Blaise came home late again, exhaustion sunk deep into his bones, the metallic scent of blood still clinging to his skin beneath the layers of soap and smoke. Nights like this had become a ritual he could not break. Violence, silence, a locked jaw, a shower that went on too long, and then whatever was left of him dragging itself through the front door.
He no longer flinched at crimson on his hands. That part of him was gone. The shock, the horror, the first time. Now it was just another part of the job, as ordinary as breathing. What still unsettled him was not what he did, but the thought of Ginny ever seeing it. Ever knowing. Ever looking at his hands and understanding exactly what they had done.
So he hid it. Not only with water and soap, but with velvet and gold.
After every mission, he brought her something. It had started as a distraction, a way to shove down the guilt that clawed its way up his throat on the walk back home. Tonight was no different. In his palm rested a small velvet box, absurdly light compared to everything else he carried. Inside was a silver chain with a smooth oval of moonstone, pale and soft, the kind of thing that would catch the light against her throat and make her eyes glow.
To her, he hoped, it would look like love. A thoughtful surprise from a husband who had seen something beautiful and thought of her.
To him, it was a trade. A poor, pathetic offering to balance the scales, as if a necklace could drown out the ghosts that whispered his name when the house went quiet.
He stepped into the foyer, shutting the door with more care than he had shown anyone all night. The manor was still, the kind of silence that felt staged, almost fragile. No lamps burning low downstairs, no lingering chatter, no clatter from the kitchen. She would be upstairs by now, curled under blankets that never saw what he did when he was away.
He shrugged off his coat, fingers careful on the fabric, eyes scanning the cuffs and lining for anything he might have missed. No stains. No drops. No evidence. He hung it up, then slipped off his gloves and stared for a moment at his bare hands. The skin along his knuckles was cracked where the blood had dried before he had scrubbed it clean. He flexed his fingers, watched the faint pull of red, and felt it rise in him again.
Not a Death Eater anymore. Something worse.
He had shed the Mark, but not the work.
An assassin now, nothing more and nothing less. A ghost in alleyways. A name people did not say out loud. A blade that struck in silence and left nothing behind. His hands bore no symbols, no carved loyalty, but the stains were there all the same, sunk into the lines of his palms, into the seams of his soul.
His path had been sealed the moment Draco took his place at the top of the Malfoy line. Someone had needed to do the work that could never lead back to them, and Blaise had been the simplest answer. Not because he was loyal, not in the way the old pureblood families liked to imagine, but because he was efficient. Because he was ruthless when he needed to be. Because he did not hesitate.
The jobs came regular as clockwork. Names slid across polished wood. Rivals. Traitors. Men and women who threatened the delicate balance of power the old families had rebuilt in the dark. Blaise erased them with steady hands and an empty face. Most nights he did not even bother with magic. Steel, poisons, a well-placed fall. Methods that did not leave a trace in any magical record. By the time a target realised they were in danger, it was already over.
That part of him worked. Did what it was told. Moved without falter.
The part that came home afterwards was the one that struggled.
Their house was supposed to be separate, a world apart from that life. High windows, warm colours, her laugh echoing down the corridor when she forgot to be guarded. A bedroom that smelled like her shampoo. A kitchen that had learned the shape of her hands. He had wanted this place to stay untouched. Clean in a way his conscience could never be.
Instead, every step inside felt like trespassing. Like tracking mud over the floor of a chapel. He carried the night in with him no matter how hard he tried to wash it off.
She could not know. Not what he did now. Not who he was when he walked into other men's homes and did not let them walk out again. To Ginny, he had to remain Blaise Zabini, the arrogant, aggravating, ridiculously wealthy husband the Ministry had chained her to. The man who bought her flowers when he thought she had had a difficult day. Not the man who wiped blood off his throat before slipping under the sheets beside her.
Tonight's job had been worse than usual. Messier. Loud in a way he preferred to avoid. A man with too much influence and too little sense, someone who could have torn their world apart if he had been given enough time. Blaise had made sure he did not get it. The fight had been quick but brutal, the struggle leaving deeper bruises than he cared to admit. His hands still ached from it.
He had refused to vanish the blood straight away. No quick charm. No easy erasing. He had watched it dry first, filigree patterns in red along his knuckles, a reminder of what he was about to bring into the same house where Ginny left half-read books on the arm of the sofa and forgot mugs of tea on window sills. Only when the weight of it started to make his stomach churn had he turned on the tap and scrubbed his skin raw.
Now the evidence was gone. The deed was not.
He crossed the hall with slow, measured steps, moonstone box resting in his palm. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner kept time with his thoughts, each swing of the pendulum a reminder that there would be another list, another name, another night just like this one. He could lie to everyone else. To Ginny. To Draco. To himself. Tell them it was necessary, that someone had to do it, that he was simply playing the role he had been handed.
But in the quiet, that excuse rang thin.
He paused at the foot of the stairs, looking up into the dark. Somewhere above, she slept in sheets he had chosen for their softness, their colour, their warmth. She had never seen him like this. She had seen his temper, his jealousy, his need. She had seen his grief. She had not seen the blood.
He closed his fingers around the box until the edges bit into his skin. A necklace. A small, shining lie. Something lovely to cover something vile. She would smile when she opened it. Maybe roll her eyes, tell him he was ridiculous, and lean in to kiss his cheek. For a brief moment he would almost believe it, believe that the man she saw and the man who had walked out of that alley tonight were the same.
He drew in a slow breath that did nothing to steady him.
He had stepped into this life with his eyes open. Maybe he had not chosen every part of it, but he had stayed. Helped shape it. Watched it grow teeth. There was no pretending otherwise now. No side door he could slip out of and call it a mistake.
With the gift still in his hand and a heaviness in his chest that no amount of alcohol or money or sleep could touch, Blaise climbed the stairs, one careful step at a time, into the home he was terrified of losing and did not feel worthy of keeping.
~~~~~~
Blaise had always been a man in control, of his surroundings, of his temper, of the exact angle at which he struck. Precision was his language. Distance was his armour. With her, all of it slipped straight through his hands. It was getting worse with every day that passed. The need for her sat under his skin like fever. Not only the curve of her mouth or the way her body fit against his, but the simple, maddening ache for her attention, her voice, the barest flicker of softness in his direction.
He had wanted women before. He had pursued, enjoyed, walked away without looking back. This was nothing like that. This felt like hunger that never eased. No number of missions completed, no amount of blood washed from his hands could quiet it.
He needed her.
The way she moved around him now was a special kind of torture. She did not fight with him. She did not scream or throw curses or slam doors. He could have handled that. He almost longed for it. Instead, she floated through the house like something half-there. She was polite when she had to be. Silent when she did not. Her indifference wrapped around him tighter than any hex. When she did look at him, it was with a distant, flat calm that made him feel like furniture. Background.
And it was killing him.
Some nights he caught himself just standing in the corridor outside her room, staring at the painted wood like it might peel back and let him see inside. His hand would lift, ready to knock, ready to do something, say something, anything that might draw her toward him instead of farther away. Every time he stopped himself.
Because even if she did open that door, who would she find on the other side. The polished version she already pushed away. Or the man he really was, the one who came home with blood on his cuffs and a knife tucked into his sleeve. He did not know which possibility frightened him more, the idea that she would hate him for what she did not know, or the idea that knowing all of it would drive her out of his life for good.
She did not even want the half-truth she had now. How could she bear the rest.
The thought knotted up tight in his chest, made his breathing shallow. It was almost comical to think of the man he used to be, smug and untouchable, watching him now. Pacing like this. Waiting for a light under her door. Waiting for a sound. Waiting for mercy.
He knew the right thing was to give her space, to step back. Each time he tried, the distance grew and his restraint frayed. The farther she drifted, the more his mind clung to her. She had become the only thing that made the rest of his life feel even remotely human. Without her, there was only the work, the orders, the quiet after. He needed her to see something in him besides the monster he knew he was capable of being. Needed the chance to prove he could be more where she was concerned.
Gods, he wanted to beg.
He could see it so clearly it almost felt like memory. Dropping to his knees in front of her, arms around her waist, face pressed to her stomach, holding on like he might fall straight through the floor without her. Asking for nothing more than her hand in his hair, her fingers on his jaw, a single kiss that did not feel like a weapon.
He would have given anything for another one like the kiss she had already given him. That quick, furious crush of her mouth against his still stalked him through his days. It had been rough, sharp, over almost as soon as it began, but it had cut him wide open. No one had ever kissed him like they wanted to hurt him and keep him at the same time.
"Ginny," he whispered into the empty room one night, the sound falling flat against the walls. Her name tasted like a confession. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, useless gesture that did nothing to ease the ache there.
He pictured walking to her door, turning the handle, standing in the half-light of her room and telling her everything. No more polished story, no more careful omissions. Just the truth laid out between them. Every name. Every night. Every part of him that he would rather keep buried. Letting her see the man who was fraying at the edges, the one who would lower himself without shame if it meant she might touch his face and not flinch.
He stayed where he was.
The weight of wanting her and believing he did not deserve her pinned his feet to the floor. No matter how much he craved her voice, her hands, the simple kindness of being seen, he could not cross that last inch between them. There was a line he did not know how to step over.
Still, as he lingered outside her door again, fists clenched, breath tight, the same questions circled in his mind.
Would she hate him less if she understood just how much he needed her.
Would anything shift if she saw the man underneath the charm and control, the one held together by regret and stubborn hope. Or would she shut the door in his face, leave him alone with his ghosts and the red that never truly washed away.
He swallowed hard, throat burning as he finally turned away from her room. He forced himself to walk back down the corridor, each step heavy, his mind still caught on the feel of her mouth and the impossible wish that she might kiss him like that again without anger in it.
Later, he sat at the dining room table, hands wrapped around a glass he did not drink from, watching her cross the room to pour herself wine. The low lighting blurred the edges of everything, pulled the walls closer, made the space feel almost intimate. Not that it mattered. The distance between them did not care how small the room was.
She stood at the sideboard, her profile outlined by the warm glow of the sconces, red hair loose over her shoulders, fingers steady as she tipped the bottle. She looked calm. Self-contained. Completely beyond his reach.
That kiss lived in his head like a curse and a blessing all at once. It was not the softness of it that ruined him. It was the flash of possibility. The way his heart had leapt against his will. The way hope, fragile and reckless, had started to take root in the space where he had always kept himself empty.
Maybe one day she would see him as he was. Not as the polished pureblood heir the world saw. Not as the weapon Draco used. Just as Blaise. Flawed, tired, and so in love with her it frightened him.
He watched the line of her throat as she swallowed her first sip of wine and realised there was no going back from this.
He was utterly, completely fucked.
How could he be in love with someone who could barely stand to look at him. Someone who moved around him like he was an accident she kept trying not to see. Someone for whom his presence was a reminder of a law she never asked for and a life she never wanted. The truth sat there, ugly and obvious, and he had given up trying to argue with it. Ginny Weasley had worked her way into him so quietly and so completely that by the time he noticed, it was already too late. He was locked in a prison that did not need bars, because it lived inside his own chest.
He did not only love her. He needed her. In the way a drowning man needs air. In the way a condemned man needs a last miracle.
But how was he supposed to get close to someone who treated him like a shadow. Someone who kept her distance with the same stubbornness she had once used to fight in a war. He had tried everything he could think of. Grand gestures. Thoughtful ones. Gifts that cost small fortunes and quieter offerings that cost him more than money. Nothing made a dent. She stayed out of reach, guarded, her walls built so high he could not even see the top. On the rare days she did smile in his direction, it felt like sunlight through glass. Something he could see, something he could feel, but never really touch.
Tonight felt different. Just a fraction, but he felt it all the same. She seemed less braced for impact, her shoulders not quite so tight, her mouth not quite so thin. They had fallen into a sort of habit, sharing dinner most nights. It was not romantic. It was not warm. It was simply something they did. Sit in the same room, eat from the same table, survive another evening. Tonight there was a softness in the air that had not been there before. Not much. Just enough that he noticed.
So he took a risk.
Instead of his usual seat across from her, he walked to the chair at her side and sat there. His heart beat too fast for how simple the movement was. He half expected her to stand up immediately, to make some sharp remark, to leave the room and let the door slam behind her. He steeled himself for it.
She did not move.
Her head turned, her eyes catching his. Surprise flickered there, and a hint of caution, but no disgust. No recoil. She stayed where she was. That tiny act felt like someone had just cracked a window in a room he had been locked in for months. He could feel the warmth of her sitting next to him. The faint scent of her shampoo, something clean and bright, drifted toward him and settled in his lungs like a spell. Every part of him strained to lean closer, to reach out, to let his hand find hers on the table, just to know what it felt like to touch her without anger in it. He held himself still. He had pushed too hard before, and this small closeness felt too fragile to risk.
His fingers laced together in his lap, knuckles white, the only sign of the effort it took not to reach for her.
"Is there something you want?" she asked after a moment, her voice low, wary but not sharp.
The question caught him off guard. He turned his head, met her gaze fully. Her eyes were guarded, but there was no outright rejection there. That alone felt like progress.
"I just wanted to sit next to you," he said. The truth slipped out before he could wrap it in charm. "I wanted to be near you."
His voice sounded rough in his own ears, stripped of polish, as if the words had been dragged up from somewhere deep and bruised.
She blinked once, slowly. Her face gave almost nothing away, but he saw the smallest shift in her expression, the tiniest crack in the mask. She did not tell him to move. She did not shove her chair back. The silence that followed felt heavy, but it was not the suffocating kind anymore. It was thick with something else. Hesitation. Thought.
She let out a breath, her shoulders dropping a fraction. She did not answer him, not with words, and he tried to accept that for what it was. She was still there. She had not left. For tonight that was enough.
He kept his body relaxed, or at least he tried to. No sudden movements. No reaching for her. He let her set the distance, let her decide how close she would allow him to sit. It was maddening, moving at this glacial pace, but he had learned the hard way that he could not drag her toward him. She had to come at her own speed, in her own time, or not at all.
Minutes slipped by. The food on their plates cooled. The clink of cutlery filled in the spaces where conversation might have been. Then she spoke again, her gaze on her fork, not on him.
"I don't know what you want from me," she said. Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor under it if you listened closely enough. "I'm not ready for whatever this is. Not yet."
The words still landed like a blow. He felt them settle somewhere under his ribs, a familiar sting he tried not to show.
"I know," he murmured. "I am not asking you for anything." He paused, searching for words that did not sound like a line. "I just want you to know I am here. That is all. If you ever want more, I will be here."
She nodded once, a small, restrained movement. The tension in her shoulders did not vanish, but it loosened. Just slightly. She was not persuaded, he knew that. Not convinced. Not swayed by his quiet declarations. Still, she stayed.
They finished the meal with very little said between them. Knives against china. Glass against glass. The small, ordinary sounds of two people sharing a table and almost sharing a life. He could feel every unsaid thing crowding the space between their chairs. Questions he could not ask yet. Apologies she was not ready to hear.
When she finally pushed her chair back and stood, he felt the familiar pull of dread in his chest, the fear that she would walk away and take the fragile peace with her. She walked toward the door, then paused at the threshold. For a second, she stood with her back to him. Then she turned her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder.
"You don't have to try so hard," she said. Her tone was softer now, stripped of its usual sharp edges. "Just give me time."
Something in him gave way at those words, like a muscle he had held clenched for too long suddenly loosening. He nodded, unable to trust his voice.
"Alright," he managed. "I can do that."
She held his gaze for one heartbeat more, then turned and disappeared down the corridor, leaving the room quieter than before, but not quite as cold.
He stayed where he was, staring at the empty doorway. The memory of her kiss still lived in his mind, fierce and wild and impossible to forget, but now there was something else beside it. Her voice, quieter than he had ever heard it. Her request.
Time.
She was not promising him anything. She was not giving him her heart, or her forgiveness, or even her trust. She was asking for space to breathe, to think, to find her footing in this mess they had been thrown into.
For the first time in months, that felt like something real he could hold on to.
~~~~~~
Her own emotions had turned against her, and pretending otherwise was starting to feel pathetic. The shift had been slow, so slow she almost missed it, but now it sat there inside her chest, stubborn and undeniable. Something in her reacted every time Blaise walked into a room. A flutter she did not approve of. A pull she did not want.
She had gone into this marriage ready to hate him. It had been easier to pin everything on him, to turn him into the villain and herself into the trapped heroine who wanted nothing to do with him. Except the longer they lived together, the more that story stopped fitting.
She kept noticing things. Little things that had nothing to do with the Ministry or the law or the weight of his past. The way he moved, always in quiet, measured lines, as if he was careful not to take up more space than he should. The way his eyes found her in a crowded room and stayed there, steady, as if he was listening even when she was not speaking. The way his voice softened when he said her name.
It irritated her how often he crossed her mind when he was not around. She would be doing something ordinary, something safe and familiar, and suddenly catch herself wondering what he was doing. Whether he had eaten. Whether he was tired. Whether he was thinking of her too. She hated that. Hated how her pulse picked up when she heard his footsteps in the hall, how aware she had become of the distance between their bodies whenever they shared a room.
The gifts should have been easy to dismiss. Expensive things from a man with too much money and too much guilt. That was the story she had tried to tell herself. Yet somehow, they did not feel careless or random. A necklace that suited her taste exactly. Books she had once mentioned in passing and forgotten about, but he clearly had not. Small, quiet details that suggested he was paying far more attention than she wanted him to.
It was not the price that got to her. It was the thought, the accuracy of it. The feeling that he saw her, really saw her, in ways she had never quite been prepared for anyone to see.
He was not the monster she had been so determined to make him. That was the problem. If he had been cruel, it would have been simple. If he had treated her like a burden, she would have had a reason to hate him cleanly. Instead he kept offering gentleness she had not asked for, patience she did not think he possessed, and a steady, unflinching attention that made it harder and harder to keep her guard up.
There were nights when she let her thoughts wander, when the house was quiet and she lay awake staring at the ceiling. In those moments, she allowed herself to imagine what it might feel like to stop fighting him. To step toward him instead of away. To let herself lean into the warmth he offered and see what happened if she did not pull back. The images came too easily. His hand at the small of her back. His mouth against her shoulder. His laugh against her throat.
That was what frightened her most. Not the past, not his secrets, not even the future stamped on parchment by a law she hated. What terrified her was the simple, aching truth that had begun to form, no matter how she tried to smother it.
She liked him.
Not just his face, not just his charm, not just the smooth way he filled a doorway or the way he dressed like he owned every room he walked into. She liked the dry comments he made under his breath when he thought no one was listening. She liked the way he defended her without hesitation. She liked the rare, unguarded smiles that slipped out when she surprised him. She liked that he looked at her as if nothing in the world could possibly be more interesting.
And liking him felt like a betrayal. A betrayal of the girl who had sworn she would never let a man like him close. A betrayal of everything she thought she believed about people with his history and his name.
So she did what she always did when things frightened her. She tried to wrestle control back. She teased him, provoked him, pretended her racing pulse was just stubbornness and nothing more. She told herself she was only playing a game.
But inside, she knew the truth.
Somewhere along the way, without her consent, without her noticing, her heart had started to shift toward him. And she had no idea how to stop it.
~~~~~~
She paused in the doorway of his bedroom, knuckles resting against the frame as if she needed something solid to hold on to before she crossed the line. The room was lit only by the small lamp on the bedside table, all soft gold and shadow, and for a second she thought about turning around and pretending she had never come.
He was bare-chested, moving calmly as he folded his shirt and set it aside, the muscles in his back shifting as he turned toward her. His eyes softened at the sight of her, surprise there, yes, but something warmer underneath that made her stomach flip.
"The gods must be listening for once," he said quietly, the tease gentle rather than sharp. "You have come to our room."
Her fingers tightened on the wood. It felt childish to say it out loud, but she forced herself to anyway. "I am lonely," she murmured, looking down at her feet before she dragged her gaze back up to him.
The change in his face was instant. Whatever distance he had kept in place for her sake slipped, and he crossed the room in a few long strides.
"Baby girl," he said, his voice softer than she was used to hearing it. His fingers brushed her arm, barely there, a question rather than a claim. "You can always talk to me. I am here for you. Any time. You say my name and I will come, no matter where I am."
His thumb traced the inside of her forearm, slow and careful. The warmth of his skin seared through her, steadying and unsettling all at once.
She swallowed, her throat tight. "Thank you," she said quietly, the words small but honest. It felt strange to stand here like this, without armour, without insults at the ready, but walking away felt worse.
He stepped a little closer, close enough that she could feel his breath against her hair. "Stay with me tonight," he asked, no bravado, only a rough edge of hope. "I have missed you."
Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. Every part of her wanted to pretend she needed more time, more distance, more anger, but the thought of going back to her empty room made her chest ache.
"Okay," she whispered.
His shoulders dropped a fraction, as if some invisible weight eased. He moved to the bed and pulled the covers back for her, more careful than she had ever seen him with anything breakable. She slid beneath the sheets, the cotton cool against her skin, and he joined her on the other side, leaving enough space that she did not feel crowded.
The quiet stretched between them. She lay on her back for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, listening to the soft sound of his breathing beside her. Slowly, almost against her own will, she rolled towards him and let her head rest against his chest.
His heartbeat thudded steadily under her ear. Strong. Real. Human.
His arm curved around her without hesitation, his hand settling at the small of her back. He began to draw idle patterns over the fabric of her top, nothing suggestive, just gentle circles that made something in her finally unclench.
"I am glad you are here," he said into her hair, his mouth brushing her crown.
She let her eyes close, letting the sound of his voice and the rhythm of his chest under her cheek blur the edges of the day. The sharp, lonely ache she had carried around for weeks loosened, not gone, but no longer strangling. She had not planned on this. Had not planned on his bed feeling like the safest place she had stood in a very long time.
He shifted a little, holding her closer, like he expected her to vanish if he eased up for even a second.
"Good night, tesoro," he murmured, the pet name slow and warm, like he was tasting it.
She smiled against his skin before she could stop herself. "Good night… cutie," she muttered, the word slipping out half teasing, half embarrassed.
He huffed a quiet laugh that she felt more than heard. "First time you have given me a nickname," he said. "I will treasure this historic moment."
"Do not get used to it," she replied, but there was no real bite to it.
His fingers moved lazily up and down her spine, and when he spoke again, all the usual polish was stripped from his tone. "Thank you, mia cara," he said softly. "You have no idea what that does to me."
She did not answer. She did not know how. So she just stayed where she was, letting the weight of his arm and the quiet sincerity in his voice soak into her.
After a while he cleared his throat, sounding almost shy. "Can I have a good night kiss?"
Her snort jolted the mattress. "In your dreams, Zabini."
"In my dreams, you are far more generous than that," he said, smug and fond all at once.
She elbowed him lightly in the ribs. "You are a good kisser, though," she added, grudging, as if the words were being dragged out of her.
He stilled under her, then angled his head enough to look down at her face. "You are the best kiss I have ever had," he answered, no joke, no hesitation.
Heat crept up her neck as their eyes met in the half-light. His gaze held nothing but honesty, and something inside her lurched.
"Blaise…" She swallowed, fingers curling in the fabric over his ribs. "I like you."
For a moment he simply stared at her, as if his brain had missed a step. Then his whole expression softened, all sharp edges gone.
"I like you too, Ginny," he said quietly, each word deliberate, like a promise he meant to keep.
He dipped his head until his forehead rested against hers, their noses almost touching. "And good little angels like you," he murmured, brushing his lips over her hairline, "get whatever they want."
Her face warmed, but the smile that pulled at her mouth felt small and real. The walls she had built up around herself did not crash down all at once, but she felt them shift, the foundations cracking just enough to let the light in.
"Then what I want right now," she whispered, fingers tightening briefly against his chest, "is to stay here with you."
His chest rose on a sharp breath, his heart thudding faster under her palm. He did not say anything clever. He just held her closer, his chin resting on top of her head, one hand steady at her back like he was anchoring them both.
The room stayed quiet. The night outside went on. Inside the circle of his arms, her body finally began to relax, her thoughts slowing until all that was left was warmth and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
She drifted towards sleep with the unfamiliar, frightening, comforting sense that she was wanted here. Wanted, chosen, held.
And somewhere in the dark, wrapped around the girl who used to look at him like he was a sentence handed down by the Ministry, Blaise let himself believe that she might actually mean it.
The room settled around them in a soft hush, the only sounds the faint crackle of the wards outside and their breathing slowly falling into the same rhythm. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest under her cheek, the steady weight of his arm around her waist. It should have felt strange, maybe even dangerous, but her body chose comfort over logic and melted into him like it had been waiting for this exact place all along.
Her fingers curled against his ribs, resting there at first, then wandering without much thought. She drew a small line along the edge of a scar she could feel beneath his skin, a raised little ridge that interrupted the otherwise smooth warmth. He flinched so slightly she might have missed it if she had not been pressed so close, and his hand tightened at her hip, as though bracing himself.
"Does it hurt?" she asked quietly. Her voice was muffled by his chest, and she felt it vibrate against her cheek more than she heard it.
"Not anymore," he answered after a beat, and there was something careful in the way he said it. "Old lesson. I healed, the memory stayed."
She nodded, her fingers tracing the scar again, softer this time, almost apologetic. "I do not like that someone hurt you," she murmured.
He huffed a quiet little breath that might have been a laugh, might have been disbelief. "You do not like most of the people who hurt me," he said. "And you kissed one of them once at Hogwarts."
Her head tipped back, and she gave him a flat look. "Harry did not hex you," she muttered. "He just broke your nose. There is a difference."
"There was blood everywhere, tesoro," he replied, eyes warm now, mouth tugging into a small smile. "Felt dramatic enough to me."
She snorted, then settled again, cheek over his heart. "You deserved it," she said, but there was no real heat behind it. "You were an arse."
He tipped his chin down, resting it lightly against the top of her head. "I still am," he said. "You have simply developed questionable taste."
She swatted his side lightly with the back of her hand, then smoothed her fingers over the spot as if to erase the gesture. "Says the man who married me," she shot back. "That is a very bold statement."
His thumb drew a slow circle at the small of her back, absent and reverent all at once. "I did not marry you," he said softly. "The Ministry did. I am just trying to live in whatever miracle followed."
Her throat tightened at that, the words finding a place just below her ribs and settling there. "Do not call this a miracle," she said, eyes closing. "It was a law. It took our choices. It made a mess."
"I know," he answered, and the honesty in his tone made her chest ache. "But then you came into my house and called me cutie, so forgive me if I am a little confused about what counts as a blessing now."
She let out a quiet laugh, small and real, the sound warming the space between them. "Do not get used to that either," she warned, though the warning was softened by her fingers sneaking higher, resting over his sternum. "I might revoke it if you annoy me."
He turned his head, lips brushing her hairline. It was hardly a kiss, more a promise pressed into the strands. "I will cherish it like my last breath," he murmured. "And then annoy you anyway."
She smiled against his skin, teeth scraping softly along his shoulder as she shifted closer. Her leg slid between his, finding a comfortable place, and he stilled for a heartbeat. Then he adjusted, fitting around her, drawing her fully against him until there was no space left to second guess.
"Too close?" he asked, even though his arm had already settled firmly around her.
She shook her head, and the movement brushed her hair across his collarbone. "No," she said. "Not tonight."
Something in him eased, something he had kept coiled tight for far too long. His hand slid up from her waist to her back, fingers spreading wide as if to cover as much of her as possible. "Good," he said quietly. "Because if you move even an inch away, I might cry, and that would ruin my reputation."
She chuckled again, a soft puff of air against his skin. "You do not have a reputation with me," she said. "You are just Blaise. The idiot who buys me far too many shoes and paces outside my room like a restless dog."
He groaned softly. "You noticed that."
"Of course I noticed," she replied. "You are not subtle. The floorboards creak, you know."
"I reinforced those floors with magic," he protested. "They do not creak."
"Well, something does," she said. "Maybe it is your soul."
His chest shook under her cheek as he laughed, a low, quiet sound that rolled through his body. "You are horrible," he said fondly.
"You like it," she returned, then fell quiet for a while, just listening to the way his heart steadied under her.
The silence that followed did not feel sharp anymore. It wrapped around them like another blanket, heavy and warm, full of things unsaid but not unwelcome. She could feel thoughts moving through him, the way his breathing changed when his mind shifted, the way his fingers stilled when something weighed on him.
"Blaise," she said eventually, barely louder than the rain against the windows.
"Hm?"
"I am scared," she admitted. The words landed between them without armour, small and bare.
His hand on her back immediately stilled, then resumed its slow movement, as if trying to smooth the fear out of her spine. "Of me?" he asked, and it was too gentle, too careful.
"No," she answered at once, and that, at least, was easy. "Of what this could be. Of what it is turning into. Of losing myself in it." She paused, searching for the right shape for the feeling. "I always thought I would love someone I had chosen. Not someone handed to me on parchment."
He was quiet for a moment, and she almost regretted saying it. Then his fingers found the nape of her neck, resting there, warm and steady, his thumb brushing just under her hairline. "You know," he said finally, "I do not care if you never call it love."
She tensed, surprised enough to lift her head and meet his eyes. "You do not?"
He held her gaze, dark and open in the soft light. "I care that you are here," he said. "I care that when you are lonely, you come to me instead of letting it eat you alive. I care that you call me cutie in a moment of weakness and then threaten my life twenty minutes later. Call it whatever you want, Ginny. I will answer to all of it."
Her lips trembled in spite of herself. "You make it very hard to keep hating you," she muttered.
"I am aware," he replied. "It is my most annoying quality."
She bit back a smile, then gave in and let it curve her mouth. After a beat, she settled again, laying her head back on his chest, her hand spreading wider over his heartbeat. "What if I hurt you," she asked quietly. "Later. When I panic. When I remember why I did not want this."
"Then you hurt me," he said. There was no hesitation in it. "I have had worse. You already saved my life once by screaming at me. I will take the risk."
She thought of the projection in his study, of the ghosts he had shown her, of the part of him he presented to the world and the part that curled around her now, bare and soft. "You are very dramatic," she murmured.
"Pot, kettle," he replied.
She nudged him with her forehead, then relaxed again. "If I stay," she said slowly, tasting each word, "if I keep coming back here, you cannot lie to me about the work you do. You cannot pretend to be clean when you are not. I am not a child. I know what kind of world we live in."
His chest rose on a deeper breath, and she could feel the war inside him, the instinct to hide and the need to be seen. "I will not insult you with lies," he said at last. "I will not give you every detail either. There are things you should never have in your head. But if you ask me a question, I will answer it honestly. That is the best I can offer."
She lay with that answer for a while, letting it settle. Her fingers tapped once against his skin, then smoothed over the spot. "Alright," she said finally. "That is enough for now."
He let out a breath he had not realised he was holding. "Then we have a deal, tesoro."
"Do not call it a deal," she muttered. "Makes it sound like a contract."
"We already signed one of those," he said. "I prefer this."
She smiled again, small and secret, and tucked herself closer. Her leg hitched a little higher over his, her hand slipping under the edge of the blanket to rest on his waist, thumb brushing lazy patterns against his skin. The contact made his breath catch for a heartbeat, then he settled into it, his arm firm around her shoulders.
The storm outside began to move further off, the thunder growing softer. The room seemed to breathe with them, warm and slow, the lamplight turning everything gentle at the edges. She could feel sleep creeping in now, heavy and slow, pulling at her eyelids.
"Blaise," she murmured, on the edge of drifting.
"Yes, cutie," he whispered.
She huffed a sleepy laugh. "Do not steal my nickname for yourself," she protested, eyes already closing. "It is mine to use on you."
"Then I will keep it safe," he said. "Right here, with you."
She hummed, too tired to argue. After a moment, she tilted her head just enough to press a drowsy kiss to his chest, right over his heart, lips warm against his skin. It was not a calculated move, not a game, not a taunt; it was instinct, simple and pure.
He went very still, then melted, every line of tension in his body dissolving as though someone had finally whispered the right spell. His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers threading into her hair in a slow, reverent motion.
"Ginny," he breathed, so quiet she almost missed it. "Stay. Even if you only mean tonight. Stay."
"I am already here," she mumbled, her words slurring with sleep. "You are warm. It is annoying."
His laugh was just a ghost of sound, soft and full. "Sleep, baby," he said. "I have you."
She did not answer this time. Her breathing deepened, her body relaxing fully at last, all the fight and fire settling into something softer as she surrendered to the pull of sleep.
He lay awake a little longer, watching her in the half darkness, feeling the weight of her trust heavy and holy in his arms. His thumb drew another slow circle at her back, more for his own sake than hers now.
If this was all he ever got, a night of shared warmth and whispered confessions, he thought he might still die a grateful man. And yet, as he finally let his eyes close, with her breath warming his chest and her hand resting over his heart, he allowed himself one quiet, reckless hope.
That when morning came and the light crept in, she would still be here, tangled in his arms, choosing him all over again.