Hermione paused in the doorway for a moment before fully stepping inside, letting the space settle around her like a warm cloak. The scent of dragon jasmine drifted in from somewhere deeper in the house, soft and sweet, twining with the faint aroma of whatever tea Ginny must have brewed earlier.
The glow of candlelight painted the room in gold and amber, shadows moving gently along the walls, giving the entire home a feeling of quiet luxury that was somehow still comforting.
Hermione took everything in slowly. Ginny's new life. Ginny's new home. Ginny's new normal. It was elegant but lived in, polished but somehow warm beneath the surface. She could feel the shift before she saw the proof of it. Ginny seemed to live in the space the way a person lived inside their own skin.
Before she could fully gather her thoughts, she heard rapid footsteps.
Then Ginny was there.
She practically launched across the room, hair flying behind her in a blurred red streak, her eyes bright with emotion. She threw her arms around Hermione like she needed the contact, like she had been waiting ages for this exact moment.
"Hermione," she breathed, her voice tight with feeling. "I missed you more than you can imagine."
Hermione hugged her back just as tightly, her chest loosening more than she expected. Ginny smelled like lavender and something sweeter beneath it, something that felt like safety. Hermione let her eyes close for a heartbeat, grounding herself in the familiarity of her best friend.
"I missed you too, love," Hermione murmured, stroking her hand lightly along Ginny's back. "Far too much time has passed."
Ginny stepped back with a sniff and a smile, wiping quickly at the corner of her eye before Hermione could comment.
Blaise had been standing in the corner of the room when Hermione walked in. He had not said a word during the reunion, simply observed with quiet patience, his hands tucked casually into his pockets the way he always managed to make look intentional. Now he approached, his posture relaxed despite the sharp focus of his gaze.
Hermione gave him a knowing look. "Zabini."
His lips curved slightly, a slow and practiced smile that, this time, held something sincere beneath it. "Granger. As always, the pleasure is mine."
Hermione smothered a laugh. "You say that like you mean it."
"I do," he replied, tilting his head slightly. "You are one of the few Gryffindors who does not irritate me."
Ginny elbowed him gently, a spark of amusement lighting her eyes. "You adore Hermione."
"That is not the word I used," Blaise said mildly.
Hermione felt warmth spread over her. He was different than he used to be. Softer, without losing his edge. She looked between them, at the way Ginny leaned toward him without even realizing it, at the way his gaze flicked to her instinctively, as if to check in on her, as if grounding himself in her presence.
"So," Hermione began, stepping further into the room, loosening her scarf as she looked between them. "Tell me how the two of you are."
Ginny shared a look with Blaise before speaking. One of those subtle, wordless little exchanges couples develop without meaning to.
"We are doing well," Ginny said, not hiding her smile.
Hermione's eyebrow quirked. "Well?"
Ginny nodded. "Better than well."
Hermione's gaze slid to Blaise. He did not preen under the compliment. If anything, something warm flickered in his eyes, something he quickly smoothed over with a faint shift of his posture.
Hermione hummed. "No arguments? Not a single one? Everything perfect?"
Ginny rolled her eyes and let out a small laugh. "Do not pretend you do not know me. I am a nightmare. Of course we argue."
Blaise chuckled. "A lively home is better than a quiet one."
Hermione blinked at that. "Did you just say something sentimental?"
"Do not get used to it," Blaise replied, though there was no bite to the words.
Ginny nudged him with a small grin. "He likes to pretend he is immune to affection."
"Pretending keeps things interesting," he answered, though he said it while brushing a hand along the small of her back, a gesture so instinctive and gentle that Hermione felt her chest tighten.
Hermione's voice softened. "You look happy, love."
Ginny met her eyes for a moment, something honest and vulnerable passing between them. "I am," she said quietly. "Really, I am."
Hermione felt her shoulders relax. She had been worried for so long, silently afraid that the forced marriage might have dimmed something essential in Ginny. But looking at her now, blooming in a way she had not done in years, it eased something old and anxious deep within Hermione.
"And what about you?" Ginny asked suddenly, turning the conversation with quick, clever precision. "How is life treating you?"
Hermione gave a small smile. "Good. Busy. Complicated."
Ginny's eyes gleamed. "Complicated. That sounds promising."
Hermione shook her head. "We can talk about that later."
Ginny nodded, accepting it for now. "As long as we do talk."
"We will," Hermione promised.
Blaise stepped back, giving them space. "I will get drinks," he offered, glancing between them. "You two clearly have things to discuss."
He left the room with smooth, quiet steps.
The second he was gone, Ginny's eyes widened and she practically grabbed Hermione's wrist.
"Right," she said, pulling her onto the nearest sofa as if dragging her into a conspiracy. "Now tell me everything about you and ferret."
Hermione nearly choked on her breath. "What?"
Ginny's grin sharpened into something feral. "How is the marriage? And do not you dare say 'fine' or 'nice' or any other useless word."
Hermione took a slow sip of her tea, stalling. "It is pleasant," she said carefully.
Ginny groaned. "Pleasant. Merlin, Hermione, you are killing me. Pleasant is what you say about soup."
Hermione coughed. "It is the truth."
Ginny's voice dropped to a whisper. "So he has a huge cock?"
Hermione's eyes widened so violently it hurt. "Ginny! Why would you ask that?"
Ginny looked perfectly innocent. "Why would I not?"
"Because it is inappropriate!" Hermione hissed.
Ginny snorted loudly. "Hermione, love. The man walks like he has a boulder in his trousers."
"Ginevra Weasley!"
"You have thought about it," Ginny accused triumphantly.
"I have not!"
Ginny smirked. "Liar."
Hermione buried her face in her hands. "I am not discussing my husband's… anatomy."
"You will eventually," Ginny replied, plopping back into the cushions with a satisfied sigh. "I have time."
Hermione lowered her hands slowly. "We have only kissed. That is all."
Ginny stared at her.
"You are joking."
"I am not."
Ginny stared harder. "You are actually joking."
Hermione shook her head.
Ginny slumped dramatically into the pillows. "You are the most boring person alive."
Hermione glared. "Yes, so you keep telling me."
"But you like him," Ginny pressed, sitting up again. "You do, Hermione. I can see it all over your face."
Hermione hesitated. Her fingers twisted in her sleeve.
"I do," she admitted quietly. "More than I expected."
Ginny's expression softened immediately. "And does he like you?"
Hermione thought of the quiet glances Draco tried to hide. The way he lingered in doorways just to make sure she got home safe. The softness in his voice when he said her name. The careful way he touched her hand when he thought she was not paying attention.
"Yes," Hermione murmured, her voice warm. "I think he's obsessed."
Ginny reached out and squeezed her hand. "Then you will figure it out. You always do."
Hermione smiled at that, shy and grateful. "Thank you, Gin."
Ginny leaned back with a wicked grin that promised trouble. "And once you figure it out, I want every detail."
Hermione groaned. "Absolutely not."
Ginny giggled. "You love me."
"That is the problem," Hermione said, laughing despite herself.
Hermione barely had time to gather her scattered dignity before the sound of footsteps drifted back toward the sitting room. Blaise appeared in the doorway with a tray balanced effortlessly in one hand, as if he had been born to glide through expensive homes carrying delicate glassware. There was a faint line between his brows, the only sign that he was concentrating.
He set the tray down on the low table in front of them with a care that made Hermione's lips twitch. Two glasses of wine, a smaller glass of something amber for himself, and a teapot with steam curling from the spout.
"I did not know if you wanted wine or tea," he said, looking at Hermione. "So I brought both. Ginny will bully you into wine, I imagine."
Ginny raised her hand. "Correct."
Hermione smiled despite herself. "You know me well enough. Tea for now, wine later."
Blaise poured her a cup without comment, the movement smooth, unhurried. He passed it to her with a small nod, then handed Ginny her wine and took his glass last. Instead of retreating to one of the armchairs, he sank onto the sofa beside Ginny, close enough that their shoulders brushed. His arm rested along the back of the cushions behind her, not quite touching, but the intention was clear.
Hermione pretended not to notice, even as she catalogued every detail.
"So," Blaise began, swirling his drink lightly. "Is Malfoy still alive, or has Granger murdered him in his sleep yet?"
Ginny cackled. "Good question."
Hermione sniffed. "Draco is very much alive, thank you."
"For now," Ginny muttered.
Hermione gave her a warning look, which Ginny ignored in favour of smirking into her glass.
Blaise watched Hermione over the rim of his drink, eyes intent but not unkind. "You do not look miserable," he said, as if this were a serious evaluation. "This bodes well."
Hermione took a sip of tea to give herself time to answer. "I am not miserable. We are… learning how to exist together without strangling each other."
"That is how marriage starts," Blaise replied. "The strangling impulse fades eventually. In theory."
Ginny elbowed him again. "You are not allowed to make marriage jokes. You are still in the honeymoon phase."
Hermione blinked. "You think this is a honeymoon phase?"
Ginny looked down at her wine, a small smile playing at her mouth. "In a weird, morally questionable, trauma bonded way, yes."
Blaise snorted. "She means she gets annoyed when she cannot see me for more than a few hours in a row."
Ginny scoffed, but her cheeks coloured. "That is not what I said. Also, who vanishes for two days and then comes back with a necklace like nothing happened?"
Hermione's eyes sharpened. "Two days?"
Blaise's expression did not change, but Hermione saw the slight shift, the minute tightening of his jaw.
"Work," he said simply.
Ginny looked from one to the other and rolled her eyes. "Not everyone lives in the Ministry, babes. Some of us work in places that are genuinely boring and not worth asking about."
Hermione gave her a flat look. "You married Blaise. Nothing about his work has ever been boring."
"See?" Ginny said, pointing at her. "This is why I cannot bring you anywhere."
Blaise leaned back, his gaze sliding over Hermione with quiet amusement. "Still suspicious of me, Granger?"
"Always," Hermione replied, but there was no venom in it. "Someone has to be."
He accepted this with a half shrug, like it was fair.
The conversation drifted then, smoothing out along easier lines. Blaise asked after the work at the Ministry, the case load, the latest idiocy from the Wizengamot. Hermione answered with dry detail, watching his reactions. He listened more than he spoke, that much she could see. Occasionally he exchanged a look with Ginny, some silent commentary passing between them that Hermione could not quite decode.
"He has charts now," Hermione said finally, in a tone of long suffering.
Ginny perked up at once. "Who?"
"Draco," Hermione replied. "I came home the other evening and found parchment pinned to the wall, all labelled. 'Darling's schedule.' 'Mon cœur's stress levels.' 'Ma chérie's probable caffeine intake.'"
Ginny nearly choked on her wine. "You are joking."
"I wish I were," Hermione said. "Apparently he has decided that if he can assess my mood like a political crisis, he can manage me better."
Blaise's low laugh rumbled from his chest. "That sounds exactly like him."
Ginny wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, eyes bright. "Let me get this straight. Your husband is making graphs about your coffee habits?"
"Yes."
"And you are still only kissing him?"
Hermione glared. "I will not be interrogated in my friend's sitting room."
Ginny clasped a hand to her heart. "Blaise, do you hear this? I invite her into my home, I offer her wine, I ask after her tragic, repressed love life, and she insults me."
Blaise lounged back further, one arm crossing over his chest, clearly entertained. "What you are hearing, mia stella, is a woman who is deeply embarrassed because she wants to jump her husband and will not admit it."
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but no words came out.
Ginny's jaw dropped. Then she grinned like a fox. "Oh my God. You do."
Hermione stared at Blaise in betrayal. "You know nothing about my internal life."
He raised both hands lightly, still smirking. "You just confirmed it, Granger. No one gets that offended unless you hit the truth."
She wanted to throw a cushion at his smug face. Unfortunately, she also liked his expensive furniture, and Ginny would kill her.
"Fine," Hermione muttered eventually, cheeks warm. "I might be… aware… that my husband exists in a physical capacity."
Ginny squealed. "You are attracted to him."
Hermione covered her face with one hand. "Please stop talking."
"Never," Ginny replied happily.
Blaise looked far too pleased with himself. "And is our favourite former ferret behaving himself?" he asked, tone suddenly softer beneath the teasing.
Hermione lowered her hand slowly. Her eyes lost some of their humour as she thought about it.
"Yes," she said after a moment. "He is trying. Really trying."
Ginny sobered too. "That is good," she said quietly. "He should."
Blaise studied Hermione for a long second. "And is he gentle with you?"
The question caught her off guard. "What?"
Blaise's gaze did not flinch. "Is he gentle," he repeated. "When it counts."
Hermione swallowed. So many images crowded her mind at once that it was almost embarrassing.
"Yes," she said finally, voice quiet. "Very."
Something in Blaise's shoulders eased. "Good."
Hermione tilted her head at him. "You care more than you pretend to."
He took a sip of his drink. "My wife would murder me if I did not," he said lightly.
Ginny slipped her hand into his then, fingers threading between his, and this time he did not hide the way his thumb brushed over the back of her hand, slow and reassuring.
Hermione's chest ached. In a good way. In a way that felt almost fragile.
"Do you like it here, Gin?" she asked after a moment, glancing around. "In this house, in this life?"
Ginny looked up, following her gaze around the room. The high ceiling, the dark wooden beams, the rich fabrics, the quiet glow of the sconces. Her smile softened.
"I do," she admitted. "It felt too big at first. Too quiet. Like it belonged to someone else and I was just visiting."
She glanced at Blaise then, and her voice warmed. "But he has been… annoyingly considerate. We made changes. We argued over rugs for two hours one afternoon."
"You lost," Blaise pointed out.
"I did not!" Ginny protested. "We compromised. Which is why the rug is your colour but my texture."
Blaise looked smug again. "I stand by my choice. You just enjoy walking on it."
Hermione shook her head, watching them with a mix of amusement and wonder. "You sound like a married couple."
Ginny blinked. "We are a married couple."
"You know what I mean," Hermione corrected gently. "You sound like you chose it."
Ginny's expression shifted a fraction. Her thumb stroked idly over Blaise's knuckles.
"Maybe we did," she said softly.
Silence settled over them again, but it was not empty. It felt full, somehow. Full of things that had not needed to be said out loud until now.
Blaise cleared his throat. "Dinner will be ready soon," he said, as if he had not just listened to his wife imply something that made his entire face look different around the eyes. "The elf insists on roasting the potatoes in goose fat. I did not argue."
"You would never argue with goose fat," Ginny murmured.
He smiled slightly. "Correct."
Hermione watched them for a moment longer. The way Ginny's shoulders no longer carried an invisible weight. The way Blaise's eyes softened whenever he looked at her. There was something fragile and fierce in it. Something they had both bled for in different ways.
"You really are happy," Hermione said quietly.
Ginny turned to her, eyes shining. "I really am."
Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. "Good. That is all I care about."
Ginny smiled at her, warm and sharp and familiar. "Now you just need to catch up."
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but Blaise spoke first, amusement clear in his voice.
"Do not worry," he said. "I give Malfoy three more weeks before he cracks. He has always been weak where you are concerned."
Hermione scoffed. "He is not weak."
Blaise's eyes gleamed. "That is my point, Granger. Imagine what that means."
Heat rushed to her cheeks again, entirely against her will.
"You are both insufferable."
Ginny raised her glass, eyes dancing. "To insufferable men we somehow love."
Blaise lifted his own glass. "Speak for yourselves. I am a delight."
Hermione clinked her teacup against Ginny's glass. "To bad decisions, then."
Ginny laughed. "To very good ones."
They drank. The evening stretched out ahead of them, open and warm. Blaise rose after a while, disappearing toward the kitchen to check on dinner. Ginny dragged Hermione into a quieter conversation about work and family and the small moments that held their days together.
By the time Blaise called them to the table, Hermione had stopped feeling like a visitor in a stranger's home. It felt instead like she had stepped into something that had taken root and grown while she was not looking. Something complicated and imperfect and honestly earned.
Something like real happiness.
~~~~~~
Blaise, Theo and Draco were deep into their third bottle of Firewhiskey, conversation growing looser and louder with each pour. Blaise, his smirk widening as he refilled his glass, eyed Theo with an exaggerated air of curiosity. "So, I hear you're about to become a father, Theo?"
Theo let out a laugh, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with a nostalgic sigh. "Aye, mate. Feels surreal, really. Seems like only yesterday we were sneaking Firewhiskey into the Slytherin common room, and now—Merlin help me—I'm about to be a dad." His expression softened, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Luna, though… she's something else. Glowing like some goddess from a Renaissance painting. Botticelli would've tossed his brushes in frustration trying to capture her."
Blaise snorted into his drink, shaking his head. "Radiant goddess, you say? Sounds familiar." A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink. "Ginny's got that beat any day. I mean, have you seen that redhead recently? She's pure fire."
Theo nearly choked on his drink, spraying Firewhiskey across the table in a wild laugh that earned a disgruntled grumble from a snoring goblin in the booth next to them. "Ginny? Fiery?" Theo wheezed, catching his breath. "Blaise, have you been hit with one Bludger too many? That Weasley menace?"
Blaise leaned forward, his smirk deepening. "Oh, come on, Nott. Don't be daft. Look past the hand-me-down Weasley jumpers for a minute. The girl's got hair like a bloody sunset—no, better than a sunset. Fiery waves that'd put a phoenix to shame. And those green eyes? You can't tell me they don't put your heart through the wringer just looking at them."
Theo shook his head, his laughter bubbling up again. "Alright, alright, Zabini. But I'm telling you, Luna's got a magic of her own—wild, unpredictable, and utterly uncontainable. Botticelli couldn't do her justice, and neither could any sappy line you come up with for Ginny."
Blaise threw his head back, laughing loudly enough to draw a few raised eyebrows from the nearby patrons. "Touché, but we'll see who wins this battle of the muses."
Blaise smirked as he elbowed Theo, his voice carrying across the pub with a teasing lilt. "Look who's finally decided to crawl out of his moody abyss. Draco's been sitting here brooding like a bloody thundercloud. What's the matter, mate? Did your little lioness sink her claws into you? She's a right handful, isn't she? A proper minx."
Draco's jaw clenched, his grip tightening around his glass. His voice came out low, dangerous. "Don't ever talk about my wife like that again."
Blaise merely raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "Relax, Malfoy, just having a bit of fun," he chuckled. Then, as if finally realizing something, his smirk widened. "Wait—have you actually done anything about it? You're looking a bit… pent up."
Draco exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before muttering, "We kissed. A few times."
A beat of silence. And then Blaise howled with laughter, slamming a hand against the table so hard their Firewhiskey nearly toppled over. A startled pixie, perched on a dusty shelf nearby, let out an indignant squeak and took flight.
"Kissed?" Blaise wheezed, gasping between fits of laughter. "You're telling me that's all you've done? Merlin's bollocks, Malfoy, I thought you were supposed to be the smooth one! You're living with the woman, you married the woman, and yet—kisses? What are you, a fourth-year?"
Theo, shaking his head in mock disappointment, leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink with an air of faux sympathy. "That's just sad, mate. Absolutely tragic."
Draco scowled, but the blush creeping up his neck betrayed him. He stared down at his drink, swirling the amber liquid with a brooding intensity. "You think I don't bloody want to?" he snapped. "Every damn day, I wake up and see her—her hair, her skin, the way she bites her lip when she's concentrating—I'm losing my fucking mind. But if I do anything, if I push too far, she'll hex my bollocks into another dimension. So yeah, I'm stuck with wanking."
Theo snorted into his drink, while Blaise nearly fell out of his chair with laughter. "That," Blaise managed, breathless, "is the most tragic thing I have ever heard. Draco Malfoy—wealthy, handsome, legally wed—and he's still wanking like a desperate schoolboy. Pathetic."
Draco glared at him, his frustration bubbling dangerously close to the surface. Theo, sensing impending doom, raised his hands in a peace offering. "Alright, alright, let's not push him into full meltdown mode. But mate," he added, his voice taking on a conspiratorial lilt, "you need to take some initiative. A well-timed compliment, some candlelight, a little—"
"Don't even suggest the fucking candlelight, Nott," Draco growled, his voice sharp with exasperation.
The way he slammed his nearly-empty glass onto the table made even Blaise momentarily pause. Theo blinked, then, attempting to lighten the mood, gestured to the bar. "Another round, then? Maybe some liquid courage will help."
But Draco was already pushing himself up from the booth, his movements jerky and agitated. "Where do you think you're going?" Blaise called after him, his smirk still firmly in place.
"Air," Draco muttered darkly, shoving his chair back and stalking towards the exit.
The cool night air hit him like a slap, doing little to calm the fire burning beneath his skin. He braced his hands against the wall of the pub, inhaling deeply, trying to steady himself.
Blaise was right. He was being a coward. And that was unacceptable.
Drunk Italian Blaise had the sharp tongue of a viper and the accuracy of a cursed arrow. Mean, brutally honest, and annoyingly right.
Draco's jaw clenched, but instead of a retort, a strange determination flickered in his eyes. He muttered something about Blaise's "oversized blabbermouth" and stalked out of the pub.
Theo and Blaise remained in the pub, the mood lightening as they continued their discussion. The tension had ebbed away, replaced by a comfortable camaraderie that only alcohol and shared experiences could foster.
Theo, leaning back in his chair with a wistful smile, took a long sip of his Firewhiskey. "You know," he began, his voice softening with affection, "Luna has this way of making everything seem magical. The other day, she surprised me with a picnic in the garden—simple, but it was like stepping into a dream. She's radiant, you know? Sometimes, I look at her and think Botticelli couldn't have painted a more perfect portrait."
Blaise raised his glass in a mock toast. "Cheers to that. Ginny's got her own way of making magic. It's not just the way she looks, though her fiery hair and those emerald eyes could enchant anyone. It's her spirit—she's got this incredible energy that just lights up a room. She's like a whirlwind of passion and kindness. You can't help but be swept up in her."
Theo chuckled, nodding in agreement. "I know what you mean. Luna's like that too. Even when she's just sitting quietly, there's this aura about her that makes everything feel right. She's one of a kind."
Blaise grinned, swirling his drink. "Ginny's always up to something, but it's never boring. She challenges me, makes me see the world differently. I wouldn't have it any other way. Sometimes I think she's got a bit of a cheeky side, though. She can be a handful, but I wouldn't trade her for the world."
His eyes twinkled with affection. "Luna's the same way. She's got this wild streak, but it's what makes her so captivating. And she's so supportive. Whenever I'm down or worried, she's right there with a calming word or a gentle touch. She's my rock."
Blaise chuckled, raising his glass. "Here's to our incredible wives—each with their own kind of magic that keeps us grounded and makes every day an adventure."
Theo clinked his glass with Blaise's, a genuine smile on his face. "To Ginny and Luna—the two most remarkable women we've ever known."
They drank to their wives, their conversation flowing easily as they shared more stories and laughter. The pub's atmosphere seemed to wrap them in a comforting embrace, a sanctuary where they could revel in the love they had for their extraordinary partners.
~~~~~~
Blaise stumbled through the door like a man who had been wandering the desert and finally reached water. He clung to the frame for a moment, breathing hard, as if the simple act of coming home had knocked the air out of him. His shirt was open at the collar, his tie hanging over one shoulder, and he smelled like Firewhiskey and longing. The glow from the sconces washed over him, soft and warm, but he barely noticed the beauty of the room. He was focused on one thing and one thing only.
"GINNYYYY," he called, voice rich and unsteady, like he had poured every bit of affection into her name and let it spill everywhere.
Ginny closed her book very slowly, because she knew that tone. She knew that wobbling shout. She knew that dramatic, stumbling silhouette better than she wanted to admit. She pushed to her feet and walked toward him with a sigh, expecting chaos but not quite prepared for the look on his face.
He saw her.
He froze like he had been hit with a full body-bind. His eyes widened, then softened, then filled with something so raw it almost looked painful. His whole expression crumpled with relief.
"Bambola," he breathed, almost reverent. "Finalmente."
She blinked. "What in the world happened to you?"
He took two unsteady steps toward her and then stopped, swaying, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe like he needed to reassure himself she was really there. His voice came out thick, full of adoration.
"Sei la donna più bella, più meravigliosa di questa terra," he murmured, as if confessing a secret that had been locked in his chest all night. "Bambola… non capisci."
She arched a brow. "Are you drunk?"
This time his laugh was almost pained. "Ubriaco? Moltissimo." He pressed a hand against his chest dramatically. "Completamente perso. E tutto per colpa tua."
She caught him as he nearly pitched forward. "Alright, you great fool, let's get you—"
"Shh," he said, placing his fingers on her lips with an intensity that bordered on worship. "Aspetta. Devo dirti una cosa."
He stared at her like a man standing in front of a church altar, preparing to confess his sins and his devotion in the same breath.
"Ti amo," he said, low and reverent. "Ti amo da impazzire."
She blinked, caught completely off guard by the sudden sincerity threading through his slurred voice.
He cupped her face, hands trembling, thumbs brushing her cheeks as if she were something fragile. "Amo tutto di te. La tua voce. I tuoi occhi. Il modo in cui respiri quando dormi." His breath shook. "Il modo in cui mi guardi quando credi che io non ti stia vedendo."
She swallowed, suddenly rooted to the spot.
He leaned his forehead against hers, breath warm against her skin. "La mia vita gira intorno a te. Ogni giorno. Ogni ora. Non c'è niente senza di te."
Her fingers curled into his shirt instinctively, steadying him. Steadying herself.
He whispered, voice cracking just a little, "Sei il battito del mio cuore. Il mio respiro. Il mio primo pensiero al mattino e l'ultimo la sera. Sei tutto."
Her mouth parted, but no sound came out.
He laughed softly, but it was not his usual smooth, cocky laugh. It was broken at the edges, as if something inside him was unraveling. "Lo so che sono ubriaco," he said quietly. "Ma non mento. Mai su questo."
She touched his cheek gently, grounding him. "Blaise…"
He caught her hand and pressed it to his chest, right over his heart. "Senti." His heartbeat hammered beneath her palm. "È tuo."
The air left her chest in a shaky breath.
He sagged forward, overwhelmed by emotion and alcohol. She wrapped an arm around him before he could collapse completely.
"You're impossible," she whispered, voice trembling with affection she did not want to show him right now.
"And tu sei mia," he whispered back, eyes half-closed, not with arrogance, but with a kind of desperate certainty, like he needed the words to anchor him.
She looped an arm around his waist. "Come on, baby. Shower, then bed."
"No," he said, voice thick, pulling her closer with surprising strength. "Prima tu. Prima che mi scappi."
She huffed a laugh. "I am not going anywhere."
He lifted his head and looked at her like he wasn't sure he could believe her. "Prometti?"
She softened. "I promise."
His shoulders loosened a little, some tension draining from him, but the lovesick haze remained.
He let her guide him down the hall, leaning heavily on her. Halfway to the bathroom, he buried his face in her neck, breathing her in like he had been starving for air.
"Non lasciarmi mai," he murmured, voice soft and shaking. "Non potrei sopportarlo."
Her breath caught.
She lifted a hand and stroked the back of his head, fingers slipping through his curls. "You're drunk, Blaise."
"Ubriaco," he murmured, nuzzling closer, "ma innamorato lo stesso."
She smiled despite the ache stirring in her chest.
Inside the bathroom, she settled him on the edge of the tub. He blinked up at her, eyes glassy but unmistakably earnest.
"You could have had anyone," he whispered. "Potter. Someone safer. Someone simpler." His jaw tightened. "Ma hai scelto me."
She crossed her arms. "I did."
He grabbed her hand again, pulling her close until she stood between his knees, his forehead resting against her sternum like he needed her heartbeat to keep him steady.
"Sono tuo," he whispered. "Per sempre."
She pressed a kiss to his forehead, slow and lingering. "I like you too, you idiot."
He smiled with a kind of soft, helpless devotion that made her chest tighten.
"Join me?" he asked hopefully.
She laughed. "Absolutely not. Tomorrow. If you behave."
He groaned but let her help him undress, muttering entire paragraphs of heartfelt Italian under his breath that she pretended not to understand.
And as the warm water washed over him, he whispered her name like a prayer.
Because drunk or sober, messy or elegant, broken or dangerous, Blaise Zabini loved her with a kind of devotion that could burn the world down.
And Ginny, even if she would not admit it yet, loved being the woman he burned for.
~~~~~~
The morning sunlight drifted in like it had no idea what kind of night had happened. It painted the room in soft gold, warm and quiet, and all it did was remind Blaise of exactly how not warm and not quiet he had been. His eyes cracked open slowly, a dull ache pounding behind them. Firewhiskey, remorse, and humiliation greeted him like old acquaintances.
Unfortunately, his memory was sharp. Crystal clear. Every slurred declaration, every heartfelt Italian confession, every dramatic speech about universes and suns and heartbeats. It all replayed with painful clarity.
He groaned softly and turned his head.
Ginny lay beside him, curled into the pillows with her hair spread everywhere like a halo set on fire. She looked peaceful, content, with the faintest smile at the corners of her mouth. A smile that made his stomach sink with dread.
He brushed a kiss to her forehead, gentle and tentative, hoping the tenderness would distract her from whatever memories she had of last night.
Her eyes fluttered open.
She took one look at him and smirked.
He was doomed.
"Good morning, lover boy," she murmured, voice warm and husky from sleep, eyes sparkling with wicked delight.
He shut his own eyes in surrender. So she remembered. Of course she remembered.
"Good morning, baby girl," he said, though it came out rough and slightly tragic. After a long, painful pause, he added in a tone that suggested he was preparing for his own execution, "I would like to formally apologize for my behavior last night."
She shifted closer, propping her chin on his chest, her fingers smoothing across his skin with slow curiosity. "There is nothing to apologize for," she said sweetly. "Nothing happened."
He stared at her as if she had insulted his intelligence. "I remember everything."
"Do you?" she asked, biting back a grin.
He groaned and threw himself onto his back. "I said so many things."
She snorted. "You did."
"I called you my sun," he muttered miserably. "And my universe. And I told you my life revolves around you. Who talks like that?"
"You," she answered cheerfully. "Apparently."
He dragged a hand down his face. "I am never drinking again."
She plucked the pillow from beneath his arm and dropped it on his chest. "Relax, you idiot. You might have been drunk, but I know you meant every word."
His face heated. That was the problem.
He turned his head to look at her. "I did mean it," he admitted quietly. "But there is a time and a place for grand declarations of love, and drunk off my arse was not my preference."
She tapped a teasing finger against his jaw, her eyes dancing. "I like you better that way. Less mysterious. More lovesick puppy."
He recoiled in horror. "A puppy?"
"A very attractive one," she added, grinning.
"Merlin, kill me," he muttered.
She kissed him, soft and unhurried, her fingers brushing the side of his neck. The moment softened, deepened, the teasing fading into something warmer. When she pulled back, she stayed close, her forehead nearly touching his.
"I like both sides of you," she whispered.
He held her gaze for a moment, tension easing out of his shoulders. The embarrassment lingered but lost its bite under the quiet affection in her eyes.
She stretched, settling against his side, drawing lazy circles on his chest. "You know," she said thoughtfully, "you say you will never drink again every single time."
He frowned. "I do not."
"You do. Every time," she said, deadpan. "And every time, I end up dragging your marble statue arse to bed."
"Are you insulting me or complimenting me?" he asked with a raised brow.
"Both," she answered breezily.
He chuckled under his breath. "Fair."
She nudged him gently. "And before you get too sulky about last night, just remember you were sweet. Very sweet."
He groaned again and pulled the blanket over his face.
She tugged it down enough to steal a kiss. "You cannot hide. I will always find you."
His voice was muffled under the blanket. "I hate you."
She grinned and kissed him again, firmer this time. "No, you don't."
He dropped the blanket and exhaled with tragic resignation. "Fine. I don't."
She settled against him again, completely content, while he lay there staring at the ceiling, wondering how he had gone from elegant and composed to a man whose heart spilled out of him at the slightest touch of Firewhiskey.
After a long silence, she tilted her head toward him with a mischievous glint.
"Just so we are clear," she said calmly, "if you ever get drunk and start waxing poetic again, I am recording it."
His eyes widened with horror.
She patted his chest, all innocence. "And I will play it at your funeral."
He covered his face again with both hands.
"I hate you," he repeated weakly.
Her laughter filled the room, sweet and warm, and she pulled him into her with ease.
"No, you don't," she whispered.
And he didn't. Not even close.