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek, trying to push herself back toward familiar ground. "And here I was thinking you just wanted someone to stand next to you, look pretty, and keep quiet while you talk business."
His mouth curved, slow and knowing, like he could see right through the deflection. "If that was what I wanted," he said, "I would have left it at the Ministry's order and done the bare minimum. We both know I am not doing that."
She rolled her eyes, but even she could hear how thin it sounded. "So what is it you expect then, since we are both stuck in this?"
He lifted his glass and took a small sip, eyes never leaving her face. "I expect it to be real," he said quietly. "Forced or not, this is our life now. I do not want to spend it beside a stranger. I want to know who you are. All of you. The parts that drove you to fight in a war you should never have had to fight. The parts that still think you have to earn every scrap of care you are given."
The words landed heavier than she wanted them to. Not romantic. Not dramatic. Just honest.
He continued, voice softer. "You did not choose me. I did not choose you. I hate that for both of us. But we are here anyway. That means I get to decide what kind of husband I will be, and you get to decide how much of yourself you will let me see."
Her throat tightened. For a moment she could not think of anything sharp to say. That annoyed her almost as much as his honesty.
"So no secret list, then?" she managed, one eyebrow lifting. "No pureblood handbook of what your wife is supposed to be?"
He let out a slow breath. His hand reached out and brushed lightly against the inside of her wrist, a touch so soft she might have imagined it if not for the jolt it sent up her arm.
"No list," he said. "Just one thing I want from you."
The air felt thicker between them. "Which is?"
"Do not hide from me," he said, voice dropping low. "You can shout at me, you can argue with me, you can tell me every way the Ministry ruined this for you. Just do not shut me out to make it easier to survive. I want the woman who rips into me at breakfast and still steals my coat when she is cold. I want the part of you that likes the flowers and hates that you like them. I want the part that is still waiting for someone to decide you are enough without a fight. I want all of it."
Her heart stumbled, then picked up faster, as if it was trying to outrun his words.
No one had ever said it like that. No one had looked at the mess of who she was and asked for more instead of less.
She swallowed, feeling the burn of the Firewhiskey fade into something else entirely. She could have laughed it off. She could have made a joke. She could have called him dramatic and walked away.
Instead, she found herself holding his gaze, fingers relaxing around the stem of her glass.
"Alright," she said quietly.
And for once, she did not try to turn it into a punchline.
~~~~~~
Getting ready for her wedding felt like a nightmare rather than the She had never pictured it like this.
Ginny stood in front of the ornate mirror, the kind of mirror that belonged in old manors and fairytales, and stared at a woman she barely recognised. White lace, soft and intricate, traced over her shoulders and arms. The skirt fell perfectly, the fabric shifting with a quiet whisper every time she moved. It was beautiful. It should have felt like a dream.
Her hands would not stop trembling as she fussed with the lace at her neckline, smoothing what was already smooth, fixing what did not need fixing. Her heart beat hard against the bodice, too fast, too loud. She tried to breathe slowly. It did not help. The dread sat in her stomach like a stone.
She had always thought this moment would feel enchanted. She had imagined nerves, yes, but the good kind, the kind that come with excitement. Instead there was only that heavy, tight feeling in her chest and the sense that the walls were inching closer.
She needed her mother.
The thought came sharp and immediate, like a tug in her chest. She could almost see Molly in the mirror behind her, fussing with her veil, fingers deft and warm. She could almost hear her voice, soft and steady, telling her she looked beautiful, that everything would be alright, that she was loved and safe and exactly where she was meant to be.
But the room stayed empty.
No one else was allowed here. That was the rule. Just the couple. No family, no friends, no mother with pins in her mouth, no father smoothing his tie, no brothers hovering at the door. Just two people the Ministry had decided belonged together, dressing themselves for a ceremony that should have been theirs to choose.
The silence pressed in, thick and unnatural. Ginny swallowed hard against the lump forming in her throat. Her lungs felt too small. She had faced Death Eaters with a steadier pulse than this. She had walked into battle with less fear.
She told herself to get a grip. Ginny Weasley did not fall apart in front of a mirror. She was a Gryffindor. She was strong. She was stubborn. She had survived a war.
Today, none of that felt like enough.
Today she felt small in a dress that did not quite feel like hers, in a room that was too quiet, on the edge of a life she had not chosen.
Her mind drifted, uninvited, to the picture she had once held of this day. A summer afternoon in the Burrow's garden. White chairs that did not match. Wildflowers everywhere, some arranged in vases, some growing where they pleased. Her brothers teasing her as she tried not to cry. Hermione fussing with last-minute details, wand tucked behind her ear. Her father taking her arm, his eyes shining, trying not to look as proud as he felt.
Harry at the end of the aisle, nervous and steady all at once, green eyes warm, promising her everything with one look.
The ache that followed nearly buckled her knees.
It had not worked out that way. They had loved each other, and for a time it had felt like enough. The war had glued them together. Life after the war had pushed them apart. Different paths. Different wants. Different versions of themselves they had not seen coming. She had told herself she had made peace with it. Most days she believed that.
Today, the old dream made itself known again, just long enough to hurt.
She closed her eyes for a moment and let out a slow breath. This was useless. Harry was not the one waiting on the other side of that door. Wishing would not change that. Regret would not rewind anything.
Blaise Zabini was her future now, paperwork and law and all. Whether she wanted it or not.
She opened her eyes and forced herself to really look at the woman in the mirror. The gown was stunning. That was the truth. Fine fabric that shimmered with each breath she took. Lace so delicate it looked like it might vanish if she breathed too hard, but held firm under her fingers. He had spared nothing. It was the sort of dress girls in fairy stories were given by godmothers and princes.
It made her look beautiful.
It did not answer any of the questions screaming in her chest.
She smoothed the skirt again, just for something to do, aware of the faint tremor in her fingers. The clock on the wall ticked on, indifferent. The time was almost here.
Her stomach twisted.
She could not run. That option had sailed the moment the Ministry sent the letter with his name printed beside hers. Her choice now was not whether to go through with it, but how she would stand when she did.
What frightened her most was not the ceremony. Not the vows. Not even the idea of sharing a roof, a bed, a life with a man she was still learning.
It was everything that would come after.
She thought about mornings in a house that was not the Burrow. About dinners at a table that did not belong to her parents. About waking up to the same man every day, a man who could be kind or cruel, steady or volatile, and knowing she would have to find a way to live with whatever he chose to be.
Would they build something out of this, something real and warm and bearable. Or would they end up as strangers sharing a last name and a bed that never felt like home.
She did not know. That was the worst of it.
Ginny swallowed, lifted her chin a fraction, and met her own gaze in the mirror. Her eyes looked frightened. Her mouth looked stubborn.
~~~~~~
The Ministry called it a wedding.
Standing there, Ginny thought it felt more like signing away a piece of herself.
The room was all stone and shadow, high walls swallowing sound, the light from a few suspended orbs cold and thin. No flowers softened the edges. No ribbons. No music. The only sounds were the quiet scrape of quills, the shuffle of parchment, and the low murmur of officials who had done this so many times it no longer meant anything to them.
She had always pictured something else. A crooked arch in the Burrow's garden, her mother fussing with her hair and veil, her brothers taking turns making her laugh so she would not cry. Her father waiting by the back door with his arm ready for her to take. The smell of grass and wildflowers, the hum of people who loved her.
Here, there was only the echo of her own footsteps as she walked toward the center of the chamber. No family, no friends, no Harry at the end of an aisle. Just the man the Ministry had written into her future and the law that had dragged them both here.
A block of stone stood at the heart of the room, waist high and carved all over with runes. They glowed faintly, lines of pale gold resting beneath the surface like something alive. The magic in the air felt old. Heavy. It seemed to press against her skin, humming just under the edge of hearing, waiting.
She swallowed, her throat dry, and tried not to think about the fact that this altar had probably seen hundreds of people stand where she was standing now. Names different. Fear the same.
The officiant stepped forward, his dark robes falling in flat, clean lines. His eyes flicked over her and Blaise with the detached boredom of someone assessing a pair of files, not two lives. He lifted his wand and began to speak.
The incantation rolled out of him in measured phrases, all formal language and old words, his voice echoing from the stone. There was no warmth in it. No blessing. Just procedure. One more soul-bonding to file away.
Ginny's chest felt tight. Each step of the ritual sounded like a lock sliding into place.
Beside her, Blaise stood very still.
She did not look at him at first, too focused on keeping her breathing even. When she finally glanced sideways, the calm on his face unnerved her. He did not look untouched. Not exactly. Just controlled. His jaw was set. His shoulders square. His eyes, usually lazy with amusement, were dark and intent.
For a brief second he turned his head and met her gaze. Something moved there, quick and quiet. Not gloating. Not relief. Something closer to recognition. Shared ground. Then he looked away again, back at the altar, and the moment passed.
"Join hands," the officiant said.
Her heart lurched.
Ginny hesitated, fingers curling and uncurling at her side, then forced her hand toward his. Blaise reached out at the same time. His palm was warm when it closed around hers, his grip firm, steady. Not crushing. Not claiming. Just solid.
The first thing she felt was the human part of it. Skin against skin. The small, grounding fact that she was not standing here alone any more, even if this was not the person she had once imagined beside her.
Then the magic woke up.
A line of light appeared where their hands met, thin and bright, as if someone had struck flint between their fingers. It lifted into the air, a slender thread of gold, and began to wind around their joined hands in slow circles. The glow deepened with each pass, gathering warmth.
The hum in the room grew louder.
She felt it then, not in her skin but somewhere deeper, a tug behind her ribs. The light coiled higher, encircling their wrists, their forearms, reaching for something beyond flesh. It did not burn. It did not hurt. It simply reached. Pulled. Sank in.
The thread seemed to fold itself into her, into him, weaving an invisible line between them that had nothing to do with fingers or touch. Ginny felt the moment it settled. A strange pull in her chest, like an echo of a heartbeat that was not hers, overlapping with her own.
She had not asked for this. She would never have chosen it. The bond did not care.
The light flared once, bright enough to paint the inside of her eyelids when she blinked, then faded back into a soft glow before disappearing entirely. Their hands were just hands again. The stone room was just a room. The officials were already moving to the next step.
Somewhere beneath her sternum, the new connection sat quietly, warm and undeniable.
She stood a little straighter, fingers still hooked around his, and tried to ignore the thin, persistent awareness that she would never again be entirely separate from the man at her side.
A thin strand of light appeared where their fingers met.
It started as a faint glimmer, then grew clearer, a narrow line of gold hovering between their hands. Slowly, it began to move, curling around their joined fingers in slow circles, like a strip of molten metal learning how to breathe. The air around it felt charged. The magic thrummed with a depth that made her skin prickle. This was old work, older than any of the people in the room, older than the Ministry itself.
As the thread wrapped tighter around their hands, she felt something shift inside her chest. A pull, low and unfamiliar, as if someone had reached into her and tugged on a part of her she had never known how to name. The light brightened as it climbed, warm but never burning, winding up their wrists, looping around them again and again until it no longer felt like it was resting on her skin at all.
It went deeper.
She could feel it move inward, pressing past bone and blood, settling somewhere behind her ribs. An invisible line stretched and anchored itself, and suddenly there was a new awareness humming at the edge of her magic. Not her. Not fully. Him.
Her breath stuttered.
This was not the rush she had once imagined when she thought of falling in love. It was not the slow, gentle heat of a relationship that had grown over time. It was sharper. Stranger. More like a key turned in a lock she had never agreed to give away. It did not hurt, but it made her feel exposed, as if the center of her had been tugged slightly open.
She could sense him now in a way she never had before. His magic brushed against hers, cool and steady, a distinct presence winding through the edges of her own. Foreign. Not unwelcome, but unsettling. A reminder that from this moment on, there would always be this quiet echo of someone else where once there had been only her.
She glanced up, searching his face for a crack in that calm. His expression stayed controlled, but his hand tightened around hers, just for a second. It was enough. Maybe he was feeling it too. The weight. The strangeness. The trap.
The golden thread pulsed, once, twice, then flared bright enough to fill her vision. Light poured around them, then thinned and faded, leaving the room dim again. The visible strand was gone, but the connection remained, settled in her chest like a soft, unyielding knot.
She could feel it. A tether, invisible and solid, humming with the quiet fact that their lives had just been tied together in a way no law or signed document could ever manage.
The officiant's voice cut through the heavy quiet. "By the power of the soul bond, you are bound in life, heart, and soul. From this moment, you are one."
The words echoed off the stone and lodged somewhere under her skin.
When they stepped back from the altar, her chest ached with a strange, hollow pain. This was it. No music. No vows they had written themselves. No open sky, no first dance, no applause from people who loved them. Just ink, stone, old words, and magic that did not care what either of them had wanted.
Yet as they walked away from the center of the room, she could not ignore the quiet pull that moved with her, the way part of her awareness stayed with him no matter how much distance they put between their bodies. The bond was there. Real. Alive in a way that felt both wrong and undeniable.
She hated that she had not chosen it.
She hated that she could already feel it shaping the lines of her future.
And still, beneath the anger and fear, another thought whispered through.
If this magic was strong enough to bind them against their will, maybe there was a chance they could use it to build something that belonged to them anyway.
~~~~~~
Going home to her new residence felt like stepping into someone else's story.
The house rose up around her in polished wood and stone, its ceilings high enough to swallow sound, its walls lined with old tapestries that watched her as she passed. Every surface gleamed. Every detail looked deliberate. It was the kind of place that had never known clutter or chaos, never heard someone shout that dinner was ready, never had muddy footprints tracked through the hall.
It was nothing like the Burrow, where chairs wobbled and crockery clinked and the smell of her mother's cooking wrapped itself around you the second you walked in. It was nothing like her tiny flat after Hogwarts, where she could drop her bag, kick off her shoes, and feel the quiet settle around her like a blanket she had chosen for herself.
This house felt cold. Perfect. Untouched.
Her steps sank into the thick carpet as she crossed the sitting room, each one too soft, too careful, like the floor might swallow her if she pressed too hard. The silence had a weight to it. No familiar voices. No wireless humming in the background. Just the faint tick of a distant clock and the sound of her own breathing.
She did not handle this sort of change well, not when it came like this, fast and unforgiving. She needed something to hold on to. Something that was hers.
She headed straight for the liquor cabinet.
The shelves were lined with bottles in orderly rows. Firewhiskey. Gin. Bourbon. Labels in languages she did not recognise. She let her fingertips skim over them until she landed on a dark bottle of wine that looked older than she was. She did not care how rare it was. She cared that it promised warmth.
She grabbed it, along with a glass, and walked out without a word.
She could feel his eyes on her as she crossed the hall and started up the stairs, but he did not stop her. He did not follow. For once, he seemed to understand that anything he said right now would only make the pressure in her chest worse.
Her new bedroom took her breath for a very different reason.
The room was beautiful. Thoughtful, even. Deep reds and warm golds coloured the walls and fabrics, a quiet echo of Gryffindor wrapped in luxury. The bed was enormous, carved wood and velvet covers that looked far too inviting. The window seat overlooked a sweep of gardens, all neat lines and careful blooms, the kind of view people put in glossy magazines.
It should have felt comforting.
It did not.
If anything, the beauty of it made the disconnect stronger. Every cushion, every curtain, every flickering candle said someone had thought about what she might like. Someone had put time and money into creating a space that felt tailored to her.
Except it was not hers. Not really.
This was not the room she had pictured when she was younger and let herself think about a future she had chosen. It was not the room she had imagined sharing with someone whose hand she had reached for freely. It felt like a set, built to house the version of her that existed on paper. Mrs Zabini. A part in a story she had never auditioned for.
The realization settled over her like a weight.
She set the bottle on the nightstand, uncorked it with more force than necessary, and poured a generous amount into the waiting glass. The wine slipped out thick and dark, swirling as she moved her wrist. It smelled rich, full, the kind of scent that should have been comforting.
She took a long drink. The warmth spread down her throat and into her chest, but it did not ease the tightness there. If anything, it made the whole thing feel sharper. The room, the dress, the bond humming faintly beneath her skin. The sense that she had stepped sideways into a version of her life that did not belong to her.
She set the glass down and glanced toward the bedside table.
That was when she saw it.
A small piece of parchment lay there, folded in half with careful precision. Her name was written across the front in dark ink, the handwriting smooth and unmistakable.
His.
Her hand tightened around the stem of the glass before she realised she was doing it. For a heartbeat she considered leaving it right where it was, pretending she had never noticed it. She imagined sliding it into a drawer and closing it on the whole thing.
Curiosity won.
With a quiet sigh, she reached for the note. Her fingers hesitated for a second on the fold, then opened it. She braced herself for something polished and distant, words meant to soothe without saying anything real.
Her eyes moved over the first lines.
Mia cara,
I know this is not the life you pictured. It is not the one I thought I would have either. For whatever it is worth, I want you to know this first. I do not expect anything from you that you are not ready to give.
This house is yours as much as it is mine. Change what you like. Paint the walls, move the furniture, fill it with noise. Take as much space as you need. Live in it the way you want.
I hope that one day it will feel like home to you. Until then, I will give you as much distance as you need.
I am here when you are ready.
Blaise
Her fingers tightened around the parchment.
She read it once, then went back to the beginning and read it again, slower this time, as if the words might shift if she looked long enough.
She had no idea what to do with the way it made her feel.
Part of her exhaled, just a little. At least he was not waiting downstairs with expectations she could not meet. He was not hovering outside her door, demanding a kiss, a smile, a performance. He was not insisting she slip into some ready-made role with a neat title and no room to breathe.
That should have made it easier.
Another part of her wanted to tear the letter in half.
She was furious that any of this was happening at all. Furious that the Ministry had put her name next to his and called it fate. Furious that she was standing in a room someone else had built for her, trying to decide how to exist in it without losing herself.
And furious, most of all, that he had chosen kindness.
Cruelty would have been simpler. If he had been cold, demanding, sharp with her, she would have known what to do. She knew how to fight. She knew how to hate. She knew how to steady herself against a clear enemy.
This was worse. This patient, careful waiting. This quiet letter telling her she was free inside the cage they had both been dropped into. No one to push back against. No villain to cast him as.
Just a man trying, in his own infuriating way, to make room for her.
She did not want his gentle words or his careful understanding. She wanted the life she had been supposed to choose for herself.
With a sharp breath, she folded the letter and set it down a little too hard on the nightstand. She grabbed her wine and tipped the glass back, draining it in one long swallow. The burn spread down her throat and into her chest, but it did nothing to shift the weight pressing there.
She let herself fall backward onto the bed.
The mattress caught her easily, the sheets soft under her palms where she flung her hands out. She stared up at the ceiling, at the gilded edges and the soft play of candlelight, and felt nothing but distance from all of it.
It was a beautiful room.
It still did not feel like hers.
Maybe one day she would stop feeling like she was visiting someone else's life. Maybe one day she would learn which floorboard creaked, which window stuck in the winter, where the light fell best in the morning. Maybe one day she would stop waking up expecting to hear her mother calling up the stairs.
Right now, it did not matter how expensive the bedding was, or how carefully he had tried to choose colours she would like.
The simple truth sat there, solid and cold.
She was trapped.
As the evening stretched on, the quiet grew heavier. She poured herself another glass, then another, but the wine only blurred the edges of the room, not the ache. She missed the noise of the Burrow, the overlapping voices, the clutter, the arguments over who stole whose jumper. She missed Hermione's sharp questions, Luna's wandering stories, Harry's tired smile.
This house was too neat. Too polished. Too lonely.
For the first time since moving in, she let herself admit it in a whisper meant for no one.
"I want to go home."
One moment she was staring at the ceiling, jaw tight, eyes dry, telling herself she would get through this night the way she had got through worse. The next, something inside her cracked. Her vision blurred. Her throat burned. A single tear slipped free, then another, and within seconds she was choking on sobs she could not swallow back down.
She folded forward, elbows on her knees, fingers digging hard into the sheets as she tried to hold herself together. The sound of her own crying shocked her. It sounded raw and ugly in the quiet room. Each sob tore out of her chest like it wanted to leave a mark behind. Her shoulders shook; her lungs could not seem to remember how to pull in air properly.
She tried to breathe. In through her nose, out through her mouth. It did not work. The air caught halfway, cutting off in sharp, panicked gasps. Her chest felt tight, like something heavy was pressing down on it. Spots gathered at the edges of her vision. The beautiful room with its velvet and candlelight started to tilt in a strange, distant way.
Her heart hammered. Too fast. Too loud. She could hear it in her ears, feel it everywhere.
The walls felt closer than they had a minute ago. The ceiling too low. The silence too thick. This was not her house. Not her bed. Not her life. It all rushed in at once, and the weight of it knocked the breath straight out of her.
She did not hear the footsteps in the hall. She barely registered the click of the handle.
The door swung open.
"Ginny."
His voice was softer than she had ever heard it, but edged with panic. He crossed the room in a few long strides, all that usual smooth composure stripped away. His expression was open for once, unguarded, eyes wide and wild as they took her in. Red-faced. Shaking. Gasping.
"Baby girl," he breathed, dropping down in front of her so fast he nearly lost his balance. "Merlin, please. Do not do this to me."
Her hands were still fisted in the covers, knuckles white. She tried to speak and produced only a broken sound. The room blurred; his face swam in and out of focus.
He hesitated for half a heartbeat, then reached for her.
"Come here," he said, voice rough with worry.
He slid his arms around her and pulled her into him with more care than force. She did not fight it. The moment she felt his chest under her cheek, something inside her latched on. Her fingers curled into his shirt, grabbing handfuls of fabric, clinging like she might fall without him there to hold her up.
The sobs kept coming, but the feel of him around her changed their shape. She buried her face into the curve of his neck, hot tears soaking into his skin and collar. Her breath still came too fast, but at least it had something solid to break against now.
"Shh," he whispered, one hand sliding up into her hair, the other braced firm at her back. "I am here. It is alright. I am here."
He kept talking. Soft words. Some in English, some in Italian. She did not catch all of them, but his tone did most of the work. Low, steady, all the sharp edges smoothed away. His fingers moved through her hair in slow strokes, over and over, grounding her in the repetition.
"Breathe with me," he murmured. "In. Out. That is it. Good girl. Keep going."
Her breathing jerked and stuttered, but she tried. She matched her lungs to the rise and fall of his chest under her cheek. In. Out. In again. The first few attempts ended in little gasps. Her throat felt raw. Her eyes hurt. Her whole body shook with the force of the release.
He did not pull back. He did not tell her to stop. He shifted instead, twisting so he could lean back against the bed. Then he moved again, bringing both of them up onto the mattress in one smooth, clumsy sort of motion that told her he did not care how undignified he looked, as long as she was not sitting on the edge of the world by herself.
He lay back and pulled her with him until she was sprawled across his chest, almost on top of him. One arm stayed wrapped tight around her waist. The other resumed its slow path through her hair, then down her spine in small circles.
"Tesoro," he murmured against her temple, his breath warm on her skin. "You are alright. I have you."
She gulped at the air, still half sobbing, but the edges of the panic began to blur. The room felt less like it was closing in, more like it was holding still again. The weight on her chest eased just enough for her to drag in a proper breath.
Her tears did not stop. If anything, they came harder for a moment, now that she was no longer fighting them. She clutched at him and let it happen. All of it. The fear. The anger. The grief for the life she had wanted and the one she had got instead. It all poured out into the fabric of his shirt.
He took it. Every shaking inhale, every broken sound. He held her as if it was the easiest thing in the world. As if she was not too much. As if he had nowhere else he would rather be.
"I knew this would be hard," he murmured, more to her hair than to her ears. "I did not know it would break you like this. I am so sorry, Ginny."
The words slid past her in a blur, but the apology lodged somewhere deep. He tucked his chin lightly against the top of her head and stayed there, breathing with her, matching his rhythm to hers until the ragged gasps slowly turned into uneven inhales, then into something closer to normal.
Her body grew heavy all at once, spent from crying. Her limbs slackened. The tremors in her muscles softened to the occasional shudder.
He did not move.
His hand kept tracing patterns along her back. His thumb drew small circles just under her shoulder blade, the repetition easing her further toward exhaustion. The sound in the room changed too. No more harsh sobs. Just their breathing. The faint crackle of a candle. The distant tick of a clock.
Her eyelids drooped. She fought it for a moment, stubborn even now, then gave in. Sleep crept up on her in slow waves. Her grip on his shirt loosened, though she did not let go entirely. Her face relaxed against his neck.
He felt the shift.
Blaise looked down at her, his own face tight, lines of worry still etched into his brow. Her lashes were clumped from tears. Her nose was red. There was a damp patch on his shirt where she had cried herself out. She looked young like this, and not in the way he usually thought of youth. Not fierce and bright and sharp. Just tired.
He had known she was strong. The whole world knew that. He realised now how easy it had been to forget that strength came with a price.
His chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with the bond or the law.
He lifted his free hand and smoothed a stray strand of hair away from her face, fingers careful not to wake her. He bent his head and pressed a light kiss to the top of her head.
"You are stronger than you feel right now," he whispered into her hair, voice barely louder than the candles. "And you are not going to carry this alone. Not if I can help it."
She did not stir.
He settled back against the pillows and tightened his arm around her just a little, enough to keep her close without caging. The house outside their room was still as ever, but it no longer felt entirely empty to him.
He watched her chest rise and fall, let the rhythm calm him in turn, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself simply stay.
~~~~~~
It was anything but bearable for Blaise.
Day by day he could feel her slipping further away, like she was fading out of the life they were supposed to be building and into something half-there, half-gone. Ginny moved through the manor like a ghost that refused to be seen. He would hear her footsteps, catch the swish of her hair as she turned a corner, feel the bond tug faintly when she was near, yet she was always just beyond his reach.
She was not simply keeping her distance. She was shutting him out.
Meals turned into a quiet humiliation. He sat at the long, gleaming dining table that could have seated twenty, with the chair beside him empty and untouched place settings laid out as if someone might still arrive. The house-elf would bring her plate anyway, because he would not allow anyone to assume she would not come, and then clear it away later, completely cold. The candles burned low over polished silver that no one used, their light catching on crystal and throwing long, lonely shadows across the walls.
He tried to close the gap in the only ways he could think of.
Some evenings he wrote to her. Small notes. Simple words. No speeches. Just offers to listen, to give her space, to apologise for things he could not quite name but suspected she blamed him for anyway. I am here, if you want to shout. I am here, if you want silence. I am here.
He slid them under her door and walked away.
Later, he would pass by and hear the soft hiss of flame from inside her room, the faint crackle that told him exactly what she was doing. Burning them. One by one. Like she was determined to leave no trace of his attempts behind.
It never stopped him writing the next one. It chipped away at something inside him all the same.
He could not remember the last time they had held an actual conversation. Not barbed comments. Not clipped replies offered out of politeness. A real exchange. Laughter. Heat. That had started to feel like a memory he had imagined.
Most nights he ended up wandering the corridors just to move, the silence of the house too loud when he stayed in one place. The manor that had once felt like proof of his control over his own life now felt ridiculous. Too many rooms. Too many doors. Too much empty space that no amount of wealth could fill.
Every time he walked past her closed door, the bond hummed and tightened, a small reminder that she was there, only a few feet away and impossibly distant.
He missed her with a sharpness that surprised him.
He missed the way she could spark a fight out of nothing and somehow leave him smiling. He missed her quick tongue, the way her eyes lit when she was annoyed, the sudden softness that sometimes followed when she forgot to keep her guard up. For a short time he had seen all those sides of her and thought, foolishly, that they were building something real inside the mess they had been given.
Now it felt as if someone had taken a knife to that fragile thread.
He knew she was not just being cruel. He understood, at least in theory, the weight that sat on her shoulders. She had been forced into a life she did not choose, bound to a man she had never planned to share a future with. He knew the Ministry's decree had stolen more from her than anyone could see from the outside.
Understanding did not make the rejection hurt less.
He had never been the one doing the chasing. Not in school. Not after. People came to him. They sought him out, not the other way around. He was good at setting the terms of his own life. At least he had been.
Now he found himself standing in front of her door with letters in his hand, waiting for a sound that never came. Now he was the one hoping for a scrap of attention, for any sign that she might open the door and let him in, even if it was just to shout.
"How long can we keep doing this?" he thought, eyes fixed on the fire in the drawing room one night.
The flames cast restless patterns on the stone, and he watched them as if they might spell out an answer. His mind kept circling the same tired paths. Invite her somewhere neutral. Send fewer gifts, more honesty. Leave her completely alone until she came to him on her own. None of it felt right. None of it felt enough.
It was a strange thing, to feel powerless inside a life everyone else assumed he controlled.
Blaise Zabini, the man who prided himself on staying unruffled in every room, now sitting alone by his own hearth, undone by a woman who would not even look at him.
What clawed at him most was the thought that she might never stop seeing him as nothing more than a symbol. Not a man with his own bruises and regrets, but the embodiment of everything that had gone wrong. The law. The lack of choice. The gilded cage.
He could live with her anger.
He was not sure he could live with being her enemy forever.
~~~~~~
Draco was lounging on one of Blaise's leather couches, nursing a drink, when the conversation took a more serious turn. His usual smirk was in place as he eyed his friend, clearly amused by the tension that hung in the air like a thick fog.
"Listen, mate," Draco began, leaning forward slightly, "I don't know what's going on with you and Red, but it's obvious she can't stand the sight of you. I know the feeling. Hermione looks at me like I'm something she scraped off her shoe."
Before he could respond, the door creaked open, and she swept into the room, looking disheveled and exhausted. Her skin was pale, her red hair limp, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Draco didn't miss a beat.
"Oh, Ginevra, you look like absolute shit. Ever heard of going outside? The sun's this bright thing in the sky that does wonders for your complexion."
Blaise's expression darkened instantly, his eyes flashing with a protective anger. "Do not talk to my wife like that," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "She's feeling unwell, you inconsiderate fuck."
Ginny, barely acknowledging Draco, turned to Blaise with a flicker of something—maybe gratitude, maybe surprise. "You heard him, ferret," she snapped, her voice icy. "Now fuck off."
Without waiting for a response, she walked away, her shoulders tense as she exited the room quickly, leaving the door swinging slightly in her wake.
Draco blinked, watching her go with mild interest, then rolled his eyes. "Well, that was unnecessarily dramatic." He drained his drink before turning back to Blaise. "Anyway, where were we? Ah, yes. Hermione looks at me like I'm one of the curses her parents are too polite to use. I swear, it's like living with a dementor."
He sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples, frustration evident in every line of his body. "Your wife hates you because your aunt tortured her," he muttered. "Let's not forget that little detail. Bellatrix really left her mark."
Draco winced, but shrugged in an almost indifferent manner. "Fair point. But that was years ago. We're all adults now, aren't we? Shouldn't we be past all that? I mean, I've apologized, tried to make amends. But it's like nothing's enough. She's always so damn cold."
He raised an eyebrow, giving Draco a withering look. "It's not that simple, and you know it. Hermione's never going to forget what happened. You've got a long road ahead of you." He sighed heavily, staring at the glass in his hand before setting it down on the table with a clink. "As for me, I'm not exactly sure why Ginny hates me. I've been trying... I really have. I've been patient. I've given her space. But it's like... I'm invisible to her. She doesn't even talk to me."
Draco smirked, an edge of sarcasm coloring his voice. "Maybe you should've tortured her too. Seems like that's what it takes to get noticed these days."
Not even funny.
He shot him a glare. "You're hilarious, Malfoy. Truly. But this isn't a joke. Ginny's not just avoiding me—she's shutting me out completely. No matter what I do, it's like I'm not even in the same room. And it's driving me mad."
Draco leaned back, crossing his arms with a contemplative look. "Well, maybe it's not about what you're doing. Maybe it's what you're not doing. Ever think of that? Women are complicated. They need gestures, words and communication. Honestly, mate, you should know that by now. You've got the looks, the charm, but maybe you're not giving her what she needs on a deeper level."
He shook his head, staring into the distance. "I don't know how to get through to her. She's in so much pain, and I don't know how to fix it."
Draco's expression softened, just for a moment. "Maybe it's not your job to fix her. Maybe you're just supposed to be there. Give her time. Let her come to you when she's ready."
He sighed again, leaning back in his chair. "Easier said than done."
"Trust me," Draco said with a bitter laugh. "I know."
Draco sat sprawled across the armchair in his sitting room, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, eyes gleaming with a wicked idea. "You know, I've been thinking… I'm planning to take Hermione on a honeymoon. Can I use your Italian estate?"
He looked at him, eyebrows raised, but shrugged. "Sure, go ahead. Knock yourself out."
Draco leaned forward, the smirk deepening on his face. "You really should do the same, though. Take her somewhere. She's bound to thaw eventually, right?"
He snorted. "You think I'm just going to pack her up and whisk her away to Italy? The woman won't even speak to me, Draco."
Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. "I wasn't talking about her, mate. And just so we're clear, you're not taking my wife anywhere. Not even on a day trip."
He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Merlin, Malfoy, how can you be so bloody possessive? It's revolting."
Draco's expression hardened, his voice dropping to a serious note. "I've been in love with Hermione for years. Do you honestly think I'm going to let you or anyone else come near her? Even speak to her? She's mine. End of story."
He raised his hands in mock surrender, the tension in the air thickening. "Relax, I don't want Granger. But I've got to ask, is that how you're planning to win her over? Treating her like a bloody possession? Seems like a surefire way to get hexed."
Draco scoffed. "It's not about treating her like a possession. It's about making sure no one else gets a chance. I've spent too many years watching her from afar, seeing her with other men. This marriage—this forced marriage—was a blessing in disguise. I'm not going to screw it up."
He studied his friend for a moment, then sighed. "You're hopeless, you know that? But whatever, mate. Back to my problem: should I take Ginny on a honeymoon or not?"
Draco tilted his head, thinking for a moment. "I mean, the idea's not terrible… but she barely acknowledges your existence. You've got bigger problems. Maybe start with dinner. You know, something simple before you drag her off to a foreign country."
He raised an eyebrow. "You think she'll agree to that?"
Draco chuckled darkly. "I don't know, mate. Throw her a bone. Girls like things that make them feel pampered. Look at Pansy, she's head over heels for Neville because he bought her a bloody dog. Maybe you should consider a similar strategy."
He rolled his eyes, not amused. "I'm not giving her a dog just to get her to sit at a table with me."
Draco shrugged. "Hey, worked for Longbottom. But fine, go with dinner. Wine, candles, the whole romantic bit. She's not exactly the type to melt over flowers, but you might win her over with food. At least, it's a safer bet than showing up with a poodle."
Blaise smirked, shaking his head. "I'm sticking to the dinner plan. The last thing I need is a dog running around, pissing on my Italian rugs."
Draco laughed, setting his glass down. "Smart choice, Zabini. Just don't mess it up. If Red doesn't start warming up to you soon, you'll be in deeper trouble than I am with Granger."
He let out a long breath, running his hands through his hair. "Trust me, I know. I've got to figure out how to get through to her. Maybe dinner is a good start, but hell if I know what to do after that."
Draco stood up, clapping Blaise on the shoulder. "You'll figure it out. And if not… Well, there's always the dog."
As Draco walked toward the door, he chuckled, shaking his head at the absurdity of the situation. "If you hear barking in my house, Malfoy, you're never setting foot in my Italian estate."
Draco waved him off with a smirk. "Yeah, yeah. Good luck, lover boy."
~~~~~~
Blaise stood outside her door, running through the same opening line for the fifth time.
The clock on the wall at the end of the corridor ticked loud enough to get on his nerves. He adjusted his cuffs, then his tie, then his cuffs again, boot tapping against the polished floor while he pretended he was not counting the seconds.
After twenty eight minutes, the latch finally turned.
The door opened a crack, then wider. Ginny leaned against the frame, hair mussed from her hands, face bare, eyes sharp despite the tiredness that clung to her. She folded her arms across her chest, one brow lifting.
"What do you want, Zabini."
Her tone was all edges, but there was curiosity there, buried under the irritation.
He pulled on a smile he knew looked easy, even if it did not feel that way. "Mia cara," he said, smooth out of habit, "I need you to go and get ready. We have an engagement."
She blinked, thrown for a moment. "An engagement where," she asked, scepticism settling in fast.
"Secret," he replied, slipping his hands into his pockets. His voice stayed light, but he did not move from the doorway. "I am not leaving without you."
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, as if she could peel back the charm and see what he was really up to. Surprises were not high on her list of favourite things, especially not when they came from the man the Ministry had attached to her life. It could have been another performance. Another show of wealth. Another attempt to drag her into his world.
"I am not in the mood for some ridiculous dinner with people I do not care about," she said, shifting as if she might close the door in his face.
He lifted his hand and rested it against the edge of the door. Not hard. Just enough to keep it from swinging shut. The teasing slipped from his voice.
"It is not that," he said quietly. "I thought it might be good for us to go out. Just us."
She hesitated, teeth catching on her lower lip while she looked at him. He was not pleading. He did not beg. But there was something honest in the way he held her gaze, in the way his shoulders had lost their usual lazy set.
This did not feel like a show.
"Come on, Gin," he added, softer now. "Let me take you somewhere. No tricks. You can hate it later if you like."
She watched him for another long moment, weighing him in silence.
"You know," she said at last, stepping back a little, "for someone who prides himself on charm, your idea of an invitation is appalling. No warning. No information. Just 'get dressed, Weasley.'"
His mouth curved. "Is that a yes."
She blew out a breath, clearly annoyed with herself. "Fine," she said, pointing a finger at his chest. "But if this turns into some grand performance where you parade me around so people can admire your shiny new wife, I will hex you."
He laughed, the sound warmer than he meant it to be. "Noted."
She shook her head and closed the door properly this time, leaving him alone in the corridor again.
He checked his watch, then stopped himself. He had already waited twenty eight minutes. He could manage a little longer.
As the minutes slid by, he found himself pacing, the polished floor reflecting his movement back at him. This evening was not about the restaurant or the wine or the careful reservation he had pulled strings to get. It was about offering her something that did not feel like a sentence. Something that might show her he was trying to meet her halfway.
What if she hated it. What if she hated him. The questions nudged at him more than he cared to admit. He was not used to doubt. Women usually met him with interest, curiosity, something hungry. Ginny met him with walls.
He had no practice with walls.
The door opened again.
He turned, and whatever clever line he had been about to use died on his tongue. She stood in the doorway in a dress that skimmed her figure without trying too hard, simple and clean, with her hair loose in soft waves over her shoulders. No heavy jewellery. No dramatic makeup. Just her.
For a second, he just looked.
"You look…" He stopped, started again, this time without the performance. "You look beautiful."
Colour rose in her cheeks. Her eyes flicked away and back. "You had better not make me regret this," she said, but there was no real heat behind it.
He held out his arm. After a short pause, she slipped her hand through, the contact light and careful.
As they stepped out of the house together, she could feel a knot of tension sitting in her stomach, but something else threaded through it now. Not quite hope. Not yet. Just curiosity that refused to stay quiet.
The private dining room he had chosen was tucked away at the back of an old wizarding restaurant, hidden behind a carved door and a discreet charm. When she walked in, she had to admit it was impressive.
A chandelier hung above them, its small crystals catching the soft light and scattering it across the ceiling. The walls were lined with dark wood, smooth from years of polish, broken only by a few framed paintings and fine gold detailing. A single long table sat in the centre of the room, dressed in white linen. Deep red roses rested in low silver vases, their scent winding through the air in a way that felt warm rather than cloying.
It was intimate. Not crowded. Not loud. No strangers. Just the two of them and the quiet clink of glass and silver.
He moved to her chair and pulled it out without a flourish, simply offering it. She paused, fingers brushing the back for a second before she sat, letting her eyes travel around the room once more.
She had been to plenty of impressive events. Ministry functions full of stiff smiles, Quidditch ceremonies where the noise never ended, family gatherings that could fill an entire garden. This felt different.
This felt aimed. Specific. As if he had taken the time to think about what might suit her rather than what would look good from the outside.
He sat across from her, one hand around his wineglass, watching without crowding. It felt less like scrutiny and more like he was checking whether she would bolt.
A waiter appeared almost at once and set a glass of deep red wine in front of her, another in front of him. The scent rose up, rich and dark, the kind of vintage people bragged about owning.
Ginny took a careful sip, let it sit on her tongue, then glanced up at him. "You really went all out," she said, voice light, almost amused.
His mouth curved. "I thought you deserved something decent," he said, and for once there was nothing flashy in it. No flourish. Just an easy truth.
She set her glass down, eyebrow lifting. "And what exactly do you think I deserve."
"An evening that is actually yours," he answered. He leaned back a little, posture relaxed. "Somewhere without spectators. Something that is not about the Ministry, or the law, or anyone else. Just you. Just us."
She studied him over the rim of her glass. He felt different tonight. Less polished, somehow, even in his immaculate suit. He was not trying to drown her in charm or impress her with how much money he could throw at a problem. It felt quieter, more deliberate. She could not quite decide if that made her more wary or less.
The waiter returned with the first course, a plate of seared scallops resting on something green and bright that smelled like lemon and herbs. It looked ridiculous in the prettiest way. She picked up her fork, shot him a small look, and took a bite.
The flavour was so good it startled her. She swallowed before she let any sound slip out.
"Well," Blaise said after a moment, breaking the silence, "what do you think."
"Of the food," she asked, because it was easier.
He huffed a small laugh. "Of the night. Of this whole situation we are in."
She set the fork down and drew in a slow breath, eyes tracing the edge of her plate while she gathered herself. Being honest with him was not something she practiced often. Avoidance had felt safer. Yet sitting here, with good food in front of her and no one else in the room, ducking the question felt childish.
"I do not know," she said. The words came out quieter than she meant them to. "It has all been strange. I always thought if I ever got married, it would be because I chose it. Because I loved the person. Because I wanted it. Not because some Ministry committee decided where I should live and who I should wake up beside."
He did not interrupt. Did not rush to reassure. He only listened.
"And you…" She hesitated, searching for the right shape of it. "You are not what I expected."
"Different how," he asked, voice softer now.
She looked up and met his gaze. There was no smugness there. No triumphant little curve of his mouth. Just curiosity and something careful.
"I thought you would be unbearable," she admitted. "Controlling. Smug. The kind of man who would treat all this like a business deal and expect me to play the pretty wife while he handled everything else. You have not done that." She paused, then added, "You gave me space instead. You did not force your way into my room, into my bed, into every corner of my life. You could have."
He nodded once, accepting that without preening over it. "I know this was not what you wanted," he said. "I did not see myself ending up married because the Ministry said so either. But here we are, and we can either grind each other down or try to make it livable. I prefer the second option."
Ginny let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "You are annoyingly reasonable for a Slytherin."
"I prefer the term practical," he said, eyes glinting.
The weight between them shifted a little then. The sharpness dulled. They moved through the next courses more easily. Soup appeared, then salad, then something rich and savoury that melted on her tongue. Conversation followed in its own rhythm. They talked about Quidditch, about Puddlemere's idiotic new manager, about George's latest disastrous product test. She told him a story about Luna that made him roll his eyes and smile at the same time. He shared something about his mother's family that she had never heard before.
Sometimes the talk slipped deeper without warning. Grief. The war. What it was like to go back to the Burrow or to Malfoy Manor after the dust settled. There were pauses, awkward ones, where they both seemed to realise how strange it was to be sharing these pieces of themselves with someone they still did not fully trust.
By the time dessert arrived, she was no longer counting the minutes.
The chocolate soufflé arrived warm and delicate, steam curling from the crack in its top. A small bowl of whipped cream sat beside it. Blaise handed her a spoon with a small, almost shy smile.
"Try it before you decide this was a waste of an evening," he said.
She scooped a bit from the middle, added cream, and tasted it. The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. He saw it and looked absurdly pleased.
"Can I ask you something," he said then, breaking the quiet that had settled around the table.
"That depends," she replied, spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. "Is it stupid."
"I suppose that is for you to decide," he said. "What do you actually want from this marriage."
The question landed heavier than she expected. Her hand lowered. She stared at the soufflé for a moment, then put the spoon down entirely.
"I am not sure any more," she said. "Before all this, I thought I wanted something simple. A partner I chose. Kids, maybe. A home that felt like mine. Chaos and Sunday lunches and a garden full of badly kept plants. Now I do not even know if that idea belongs to me any more."
He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on her face. "I never pictured myself with a ring on my finger at all," he admitted. "I thought I would float through life with lovers and no obligations, no one expecting anything of me. And yet, here we are. I am married, and for the first time I find myself thinking that being tied to one person might not be a curse."
She blinked, thrown by his honesty. "What are you saying, exactly."
"I am saying I would like this to be more than two people stuck in the same house," he replied. "If you want that as well. I am not asking for some perfect fairy story. I am asking if you think there is any chance we can make something real out of this."
Her heart thudded, heavy and uncertain. The room felt smaller all at once. She looked down at her hands.
"I do not know," she said at last. "I am still angry. I still feel like someone stole my life and handed me a different one. But…" She drew in a breath. "Tonight has not been awful."
His mouth softened. "I will take that," he said quietly.
He reached across the table and laid his hand over hers, not gripping, only resting there. His palm was warm. She could have pulled away. She did not.
"It is a start," he said.
They sat like that for a while, saying nothing. Her fingers slowly uncurled until her hand settled fully under his. The world outside the small room went on, but in here the night seemed to narrow to the shared warmth of skin and the quiet understanding that whatever this was, it did not have to stay frozen.
When the bill had been paid and the candles burned lower, he stood and came around to her side of the table.
"Shall we," he asked, offering his hand again.
She hesitated, then placed her hand in his. The cool night air greeted them as they stepped outside, a soft breeze brushing against her bare arms. She felt his fingers slip around hers, gentle, as if he was leaving room for her to change her mind.
Her first instinct was to make a joke, something sharp to break the moment. The words did not come. The silence between them did not feel heavy, just full.
They walked slowly down the street, their pace unconsciously matched. The only sounds were the distant hum of the city and the steady tap of their footsteps. Every so often his thumb moved in a small, absent stroke against the back of her hand, sending little sparks up her arm that she refused to name.
She risked a glance at him. The moonlight softened the angles of his face, made him look younger, less impossible. He looked oddly peaceful.
Is this what it is meant to feel like, she wondered. Not fireworks. Not a grand, sweeping feeling. Just this quiet sense that walking beside someone is easier than walking alone.
By the time the manor came into view, that strange, tentative ease had settled in her chest. She still did not like the house. It still felt too big, too polished. Yet stepping up to the front door with his hand still in hers felt different from stepping over the threshold by herself.
He let go as they reached the top step, his fingers sliding away reluctantly. The absence of his touch startled her more than the contact had.
"Well," she said, because she had to say something, "that was… not terrible."
His laugh came out low and real. "I am honoured."
"Do not get smug about it," she replied, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
He grew serious again, the humour slipping from his features. "Ginny," he said, a little quieter, "it does not have to stay this awkward between us. We could try to meet in the middle. I am not asking you to pretend everything is fine. I am asking you to let me try."
She searched his face, looking for the catch. There was no mockery there. No gloating. Only patience and a nervous sort of hope he was terrible at hiding.
"I do not know if I can," she answered, honesty tugged from somewhere deep.
"You do not have to know yet," he said. "We can start small."
"Small how," she asked, wary but not pulling away.
"Like this," he replied. "Dinners. Walks. Holding hands when it feels alright. Talking, when you want to. You set the pace."
Something in her chest loosened. It was not a grand promise. It was not enough to erase the anger or the grief. It was, however, something she could imagine herself agreeing to without feeling like she was handing over more than she could afford to lose.
"Alright," she said softly. "We can start there."
He nodded, relief flickering over his face for a second before he stepped back to open the door.
They went inside together. The house felt just as big and just as echoing as before, but the weight of it pressed a little less. Their marriage was still strange and tangled and not what she would have chosen.