Waking up next to her for the first time felt like something out of a dream—one he had longed for but never quite believed he would have. The soft morning light seeped through the curtains, casting a golden glow over her face. Blaise lay still, watching the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, the way her hair spilled across the pillow, unruly and perfect. It was a quiet, intimate moment, yet it filled him with something dangerously close to peace. She was here. With him. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, everything felt right.
He couldn't resist the pull any longer. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to hers, a slow, lingering kiss that deepened as she stirred against him. A soft hum escaped her as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, her body fitting against his in a way that felt effortless.
Their mouths moved together in a lazy, intoxicating rhythm, tongues tangling, breaths mingling. His hand trailed down the curve of her back, fingers pressing into the softness of her waist as he drew her flush against him.
She sighed into his mouth as he rolled them gently, pinning her beneath him. His lips trailed from the corner of her mouth to her jaw, then down to the curve of her neck, where he lingered, kissing and nipping until a quiet moan escaped her lips.
She was warm beneath him, pliant, arching into his touch. He felt the heat of her through the thin fabric of her pajama pants, the way she moved against him making his restraint unravel by the second.
Her hands slid down his chest, finding the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one. He sucked in a breath as her fingers skimmed over his bare skin, tracing the muscles, exploring him as though she wanted to memorize every inch. He let her. Let her touch, let her take her time. But his patience ran thin when she shifted beneath him, her hips brushing against his, setting his blood on fire.
With a deep groan, Blaise kissed down her body, his lips mapping a path lower, teasing, taking his time. When he reached the waistband of her pajama pants, he tugged at the ribbon, glancing up at her through dark lashes.
The last thread of his control snapped. He didn't lean in; he claimed. His mouth crushed hers, a desperate, hungry kiss that was all teeth and tongue. She met him with equal ferocity, a low growl vibrating in her throat as her hands fisted in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. There was nothing slow about it, only a raw, primal need to consume and be consumed. Their mouths battled, a messy, intoxicating dance of dominance and surrender.
His lips tore from hers to blaze a trail down her throat, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin, not caring about the marks he left. He wanted to see them tomorrow, wanted her to wear his brand like a badge of honor. She writhed beneath him, a lithe, desperate creature, her nails raking down his back, the sting of it only fueling the fire in his veins.
"Too many clothes," she gasped, her hands tearing at the buttons of his shirt, sending them skittering across the floor. He ripped her tank top over her head, his mouth immediately latching onto a pebbled nipple, his tongue swirling as he sucked hard. She arched off the bed, a sharp cry tearing from her lips as his hand slid roughly down her stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of her pajama pants.
He yanked them down, along with her soaked panties, baring her to his hungry gaze. He spread her thighs with his hands, his eyes darkening at the sight of her glistening, swollen folds. "Look at you," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly sound. "So fucking wet for me baby."
He didn't wait for a reply. He lowered his head and buried his face against her, his tongue delving deep into her heat. He ate her like a starving man, his movements aggressive, unapologetic.
He licked, sucked, and fucked her with his tongue, his grip on her thighs bruising as he held her open for his onslaught. She was a mess of whimpers and sobs, her hips grinding against his face, her hands tangled in his hair, holding him exactly where she needed him.
He slid two fingers inside her, pumping them hard and fast, crooking them to hit that spot that made her entire body bow off the bed. "Blaise! Oh, god, Blaise!" she screamed, her words dissolving into incoherent pleas. He curled his fingers, his tongue flicking mercilessly against her clit, sucking the sensitive nub into his mouth.
She shattered with a guttural scream, her pussy clamping down on his fingers like a vise, a flood of her release coating his hand. He didn't stop, drawing out every last wave of her orgasm until she was a trembling, whimpering mess beneath him.
He rose over her, his chest heaving, his cock a thick, heavy ache straining against his jeans. He wiped his glistening mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes burning into hers. "I'm not done with you."
Before she could catch her breath, he flipped her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up until she was on her hands and knees. He undid his jeans with a rough tug, his cock springing free, the tip already beading with precum. He ran a hand over her ass, the curve of it fitting perfectly in his palm before he brought it down in a sharp smack.
She cried out, the sound a mix of pain and pleasure, pushing her hips back against him. "Please," she begged, her voice muffled by the pillow. "Now."
He positioned himself at her slick entrance, rubbing the head of his cock through her folds, teasing them both. "Is this what you want?" he growled, his voice low and menacing.
"Yes! God, yes, please!"
With one brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt. They both cried out at the intensity of it, the raw, unbridled sensation. He gave her no time to adjust, setting a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming against her ass, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the room. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing it in tight, hard circles.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he gritted out, his grip on her hip tightening. "Taking my cock so well."
Heaven. This was heaven.
And he never wanted to leave.
She was pushing back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust, the bed creaking in protest. The coil of pleasure tightened in her stomach again, faster this time, more intense. "Blaise, I'm... I'm coming again!"
"Come baby," he commanded, his voice rough. "Come all over my cock. Now."
Her orgasm crashed through her, a blinding, all-consuming wave that left her screaming his name. Her walls spasmed around him, milking his length, and the sensation sent him hurtling over the edge. He drove into her one last time, his own release tearing from him with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself deep inside her.
She slumped against him, her head on his shoulder, her body trembling. He held her close, his hand stroking her back, his lips pressing kisses to her hair.
They stayed like that for long moments, catching their breath, basking in the afterglow.
They were meant for each other. Two halves of the same soul, joined together by fate and love.
And nothing, not their pasts, not their fears, not anything, would ever tear them apart again.
~~~~~~
After that night, something in the air between them shifted. It was not loud or dramatic. It happened quietly, almost shyly, like the softest change in the weather. At first it was barely noticeable, but once he saw it, he could not unsee it.
Her entire posture toward him eased, the stiffness she carried around him dissolving in small, careful pieces. Ginny had always been fierce, bright, sharp in all the ways that made her unforgettable, but now there was something more beneath the fire. There was a softness she never let anyone touch, a fragile honesty that slipped through when she thought he was not looking.
It showed in her presence long before she spoke of it. She seemed lighter somehow. Her laughter came with less resistance, warm and full, curling through the rooms and settling on him like a balm. Even her sarcasm softened at the edges, kind of a playful energy that made his chest tighten every time he caught it. He had not expected this side of her. It startled him. It pulled him in.
The walls she had built so carefully began to fall away, not in one loud collapse but in quiet shifts, brick by brick, until he realized he was seeing parts of her he had never believed he would be trusted with. She touched him more often now. Her hand brushing his, her shoulder leaning into his without any hesitation, the kind of small gestures that once would have made her flinch. Each one felt like a quiet confession.
He saw the change in her gaze as well. Before, she barely looked at him unless she needed to prove a point, her stare sharp and guarded. Now her eyes lingered, warm and curious, carrying a tenderness she never spoke aloud. Her smiles reached her eyes, glowing with an openness that had been locked away for so long. The sound of her laughter filled the house again, lifting a weight from the air that he had not even known existed.
And she began talking to him. She shared her memories, the pieces of her life she once kept fiercely to herself. Stories about the Burrow, her brothers, the nights she spent chasing dreams she no longer knew how to hold.
She let him see her fears too, the ones she hid behind her bravado. And with every word she gave him, he felt something inside himself settle in place, as if he had been waiting for this without ever knowing it.
Their home changed with her. What had once been a cold, echoing place filled with awkward silences slowly warmed around them. They moved together now, their days folding into one another without tension.
Cooking side by side. Reading in the study with her foot brushing his ankle. Standing in the kitchen talking about nothing and everything. She stayed close to him simply because she wanted to. It was new. It was startling. And it filled him with a quiet happiness he had no idea how to name.
In the quiet hours, when the world outside faded into darkness, she sought him without fear. Her hand would slip into his, her head settling against his shoulder, her body curling lightly toward him as though it had learned his shape by heart. These small moments undid him more than any kiss could have. She was choosing him in a hundred silent ways.
What stunned him the most was her willingness to open her heart. Ginny had always held her pain with a tight grip, letting no one close enough to see the cracks beneath her strength.
Now she let him inside that fragile place. She spoke of the love she held for her family, of the anger she once felt over the marriage forced upon her, of the dreams she was afraid to revisit. And he listened, realizing how deeply he cared for every word, how much he needed to understand every part of her.
The attraction that had burned between them since the beginning had not faded. It had deepened. It had grown into something richer, something that held weight and meaning. He admired her resilience. He respected her honesty. And somewhere along the way, without noticing the exact moment it happened, he began to fall in love with the woman who was slowly letting herself be real with him.
She was no longer just his wife. She was Ginny, in all her layers, with all the fire and softness and contradictions that made her impossible to forget, and Blaise felt himself falling for the woman she had always been.
It unfolded slowly, like something blooming in the dark, growing stronger every time she laughed or let her guard drop or looked at him with something that felt almost like trust.
Ginny felt the change too. She had never imagined letting herself lean into this, never imagined her heart loosening its grip on the resentment she had held so tightly. Yet she found a strange, unexpected calm in his presence, a quiet sense of safety she had not allowed herself to feel since her world had been rearranged without her consent.
She had fought this marriage with every breath, had wrapped herself in anger because it was easier than letting herself hope. But now, little by little, she was beginning to see him as something other than the man she had been forced to share a life with.
He listened when she spoke. He cared about the things that weighed on her. He saw her, not just the surface, but the parts of her she rarely showed. And she found herself wanting to let him in, wanting him to know her in ways she had once sworn she would never share with him.
As the days slipped into weeks, the shift between them deepened. What had begun as stiff coexistence slowly transformed into a rhythm they fell into naturally. They moved around each other with ease. They talked. They shared meals without tension. They met each other's eyes without flinching. And somewhere along the way, their connection settled into something that felt like the beginning of a real bond. Something fragile but steady. Something warm.
The house that once echoed with silence now felt lived in. They worked together in the kitchen, teasing each other over recipes. They read by the fireplace, her feet brushing his legs, her head drifting toward his shoulder. She reached for his hand without thinking. He held it without hesitation. Their nights became softer, full of quiet touches that spoke louder than words.
Ginny felt herself grounding again, no longer lost in the storm that had consumed her for so long. She recognized parts of herself she had forgotten, parts she thought she had lost when her freedom had been taken away. The fire in her was still there, steady and bright, but it no longer burned with anger. It glowed with something gentler.
~~~~~~
After a difficult mission, something in Blaise finally slipped. It was small at first, almost insignificant, a feeling he could have ignored if he had tried hard enough. But it grew. It crawled up from the pit of his stomach and took root in his chest until he could not breathe around it.
He had never been sloppy. He had never doubted himself. He was the man they called when precision mattered, the one who did not leave traces, the one who ended a life without hesitation and walked away without looking back. He prided himself on that control, on the cold clarity that came with every assignment.
But tonight, something was wrong. He felt it in his bones.
He replayed the moment over and over in his mind, every movement, every strike, every breath. The target had fallen, but the memory did not sit right. There had been a look in the man's eyes, a flicker of awareness, a twitch of fingers that did not belong to the dying. The sound of his breathing had not faded the way it should have. It had lingered, faint and stubborn, like a spark refusing to die.
What if he had not finished the job.
The thought sank its teeth into him, and no matter how many times he tried to push it down, it came back stronger. He could not shake it. For the first time in years, doubt gnawed at him like a living thing. He felt it in the way his shoulders tightened, in the restless twitch of his fingers, in the sharp, rapid beat of his heart.
Someone unfinished was a danger. Someone unfinished could strike back.
He moved through the house with restless energy, checking every door, every window, every shadow. His wards pulsed under his touch, strong and steady, but it did nothing to calm him. His instincts had never lied to him, and tonight they screamed.
Outside, every corner looked hostile. Every passing stranger held the possibility of revenge. The world felt too loud, too exposed, and he found himself glancing over his shoulder more times than he cared to admit.
He hated it.
He hated how the mistake clung to him. He hated that his perfect control had been replaced by gnawing tension. This was not who he was. This was not who he could afford to be.
And through it all, there was Ginny.
His little princess. His innocent, oblivious wife.
She moved through their home without a care in the world, humming under her breath as she made tea, curling up with a book by the window, smiling when he walked into the room. She did not question why he came home late or why his shoulders looked heavier some nights. She took the gifts he offered with warm eyes and a small, teasing smile, never suspecting what they truly were.
She had no idea who she was married to.
She saw the wealth, the grace, the carefully crafted charm. She saw the elegant suits, the gentle touches, the way he spoke to her like she was something he wanted to protect. What she did not see was the blood on his hands, the names he had crossed off lists, the quiet deaths he delivered for the sake of power and order.
She could never see it. He had sworn to himself that she would never be touched by that world.
To him, she was a princess in a tower, safe and untouched by the darkness outside. He kept her wrapped in silk and quiet luxury, surrounded by beauty so she would never think to look at the shadows beneath it. He would kill for her. He would die for her. But he would never let her see him with blood on his hands.
Tonight had been no different. Another kill, another mistake, another night where he slipped deeper into the dark. And when the guilt had become too loud, he had done the only thing he knew how to do. He brought her a gift. A distraction. A desperate offering to ease the weight clawing at his chest.
Earlier that day, he had given her a diamond tennis bracelet. Simple and elegant, its sparkle caught the candlelight and danced across her skin. She had smiled when he fastened it around her wrist, that soft, warm smile that always punched a hole straight through him. She had teased him for spoiling her, nudging his shoulder as she admired the way it shone.
He had kissed her cheek and murmured, "You deserve nothing less."
She had no idea he had said it to disguise the truth.
She deserved a man who did not come home with blood on his soul. She deserved someone untouched by the horrors he carried. Someone gentle. Someone good.
But she had him.
And tonight, as doubt and paranoia clawed their way through his ribs, he knew one thing with undeniable clarity.
If he had made a mistake, Ginny was the one who would pay the price. He could take a blade. He could take a curse, a beating, a death sentence. But if the man he had failed to kill ever came close to her, he knew he would never survive it.
He would kill again. He would destroy an entire world if he had to.
Because keeping Ginny safe was the only thing that mattered anymore.
What she did not know, what she could never be allowed to know, was that the bracelet had a purpose far beyond being a pretty gift. Inside the clasp, hidden beneath a thin layer of enchanted silver, sat a tracker. Of course it did.
He had slipped it in without a second thought. It was instinct. It was protection. It was fear. A small, meticulous precaution in case the unease clawing at his spine turned out to be more than paranoia. If the man he had nearly killed was still alive, if the job had gone wrong, then he needed to know where Ginny was at every moment. He needed the reassurance that he could find her in under a second. That he could reach her. Shield her. Remove her from danger before it ever touched her.
She wore it proudly, unaware of the hidden weight she carried. To her, it was another romantic flourish. Another sign that Blaise liked spoiling her. Another piece of jewelry in a growing collection of gifts she teased him for giving.
But every time he saw the bracelet glint on her wrist, something inside him twisted. It reminded him of the knife edge he lived on. It reminded him of the double life he kept tucked behind a charming smile. The house, the dinners, the soft touches she had just begun to give him again, all rested on a foundation built out of lies.
Late at night, when she was curled up at his side, breathing steadily and warm against his chest, he would lie awake. One hand would drift to the bracelet, tracing the outline of the tiny device hidden inside. The rest of him felt frozen. His mind raced, pinned between panic and guilt.
He knew he was spiraling. He knew the fear was getting worse. But he could not stop. He could not risk being wrong. Not when the cost of one mistake could be her.
Ginny stirred sometimes, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if reaching for comfort. It nearly broke him each time. She trusted him without question, believed in the version of him he had shown her. She had no idea what he carried. No idea who he was when he stepped outside their home. No idea how deeply stained his hands had become.
The guilt sat heavy on his chest, but paranoia drowned everything else out. It grew sharper, louder, more relentless with each passing day. He checked the windows twice. Then three times. He paced through the halls in the early hours of the morning, wand ready, breath tight. Every sound put him on edge. Every unfamiliar face in town held the threat of recognition.
Ginny noticed. How could she not.
"What is going on with you?" she asked one evening, her eyes soft but bewildered. They were sitting in the drawing room, firelight flickering across her face. There was worry in the way she looked at him, as if she were searching for the man she had begun to let herself trust. "You seem different. Closed off."
He forced a smile, shallow and brittle. "Work," he said, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest, a nervous habit he had never shown her before. "It's nothing. Just pressure. You don't need to worry."
She didn't buy it. She studied him for a long moment before letting out a slow sigh. "You know you can talk to me. I'm not just a pretty ornament in your house."
He tried to laugh, though it sounded thin. "I know."
Her bracelet caught the light as she shifted, the diamonds sparkling like stars. He could not stop looking at it. It made his stomach churn. A gift meant to protect her. A lie meant to keep him sane.
He could never tell her the truth. If she knew what he did at night, the blood he spilled for the sake of power, the body he might have left alive to hunt him down—everything would unravel. She would see what he truly was. Not a husband. Not a protector. Just a weapon someone had sharpened too well.
And he could not bear that.
So he remained quiet, his secrets pressing heavier against him each day. He watched her move through their home, bright and warm, while his own mind grew darker. He kept his distance, not because he wanted to, but because getting too close meant letting his guard slip.
Meanwhile Ginny, oblivious to the danger closing in around them, wore her bracelet to breakfast each morning and smiled at him without knowing she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world at all.
He tightened the security spells around the house. He checked the wards twice before bed. Then again. And again. He could feel it gathering in the back of his mind, a storm waiting for its moment to break.
His double life was beginning to crack.
One wrong step. One missed heartbeat. One shadow moving where it shouldn't.
~~~~~~
His worst nightmare took shape quietly, almost elegantly, as though the universe had been preparing for this moment for weeks. The unease that had gnawed at him ever since that botched mission finally snapped free of its leash, sinking its teeth into him with a certainty that froze his blood.
He had been right. The job had not been finished.
One evening, he came home later than usual, slipping through the mist-covered streets like he always did after a mission. The night felt heavier than normal, the air thick enough to taste. Somewhere along the road, he felt the first tug of dread, a prickling sensation at the base of his spine that warned him something was waiting.
He stepped toward the manor, and everything inside him went still.
The front door was slightly open.
It hit him so hard that he stopped breathing.
The front door was never used. Not by him. Not by her. Not by anyone who knew them well. Ginny flooed when she needed to come home quietly, and when they arrived together, they apparated into the drawing room. Even friends knew not to touch this entrance. It was an unspoken rule of their household, a simple boundary that no one ever crossed.
Yet now it stood cracked open, tilting like a mouth ready to swallow him whole.
His instincts sharpened in an instant, honed by years of training. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong. The night around him fell silent, as if the world itself leaned in to witness the moment his panic took root.
Ginny.
The thought slammed into him so fast that it stole the breath from his lungs. His chest tightened, and for a few terrifying seconds, he could not think of anything else. Was she inside? Was she hurt? Had they taken her?
He had been gone too long. Too far. Too unaware.
He gripped his wand tighter as he approached the doorway. Every muscle in his body coiled, ready to strike. He forced his breathing to slow, forced his thoughts back into order. He could not afford panic now. Panic would get him killed, and worse, it would get her killed.
He stepped inside with the quiet precision of a man who had killed in darker places than this. The quiet of the house wrapped around him like a shroud. There were no sounds of movement, no soft footsteps from the upstairs corridor, no familiar clatter of Ginny rummaging through the kitchen. Nothing.
Just a silence so deep it made his skin crawl.
He levitated himself off the ground, his feet hovering above the floorboards so that not even the faintest creak betrayed him. He moved through the hallway like a whisper, a shadow passing among shadows. His eyes scanned every corner, every glimmer of light, every shift of darkness.
The house felt wrong. Empty, but not untouched. Still, but not safe.
He checked the drawing room first. Nothing. He swept through the kitchen, wand raised, heart pounding a steady warning. No sign of forced entry. No broken glass. Nothing out of place.
Yet the open door was enough. Someone had been here. Someone who wanted him to know. Someone who understood the psychology of leaving a door ajar in a home that never used it.
A message.
His mind raced as he glided through the next corridor. He felt the familiar burn of adrenaline stretch through his limbs, sharpening his senses. The intruder knew what they were doing. There were no sloppy footprints, no overturned trinkets. Nothing that would betray them. This was a professional. Someone trained. Someone deliberate.
Someone who had survived the night Blaise had tried to kill him.
That unfinished mission had come back to haunt him, just as he had feared.
A faint sound broke through the silence. Soft. Barely there. The kind of sound an untrained ear would have missed entirely. Perhaps fabric brushing against wood. Perhaps a controlled exhale. Perhaps the gentle shift of a body adjusting position.
It didn't matter. It was enough.
Blaise froze.
His eyes narrowed as he tilted his head, listening again. The noise came from deeper inside the house, near the base of the staircase. His wand moved first, his body following a heartbeat later, the motion smooth and controlled.
He crept toward the sound.
He turned the corner, and there it was.
A figure.
Still. Silent. Cloaked in shadow. Standing at the foot of the stairs as though waiting for him. They had not noticed him yet. They faced the staircase, not him. A slight shift of the intruder's weight revealed a wand in their hand, held with the grip of someone who knew exactly how to use it.
Blaise's pulse slowed.
His breath became cold.
All the dread he had carried for weeks sharpened into a single, deadly point.
He knew exactly who this was.
And he knew what it meant.
Ginny's safety. His secrets. His life. Everything balanced on the next few seconds.
He raised his wand with the silent, fluid precision of a man who had trained his entire life for moments exactly like this.
He prepared to strike first.
Because if this intruder had touched one hair on Ginny's head, Blaise Zabini would make the night itself bleed.
As he slipped through the shadows, his senses sharpened to a knife edge. He moved like a hunter tracing the heartbeat of the night, every sound and every shift of darkness seeping into his awareness. That was when he saw it.
A figure stepped out from the hallway that led to his office. The moonlight caught the outline of their body, painting them in silver and shadow. Unfamiliar. Wrong. A stranger inside his home.
His pulse dropped into a cold, steady rhythm. This was no friend. No ally. No one who belonged here.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood upright.
His hand twitched toward his wand, but a deeper instinct tugged him back. Silence. Precision. This needed to be handled by the part of him he kept locked away, the part that did not flinch or hesitate.
He slipped behind the figure, every movement controlled. The air felt thick around them, the old manor holding its breath as he closed the distance. He heard the faint rustle of the stranger's clothes. The soft thump of feet on polished wood. The sound of someone who thought they were alone.
Closer now.
Close enough to feel the warmth of the intruder's body. Close enough to catch a hint of cologne he did not recognize. The scent mixed with dust from the old books in his office, and the tension in Blaise's chest tightened like a fist.
This was it.
Game on.
He struck with the same fluidity that had made him a legend in the underworld. His hand closed around the intruder's throat, cutting off breath and sound in the same instant. The man jerked in shock, his arms flailing for a second before Blaise twisted hard.
A sharp crack filled the air.
The body sagged in his grip, heavy and limp. Blaise held it for a moment longer, standing perfectly still as the reality settled over him. He had expected a fight. He had expected the clash of spells or the rush of a duel. Instead, it was over in seconds. Clean. Final.
He let the body drop.
It hit the floor with a quiet thud that seemed to echo all the way down the hallway. He stood over it, breathing slowly, forcing himself to look past the rush of adrenaline and the sudden stillness that followed.
He had killed before, plenty of times, but something about this felt heavier. The intrusion. The timing. The fact that Ginny had been somewhere inside this house while a stranger wandered freely through their rooms. It rattled him in a way he refused to name.
He scanned the room. No movement. No sound. No sign that anyone else had witnessed what had just happened.
His gaze flicked to the door behind the intruder. His office.
Something pulled him forward.
He stepped over the body, pushed the door open, and slipped inside.
The room was dim, drenched in the soft blue glow of moonlight filtering through the window. Shadows clung to the walls like secrets, and the air felt wrong. Alive. Disturbed.
Books lay open on the floor. Papers were scattered across his desk, not in chaos, but with purpose. Someone had been searching. Sorting. Hunting.
He crouched beside the desk and began to sift through the mess with trained precision. At first, nothing made sense. Then a small notebook caught his eye, half-hidden under a map.
He pulled it free.
The pages were filled with hasty notes. Names. Locations. Dates. Arrows connecting one person to another. Some names he recognized from old work. Some from the darker corners of the magical underworld. Some were new.
It was not random.
Someone had been tracking him.
Someone had been building a picture of his movements. His contacts. His vulnerabilities.
His family.
His chest tightened.
Ginny.
He flipped the pages faster. More notes. A sketched layout of his home. A rough estimate of how long it took her to get from the drawing room to the kitchen. A guess at her sleep schedule. A line that read: She wears the bracelet always.
His stomach twisted.
This was no simple intruder. This was part of something much larger. A plan. A warning. The sort of move a rival would make before going for the kill.
He slipped the notebook into his pocket.
Then he vanished with a crack of displaced air, reappearing in the bedroom.
Moonlight washed over the room, soft and gentle. The lavender on her pillow filled the air. She was curled in the blankets, completely unaware. Her hair glowed pale gold in the dim light. She looked fragile, peaceful, untouched by the chaos that had been unfolding under the same roof.
His throat tightened as he approached.
He cast a diagnostic charm. He needed to see it with his own eyes, needed the spell to confirm the truth. The light glowed steady. No curse. No poison. No trace of foreign magic.
Alive. Safe.
Relief hit him so hard he nearly staggered.
But the relief was short-lived. The house had been breached. Someone had walked past her bedroom door. Someone had stood in the hallway thinking about what to do next.
He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead with the back of his fingers. He let himself linger there, just for a moment.
He could not stay. Not with danger still crawling near.
He turned away from her, returning to the office with a single thought pounding through his mind.
Someone had come for him.
Someone had been close to her.
And that man he had half-killed on his last mission had found him after all.
He grabbed the corpse, Apparated into a deserted alley, and dropped the body on the ground. The night was cold and still. He crouched again, searching the pockets, pulling out a wallet.
False name. Fake identification. And beneath it a small slip of parchment with a sentence written in shaky handwriting.
Next time, we take the bitch.
His blood went cold.
He stared at the name for several seconds before the memory clicked in place. Marcus Leclair. A ghost from the darker corners of his past, a man tied to jobs most assassins refused to speak about. This was not some petty thief or a stray enemy that had wandered too far. Marcus had connections. Marcus had power. Marcus was woven into a network Blaise had broken away from years ago.
The recognition settled in him like a stone sinking into water.
He pocketed the wallet, knowing he would need it later, then looked down at the lifeless body. The alley swallowed the shape, turning it into nothing more than a dark smear on cold pavement. He knew how to make people disappear. Knew how to vanish evidence so cleanly the world forgot the person had ever existed.
He whispered a concealment spell, one simple sweep of his wand that bent the light around the body and softened the edges of the scene until the city itself looked away.
He Apparated home.
The shift from the damp air of the alley to the warm stillness of their bedroom felt unreal, like stepping into a dream that did not belong to the same world he had just left. Ginny slept soundly, curled into her blankets. Her hair spilled over the pillow in soft waves, the faintest glow from the rising sun catching the strands in a way that made her look untouchable.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding.
He came to her side and sat carefully. His fingers brushed her hair, more to reassure himself than to wake her. She did not stir. Her breathing stayed even, steady, safe.
His chest tightened at the sight of her. For hours now, danger had been circling their home while she slept only a few walls away from death. He had kept her ignorant because he thought it would protect her, but ignorance could no longer keep her safe. Not now. Not with Marcus Leclair's name bleeding back into their lives.
He leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to her forehead. The softness of her skin grounded him in a way nothing else could. It was a promise he made silently to himself every time he touched her. Keep her safe. Keep her here. Keep her untouched by the world he had been born into.
But the world was coming for them.
He stretched out beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. Dawn seeped through the curtains, tinting the room with a pale gold light. She shifted slightly, seeking warmth, and instinctively leaned into him. The movement pierced straight through him. She had no idea how close she had come to being dragged into his darkness. No idea that the man he had killed tonight had her name written in his pocket.
He watched her with a mix of tenderness and rising dread.
He could not keep her in the dark any longer. Not when the shadows were crawling closer. Not when Marcus Leclair had made his move. Not when the danger was no longer just his burden.
He stroked her hair once more, preparing himself. The next conversation would be brutal. It would shatter the illusion she had been living under. It would force her to look at the man behind the charm, behind the gifts, behind the careful, curated mask she had grown to trust.
But he would not lose her. He would not let her face the storm alone.
He looked at her sleeping face and felt his resolve lock into place.
He would tell her everything. He would bring her into the truth, even if she hated him for it.
Because the only thing more dangerous than the secrets he carried was the thought of her walking into this darkness blind.
And he would rather bleed for her a thousand times than let that happen.
~~~~~~
Blaise stood alone in the quiet of their home, the taste of violence still clinging to his tongue. The intruder's presence had carved a hollow in his chest that refused to close. Even with the body gone and the house still around him, the danger felt alive, lurking just beyond the reach of the lamplight.
The thought of Ginny sleeping upstairs while a stranger had walked these halls made his hands shake with a rage he could barely contain.
He moved through the house slowly, touching walls, tracing corners, searching for any break in the wards. The magic he had laid years ago now felt thin, stretched, almost brittle. Even the silence felt wrong. It reminded him of a moment before a storm breaks.
That was all he needed to decide.
He stepped out into the cold night and felt the air cling to his skin. The moon hung low, pale and indifferent. He raised his wand and let his magic gather, thick and heavy in the space between his fingers.
"Protego Maxima."
The spell surged outward like a living thing. He felt it settle over the manor in a quiet shiver, sinking into the soil, the walls, the windows, as if the house exhaled under the weight of new protection. It gave him a fleeting comfort, but only that. A single layer. Not enough.
He lifted his wand again.
"Cave inimicum."
Threads of magic rippled outward in invisible waves, weaving a net through the air around the property. If anyone approached with ill intent, Blaise would feel it. The ground itself would feel it.
Still not enough.
He strengthened every barrier until the house felt wrapped in steel, but the lingering dread inside him refused to loosen its hold. Marcus Leclair had not been a lone wolf. He had never acted without purpose.
Which meant someone else knew where to strike.
The Burrow.
The thought hit him hard. He did not pause. He did not think. He threw himself into the Apparition with a snap that cracked the quiet night in two.
He landed just beyond the crooked fence, the Burrow rising ahead of him like a warm memory. A home built from laughter and chaos and everything good Ginny had ever known. A place that had always welcomed him with open arms, even when he had been nothing more than a name attached to a forced marriage.
He stood there for a moment, wind brushing through the tall grass, his breath forming pale ghosts in the cold air.
If anyone touched this house, he would burn the world down.
He walked the perimeter slowly, his coat brushing against the uneven wood of the fence. He could hear a faint murmur of conversation inside, the soft clatter of dishes, the kind of simple domestic warmth he had never known. His chest tightened around the sound.
He raised his wand.
"Protego."
The spell wrapped around the house like a soft, shimmering cloak. He pressed more power into it than he should have. He let the spell take shape not only from his magic, but from his memories of Ginny. The way she laughed at the stove. The way she tilted her head when she was pretending not to be amused. The memory of her small smile when she had first let him touch her.
He gave the Burrow every ounce of protection he could forge.
He paced again, casting disillusionment charms that blurred the house from sight unless you already knew it was there. He laid traps that would whisper warnings into his mind if danger came near, spells that would tug at him no matter where in the world he was.
"Sentio hostis."
The air tightened around the words, settling into a subtle pressure. If anyone approached this home with violence in mind, Blaise would feel it long before they crossed the garden.
When he finished, he stood still, breathing hard, the magic thrumming in his veins. The Burrow seemed different now, as if wrapped in a deeper stillness, protected but no longer oblivious. He hoped Mr and Mrs Weasley would never notice the faint shift in the air. He hoped they would never learn why he had done this.
He hoped they would never need to.
When he finally Apparated home, the manor felt quiet and unfamiliar again. But for the first time since he had found the intruder, he had done something concrete. Something real.
He stepped back into their bedroom. Ginny was still asleep, curled on her side, one hand resting near his pillow as if she had reached for him in her dreams. The sight almost undid him. He walked to her slowly, lowering himself beside her with a heaviness he did not try to hide.
His fingers brushed her hair. He let them trace the line of her cheek with a tenderness that made his chest ache.
"You are safe," he whispered, voice barely above a breath.
He had fortified their home. He had fortified her family's. He had done everything within his power to keep the darkness at bay.
Even so, a cold truth settled in his bones.
It would not be enough forever.
He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a moment with his eyes closed, breathing her in.
Tomorrow, he would tell her. He would pull back the curtain and let the truth spill into the room, no matter how much it changed between them.
Tonight, he watched over her in silence.
The danger was moving closer.
And he would meet it long before it ever touched her.