Ginny stood in front of the mirror, her brow drawn tight as she studied her reflection with the same scrutiny she once reserved for Quidditch strategies. Sunday brunch was supposed to be a simple gathering, a chance for friends to sit together over good food and better gossip, but it had turned into something else entirely. A performance. A quiet competition. A weekly reminder that appearances still mattered, no matter how far they thought they had come from the world that had shaped them.
She tugged at the hem of her dress, smoothing a wrinkle that did not exist, before stepping back to look again. The deep crimson of the Valentino dress clung to her in a way that made it seem effortless, even though she had spent far too long perfecting every detail. The color sharpened the fire in her hair, which she had coaxed into soft waves that looked natural only because she had fought with them for nearly an hour. Her makeup was precise, light enough to pretend she had rolled out of bed glowing, heavy enough to hide the exhaustion of an already long morning.
Polished. Controlled. Ready.
Downstairs, she could hear the soft clink of silverware and the comforting hiss of the kettle. Blaise was moving around the dining room with that maddening calm of his, the kind that made it seem as though he had been born prepared. She envied that calm. She wanted to wrap herself in it and hide for a moment, but instead she picked up a brush and smoothed it through her hair again, searching for flaws she had already corrected.
Her fingers drifted to the jewelry on the vanity table. Delicate chains. Diamonds that caught the light in quiet glimmer. Gold that shone warm against her skin. She picked up a simple pair of studs before pausing. Not enough. Not today.
She sifted through the small collection until her fingers brushed the emerald earrings Blaise had given her months earlier. She held them up to the light, watching the deep green glow softly against the gold. They were bold without shouting, elegant without trying too hard. Exactly the balance she needed.
She fastened them in place and watched her reflection shift. Stronger. Collected.
A deep breath. Slow release.
Hold it together.
She stepped away from the mirror, but her mind was already running ahead, racing through everything that could go wrong. Floral arrangements. Table settings. The exact moment guests would arrive. The conversation she would need to steer. The image they needed to maintain. It was ridiculous, the amount of energy she poured into these gatherings, but she could not shake the feeling that it mattered.
Their brunches had become the kind people whispered about. A place where alliances were shaped in the subtle ways friends could influence each other, a place where status was quietly reinforced without anyone ever speaking the word aloud. She had grown into this role, but some days it felt like balancing on a knife's edge. The slightest slip and the entire facade would crack.
She glanced at the clock again.
There was still time.
Ginny made her way toward the stairs, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor. As she moved through the hallway, she caught sight of the dining room. The table gleamed beneath the chandelier, each plate positioned carefully, each napkin folded neatly into a crisp fan. Fresh flowers sat in a slender vase at the center, their scent subtle and clean. It was perfect.
But she walked in anyway.
Her fingers skimmed the tablecloth. Straightened a glass. Lifted a fork and placed it again a fraction of an inch to the left. She knew she was doing it, knew she was teetering somewhere between committed and obsessive, but the tension inside her simply refused to let go.
This was not about brunch. It was about order. It was about holding steady in a world that had changed too fast, too violently. It was about keeping control when everything else, including her husband, seemed to be slipping out of her grasp.
The scent of fresh coffee drifted from the kitchen. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting it ground her before turning toward the doorway.
"Everything has to be right today," she whispered to herself, though she was not entirely sure who she was trying to convince.
Her reflection in the glass cabinet stared back at her. Elegant. Composed. Ready.
She hoped it was enough.
Descending the grand staircase, Ginny moved with a sense of purpose, her heels tapping softly along the polished marble. The dining room opened below her like a stage, warm light spilling from the chandelier and catching on fine china, crystal glasses, and silver polished so carefully it almost looked unreal. Blaise had set the table with his usual precision, and she could tell at a glance that everything was exactly where he wanted it. Each plate aligned. Each glass angled toward the candlelight. The flowers in the center added a soft burst of color that softened the room without competing with its elegance.
He had a gift for this. Making luxury look easy. Making control look natural.
"Everything looks perfect," he said from the doorway, his voice smooth, warm, and frustratingly steady.
She turned just enough to catch him leaning against the doorframe. His smirk held that familiar amusement, the one that told her he had known she would be down here for a final inspection even before she knew it herself.
"Almost," she said, reaching to shift a wine glass just a fraction to the side. "I want it to be right."
He laughed softly under his breath and pushed off the frame, crossing the space between them at an unhurried pace. His hands slid around her waist, steady and confident, anchoring her as though he knew she needed it.
"It is right," he murmured, kissing her temple in a way that made her chest tighten. "You don't need to work yourself into a spiral over every detail."
She exhaled slowly and let herself lean into him for a moment, taking comfort in the simple warmth of his touch. Blaise never seemed fazed by any of this. The brunches. The pressure. The subtle politics humming beneath every conversation. He moved through all of it as if he had been carved from calm itself.
"I know," she said quietly. "I just don't want to look like I don't belong. Not today."
The shift in him was immediate. His teasing softened into certainty. His eyes sharpened in that way they did when he needed her to understand him.
"You belong," he said, his voice steady enough to make her believe it for a moment. "You earned your place here. Don't let old memories make you doubt what you already built."
She wanted to let the words settle. She wanted to let them sink deep enough to chase away the insecurity that still lingered no matter how far she had come. The Burrow lived in her bones. The sense of being the odd one out had never fully left her, even in this new life she loved. Even wrapped in Valentino and gold.
Before she could reply, the doorbell chimed.
A bright, crisp sound that sliced through the quiet and jolted her back into the role she had prepared for all morning.
Here we go.
She pulled herself upright, smoothing the front of her dress with steady hands, gathering her composure like a cloak she had worn a thousand times. Confidence settled over her face with practiced ease, each breath drawing her back into the version of herself she needed to be.
As she walked toward the foyer, Blaise stayed right beside her. Solid. Certain. A quiet reminder that she was not doing any of this alone.
This is your home now. Your table. Your people.
She opened the front door with a poised smile, the kind she had perfected long before today, the kind that carried elegance without effort and strength without apology.
It was time to host. Time to perform.
Time to make the brunch flawless.
~~~~~~
Hermione and Draco arrived at the Sunday brunch looking like they had wandered straight out of an editorial spread rather than a Floo. Valentino had somehow become the unofficial uniform of pureblood gatherings, and the two of them embraced it effortlessly. Hermione wore a velvet mini dress from the newest collection, the deep green catching every bit of sunlight filtering through the windows. Gold jewelry framed her throat and wrists, subtle pieces shaped in the style of goddesses and ancient carvings. She glowed in a way that made even the pureblood matrons pause.
Draco stood beside her with that quiet, brooding confidence he never quite tried to hide. His suit was impeccably tailored, the dark fabric a sharp contrast to his pale skin. The overall effect was deliberate. He looked like a modern Hades escorting a very unwilling but undeniably radiant Persephone into an event she would pretend she hated but secretly enjoyed. Together, they looked unnervingly cohesive. They looked powerful.
Across the room, Pansy was the picture of rich crimson elegance, her dress hugging her curves like it worshipped them. Her dark hair had been coaxed into soft waves, and she carried herself with a self-assured confidence that made half the room straighten their posture when she walked by. Beside her, Neville was calm and charming in a tailored suit that matched her aesthetic so well it bordered on art. Standing together, they radiated a kind of unified strength that only grew brighter when they caught sight of Hermione and Draco.
Ginny was the first to cross the room, her smile warm and bright enough to light the entire place. "Hello, lovebirds. You both look incredible."
Blaise joined her a second later, hands in his pockets, his expression relaxed but amused. "Looks like some pureblood sophistication finally rubbed off on Hermione."
"Positive influence?" Draco asked with a slow smirk. "Credit where it is due. My taste is impeccable."
Hermione let out a soft groan, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Your taste. Right. More likely an intern at Valentino sees your name and sighs before sketching something outrageous."
Blaise laughed. "Regardless of the source, the results speak for themselves. You two look like you stepped off a runway."
Ginny nodded vigorously. "Honestly, you look like the cover of some posh wizarding fashion magazine."
Draco shot Hermione a quick glance, pride flickering in his eyes. "See? Even the Weasley and Zabini panel approves."
Hermione smiled, warmth blooming in her chest despite her playful eye roll. "Fine. I will accept the compliment."
Blaise lifted his glass slightly. "You two make a strong pair. That is all I am saying."
Draco gave a small nod at that, a hint of pride never leaving his face. "Thank you. We are trying to keep up with the two of you."
Ginny laughed. "Please. You two walk in with that mysterious, untouchable aura. It is practically cheating."
Pansy arrived just in time to hear that, her eyebrow lifting in intrigue. "What are we talking about?"
"Draco and Hermione's fashion dominance," Ginny said with a smirk.
Pansy scoffed, but her smile was bright. "Good luck topping that. Truly. They look like the actual embodiment of Persephone and Hades."
Neville chuckled softly, his hands in his pockets. "They do look good. It is nice to see everyone put together for once."
Hermione felt her cheeks warm at the praise. "Thanks, Pansy. You look stunning too."
Pansy winked. "Naturally."
Neville lifted his glass. "Cheers to friends who clean up well."
They all laughed, the atmosphere loosening as familiar comfort settled between them. Hermione felt her shoulders relax, the tight little knot of anxiety that had followed her from home finally easing.
"Who is coming today?" she asked, glancing at Ginny.
Ginny scanned the room, then nodded toward the entrance. "The usual suspects. Harry and Cho should arrive any minute. Luna and Theo said they would stop by as well."
Hermione's face brightened. "It has been ages since we all gathered like this."
"They should be here soon," Ginny said, checking her watch. "Theo claims Luna made him change his shirt three times. Par for the course."
Draco's gaze drifted through the room, his posture more relaxed than usual. "It is good to be around familiar faces. It has been too long."
Hermione hummed in agreement, smoothing the soft velvet over her hips. "I am excited to see them."
Ginny nudged her lightly. "Do not worry. They will be thrilled to see you. And seeing the two of you walk in like this… trust me, it made an impression."
Hermione exchanged a glance with Draco, the two of them sharing something unspoken. Steady. Supportive. A quiet promise in the middle of the chatter and polished silverware.
As if the universe had been waiting for the perfect cue, the double doors opened and Luna drifted in like she had been carried by a warm breeze. Her radish earrings swung gently with each step she took, catching the chandelier light as she beamed at the room.
"Hello, everyone," she sang out, her voice soft and bright, the kind of voice that always lifted the energy in the room without even trying.
Harry followed behind her, hair as messy as ever, glasses slightly askew from rushing, Cho at his side looking like she had stepped straight out of a winter portrait. Her long raven hair framed her face beautifully, and the shy smile she offered the group was warm enough to melt something inside Hermione.
Relief washed through Hermione the moment she saw them. She stood at once, her nervous tension slipping away as she walked toward Harry. He wrapped her in a firm, familiar hug, the kind that spoke of years and years of shared history.
"Hermione," he breathed, his voice full of affection. "Merlin, it really has been too long."
"It has," she replied, hugging him just as tightly. "It's wonderful to see you."
Draco watched the exchange with a guarded sort of approval, his shoulders straightening. When Harry turned to him, offering a handshake, Draco took it without hesitation.
"Malfoy," Harry greeted, his tone steady.
"Potter," Draco returned, giving a respectful nod.
Luna clapped her hands together with a delighted smile. "Oh, good. No tension. That is always nice for digestion."
Cho laughed softly. "It is nice to see everyone like this."
Luna's eyes sparkled. "Now, who wants to hear about the Wrackspurts I found nesting in my attic?"
The table burst into laughter. Even Draco gave a quiet snort, shaking his head.
Everyone took their seats, sliding into the comfortable, familiar rhythm that only old friends could manage. Hermione settled beside Draco, already feeling the earlier strain of the day fading into something softer.
Pansy and Neville sat close together, and Pansy's shoulders had loosened for the first time all morning. Neville leaned toward her with an affectionate sort of ease, and they slipped into a conversation about herbology before the first course had even arrived.
"Have you tried cultivating those new hybrids?" Pansy asked, her eyes lighting with genuine interest. "I heard they have unpredictable properties."
Neville nearly glowed. "They do. I'm testing a few in the greenhouse. If they stabilise properly, the possibilities are incredible."
Hermione watched them with quiet pride. Her friends had grown into themselves in ways she never could have predicted when they were teenagers sneaking through corridors with contraband parchment.
Theo broke into the moment, swirling the drink in his glass like a showman preparing to announce an act. "So this is it then. The eagle's nest, the lion's cave, and the snake's den, all politely sharing a table."
Draco let out a soft laugh, surprising even himself. "Close enough. Looks like you get your Hogwarts reunion after all, Potter."
Harry smirked. "Still missing a Hufflepuff to complete the set, Malfoy."
Hermione nudged Draco lightly. "Maybe next brunch."
Ginny smiled as she reached for her glass. "Honestly, it is good to see us like this. All of us. Like we made it out the other side."
Theo raised his glass high, his grin sharp and bright. "To Hogwarts. To surviving it. To friends who became family."
Glasses lifted around the table, their soft clink echoing warmly beneath the chandelier.
Hermione looked around at the faces she had once known as enemies, classmates, rivals, and—now—people she trusted with her life. The air hummed with something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
Things were far from perfect. They were messy, complicated, occasionally ridiculous.
~~~~~~
The others had gone long ago, their chatter fading into the quiet heartbeat of the house. The last ribbons of sunlight slipped through the tall windows and stretched across the floor in warm golden paths. The scent of coffee and the remnants of brunch lingered in the air, soft and comforting, as Ginny and Luna moved through the dining room in an easy rhythm.
Ginny wiped down the polished wood with slow, practiced sweeps while Luna guided a stack of plates through the air, her wand movements graceful and almost whimsical. A gentle silence settled between them, broken only by the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain.
"I'm so happy Harry and Cho could come too," Luna said, watching the plates drift toward the kitchen sink.
Ginny's hand paused for a brief heartbeat, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table before she forced herself to keep moving. She let out a small laugh that sounded light enough to fool most people. "Yeah, it was nice to see them both in person. Feels like we've spent months passing each other through owls and half-written letters."
Luna tilted her head, studying Ginny with open curiosity, her gaze soft but sharp enough to cut through anything false. "Is it awkward though?" she asked quietly. "Between the two of you?"
Ginny let out a laugh that came too fast, a little too bright. "Between me and Harry? Of course not. We were kids when we dated. It feels like a whole other life." She wiped her hands on the cloth, shrugging as if the subject weighed nothing at all. "He's family. Always has been. We fought in the same war. You don't lose that bond."
Another plate floated away, drifting lazily into the growing stack.
"It must be comforting," Luna said, "having a connection that strong. The kind that doesn't disappear even when everything else changes."
Ginny turned slightly, letting the warm light catch in her hair. "It is," she said softly, and the honesty in her voice surprised even her. "And I think it's true for all of us. We came out the other side with scars, and we spent years learning how to breathe again. That ties people together, even when we're living completely different lives now."
A quiet moment stretched between them. Ginny's gaze drifted to the doorway, almost expecting to see Harry appear there, just like he used to do when they were younger, heading into the kitchen for tea or leftovers or simply because she was there.
But he was gone. He had walked out earlier with Cho at his side.
Luna stacked the last of the dishes, her movements slow, thoughtful. "Things change," she said at last, her tone light but her words precise. "But the roots stay in the soil. They do not vanish."
Ginny exhaled, her fingers tightening around the towel. "No," she murmured, almost under her breath. "They don't."
She turned back with a smile that she had perfected over the years, the kind that hid more than it revealed. "But that's what makes it easier, I think. Knowing that some things stay constant. Knowing that even after everything we've lived through, we're still there for each other."
Luna stepped closer, her silvery eyes full of gentle understanding. "Like a tree," she said softly. "The branches grow in every direction, reaching for new things, but they always know where their roots are."
Ginny shook her head, a delicate laugh slipping out. "You really do have a way of saying things in a way no one else ever would." Her smile softened then, more real, less guarded. "But yes. I think you're right."
Luna twirled in place, letting her skirt flare around her as if she were absorbing every warm bit of the room. "It makes everything feel lighter," she said happily. "Like no matter what happens next, we'll still have each other."
Ginny pressed the towel gently against the counter, her thoughts finally quieting. "Yeah," she said in a soft voice. "I wouldn't trade that for anything."
~~~~~~
Ginny stood at the sink, her hands resting on the cool counter as Luna's words circled in her mind like a persistent echo. Harry's the one who got away. The phrase was absurd. It was laughable, even. Yet no matter how many times she pushed it aside, it clung to her thoughts like a shadow that refused to be shaken off. Luna had always possessed the unnerving ability to say things in a way that burrowed under the skin, peeling back layers you didn't even know you were hiding.
Harry, the one who got away. Ridiculous.
Ginny let out a quiet scoff, shaking her head as she stared out at the garden. They had been children when they got together. Too young to understand the sort of love that withstands the storms of adulthood. It had been intense and bright, a flame that burned fast, the kind of first love that aches because you don't yet know how to hold anything gently. It had ended because it needed to end. Because life after the war demanded they build something new instead of clinging to something built in the ruins.
They had walked away from that chapter.
She had walked away.
Or had she?
Her grip tightened on the counter, her knuckles pale against the porcelain. She had spent years thinking of Harry as family, as the boy who had once been her world but had settled comfortably into the role of trusted friend. She had believed herself untouched by regret.
But now, Luna's innocent question had tugged at a thread she hadn't realized was still woven through her.
She allowed herself, for the first time in years, to think of him not as the hero or the brother figure or the friend who had fought beside her, but as the boy she had once imagined a future with. The boy whose laughter she could still hear if she closed her eyes. The boy she had loved with a fierce, determined heart. The boy who had broken it.
She had loved him. She had loved him with every fractured part of herself that had survived the war.
But that was supposed to be finished. Packed away neatly in a memory box she never opened. She was older now, wiser, with a life that was hers to shape.
And then there was Blaise.
She thought of him next, his name rising in her mind like a counterbalance. Blaise, with his dark eyes and sharp smile, with his impossible charm and the way he moved through the world as if it belonged to him. Blaise, who teased her until she laughed despite herself. Blaise, who touched her like he meant it, like he saw every restless, reckless part of her.
He was nothing like Harry. He was danger and comfort all tangled together. He frustrated her, infuriated her, challenged her, and pulled her closer even on the days she swore she wouldn't let him.
But he was also a man of secrets. A man who kept entire chapters of his life locked away behind the steady calm of his voice. There were parts of him she knew she would never be allowed to see, no matter how deeply she loved him. She had learned to accept those shadows because their life together was real, and complicated, and something she had chosen.
Hadn't she?
Ginny shut her eyes tight, as if force alone could chase the thoughts away. This was foolish. Harry wasn't the one who got away. Life didn't work like some tragic ballad where the heart keeps reaching backward. She wasn't standing at a crossroads between past and present. She had made a choice, and she had built something solid with Blaise.
She was happy.
At least, she believed she was. Most days.
Some days, that happiness felt like something she held together with sheer determination, like a picture frame that needed constant straightening.
All because Luna, with her wide eyes and soft voice, had said one innocent thing.
And it had opened a door Ginny had spent years pretending wasn't there.
The truth was, she had never really given herself the chance to sit with what happened between her and Harry. They had broken up, and instead of mourning it the way any normal person would, she had shoved the whole thing into a corner of her mind and moved on with the same stubborn force she brought to everything in her life.
The war had ended, the world had demanded survival, and there had been no room for heartbreak in the middle of rebuilding an entire life from rubble. She and Harry had drifted apart not because the love had vanished overnight, but because life had pulled them in different directions, faster than either of them could keep up.
And now, all these years later, Luna had spoken one innocent sentence and somehow cracked open a door Ginny had assumed was long sealed shut.
It shouldn't matter. She shouldn't still be thinking about any of this. But she couldn't shake the memory of the way Harry had looked at her that morning at brunch. A fraction of a second too long. A softness she hadn't expected. Something that made her heart stutter in the quietest, most inconvenient way.
Maybe she imagined it.
Maybe she was searching for meaning in something harmless, twisting a moment into something it wasn't.
Ginny let out a long sigh, dragging her hands down her face. It was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. She had a husband. A home. A life that she had built brick by brick beside Blaise. A life she cared about, even if it wasn't always perfect, even if some parts of it felt more fragile than she ever admitted out loud.
Harry had moved on. She had too. That was supposed to be the end of it.
And yet, despite all her attempts to shut it down, a low, uneasy feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Something she couldn't quite name. Something she didn't want to think about, but couldn't seem to ignore.
One quiet question rose in her mind, unwelcome and persistent.
What if Luna was right?
She and Blaise had a magical core compatibility of ninety-seven percent. Ninety-seven. She reminded herself of that number the way someone clings to a lifeline, repeating it in her mind as if she could force it to settle the unease Luna had awakened in her. Their connection was not just strong. It was extraordinary. The Ministry evaluators had called it a once-in-a-generation match, the kind of pairing people whispered about for decades. Their magic had chosen each other long before either of them ever said the words out loud. Ninety-seven percent meant something. It meant destiny, or at least that was what she kept telling herself.
And yet, the more she repeated it, the less comfort it brought.
Luna's innocent question had slipped under her defenses with terrifying ease. Why now? Why did the thought of Harry settle into the back of her mind with the quiet persistence of a bruise she kept pressing? She had not thought about compatibility charts or Ministry evaluations in years. But suddenly she found herself wondering what their score might have been.
Eighty-seven percent. A strong bond, intimate enough to suggest possibility, but not enough to overwhelm. A connection built on years of shared memories and the strange closeness that came from surviving something bigger than themselves. A number like that could have grown. It could have deepened with time. It could have turned into a life.
But then a darker thought crept in.
What if it had been something low? Something humiliatingly low. A number that would have confirmed everything she had tried so hard to believe. Twenty-eight percent. A score that would have exposed their past relationship for what she wanted to imagine it was now. A childhood crush disguised as destiny. A distraction forged in the fire of war, held together by adrenaline and grief rather than true compatibility.
That should have comforted her.
Except it didn't.
Because that wasn't what their love had felt like. It had been young, yes, but it had also been real. It had been bright and fast, too bright perhaps, burning with an intensity they could not sustain once the world stopped ending around them. They had loved each other in a way that felt impossible to repeat. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe she had never let herself grieve the end of it.
The thought tightened something in her chest.
She forced herself to breathe. She told herself none of it mattered. Numbers were just numbers. A Ministry chart could not decide the worth of a person, nor the truth of a memory. She had chosen Blaise. Blaise had chosen her. Their magic had aligned with rare precision. Ninety-seven percent meant harmony. It meant a future.
Still, her mind drifted back to those hypothetical numbers. To the impossible. The absurd. The kind of thought that should have made her laugh but instead made her stomach twist.
Four hundred and sixty-three percent.
Ridiculous. Impossible. Yet her mind would not let it go. It whispered the idea like a forbidden spell, the kind that lingered long after the sound faded. What if their connection had exceeded any scale the Ministry had ever created? What if their magic had defied logic and expectation? What if they had been something the world had never prepared her for?
What if fate had been on their side once, and she had been too young, too overwhelmed, too scared to recognize it?
Ginny pressed her palms flat against the countertop, grounding herself in the present, willing the thoughts to scatter like ash. Blaise was her husband. Blaise was the man her magic had chosen. She loved him. Ninety-seven percent had to matter more than what if.
And yet, the question remained, soft as breath and impossible to ignore.
What if?
What if the Ministry had not interfered? Would she and Harry have found their way back to each other in time, pulled together by the familiarity of shared battles and the fragile tenderness that had lived between them once? Would they have rebuilt what had been broken, nurtured it slowly, found a version of themselves that fit in the quiet aftermath of war? Would they have chosen each other freely, without the weight of decrees or bloodline evaluations dictating the direction of their lives?
She shut the kitchen drawer with a sharp snap, the sound echoing far louder than she intended. Her pulse thrummed in her throat, a steady pounding that matched the rising agitation swirling inside her.
Enough. This was spiraling. Completely deranged. She refused to let herself fall apart because of a single intrusive thought born from Luna Lovegood's whimsical, sideways logic.
Blaise was her husband.
Their bond was written into the fabric of their magic.
That connection meant something. It meant stability, compatibility, a future that was already unfolding in front of her. She loved him. She chose him. She wanted the life they were building together.
She held onto that truth as tightly as she could.
But the question would not leave.
What if?
Her thoughts drifted back to brunch, against her will, against her better judgment. Back to Harry's smile. Not just any smile. The one she knew too well. The one that used to undo her completely. That boyish, crooked grin that always surfaced when he tried to hide something softer underneath it.
She had not seen that look in a long time.
But today, just for a moment, it had been there again.
A flicker. A hesitation. Something wistful, tucked behind the steady warmth in his eyes. Something that made her stomach tighten and her hands go still.
Had it always been there, hidden in the quiet spaces between their conversations? Had she been too wrapped up in Blaise and the chaos of pureblood society to notice? Or had she simply convinced herself she did not want to see it?
Maybe she was imagining all of it. Maybe her mind was playing games with her now that Luna had cracked open a door she had kept locked for years.
But she could not shake the memory of how he had looked at her across the table. Not territorial. Not possessive. Something gentler. Something… lost.
Longing. The word scraped at her chest.
It was absurd. It was impossible. He had Cho. He was happy. He had moved on.
So why had that one look hit her like a curse she never saw coming?
Ginny braced her hands against the counter, her breath catching in her throat as the truth she did not want to face pushed its way to the surface.
She had never allowed herself to mourn him. Not fully. Not honestly.
She had buried the grief under new beginnings and new bonds and the relief of no longer being a girl in love with a broken boy who carried the world on his shoulders.
But standing alone in the quiet kitchen, the house still humming with the remnants of laughter and warmth, she felt something shift. Something old. Something unresolved. Something she thought she had left behind in the ashes of the war.
What if she had not left it behind at all?
What if she had simply carried it with her, tucked away in a part of her heart she never dared to look at?
And what if Harry had, too?
"Baby girl?"
His voice slipped into the quiet, smooth and warm the way it always was, but there was a faint edge underneath it tonight. There usually was after one of his outings. She had stopped asking where he went or what he did. By now, silence was its own kind of agreement between them.
"Dinner's almost ready," she said, steadying her voice before turning toward him. She offered a smile she hoped would look convincing.
He closed the distance between them with that effortless elegance of his, his hand sliding to her waist as he pressed a slow kiss to her cheek. His touch was gentle, almost soft, but she felt the weight behind it. "Smells good. You alright?"
She nodded a little too fast. "Yeah. Just tired."
He watched her for a moment, eyes dark and searching. Blaise saw more than he ever admitted, always noticing the smallest shifts in her, always picking up on the things she thought she hid well. But he never pushed. He never asked for explanations. He offered space instead of questions, distance instead of pressure.
It used to make her feel safe.
Tonight, it made her feel stranded.
"Alright," he said quietly, turning to the sink to wash his hands. The water ran steady and calm, the only sound in the room.
She let out a slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding and turned back toward the stove. Her fingers tightened around the wooden spoon as she stirred the soup, each slow circle only stirring her thoughts faster.
Ninety-seven percent.
Eighty-seven.
Twenty-eight.
Four hundred sixty-three.
The numbers twisted through her mind like a riddle she was suddenly desperate to solve. They didn't make sense. They shouldn't matter. They were nothing more than hypothetical scenarios thrown into her head by one offhand comment from Luna and her own spiraling imagination.
What if?
She squeezed her eyes shut, jaw clenched. She refused to let her mind go there again. She would not dig through the rubble of her past to search for something that may not even exist anymore.
Harry was not the one who got away.
He wasn't.
But the thought would not settle. It hovered there, quiet and persistent, a ghost brushing cold fingers along the back of her neck.
And as she stood there stirring dinner, her husband only a few steps behind her, the man she had married, the man magic itself had chosen for her, a truth began to push its way to the surface.
A truth she did not want.
She was no longer certain of the answer.
~~~~~~
He came home that evening with a heaviness that clung to him like damp air, something tense and unsettled in the way he closed the front door. She was curled up in the study, flipping through a gossip magazine without really reading it, letting the glossy pages distract her from her own thoughts.
She expected his usual greeting. A warm brush of lips on her cheek. Some teasing remark about whatever nonsense article she was pretending not to enjoy.
Tonight, there was none of that.
He stepped into the room in silence, holding a massive bouquet of roses. Not a dozen. Not two dozen. Ninety-seven.
Her eyes narrowed as she sat up, the number hitting her like a cold splash of water. The bouquet was enormous, almost theatrical in its size, the deep red petals spilling over the wrapping in lush, velvety waves. The scent flooded the room at once, rich and overwhelming, creeping into her lungs until she felt lightheaded.
She did not reach for them. She just watched him.
Ninety-seven. Their compatibility score. The number that had shaped their marriage long before their hearts ever had the chance to.
"Blaise?" Her voice was calm, but the edges trembled.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek, the gesture gentle, but his eyes unreadable. Then he placed the bouquet on the counter with deliberate care. The motion was too slow, too careful, almost ritualistic, as though the roses meant more than a simple gift.
The sight of them made something cold whisper down her spine. They were beautiful, extravagant, meaningful. They were also too perfect. Too exact.
Was this romance, or was it something else entirely?
The thought came before she could stop it, sliding through her mind with a chill she could not ignore. Something is wrong.
She pushed it down. She always did. Doubt had never helped her, and she refused to feed it now.
So she stood and walked into his space, pressing her hands against his chest, lifting her face to kiss him. Slow. Deep. Intentional. She poured everything she could not say into it, hoping he would understand, hoping she could anchor both of them in something familiar.
But the moment their lips met, she felt it.
A shift.
She kissed him harder, trying to pull him into the moment, but the unease only grew.
Whatever he had done today, whatever weight he carried home, it was still clinging to him.
And as she held his face in her hands, feeling the faint tremor beneath his skin, she realized that the roses were not an apology.
They were a message.
She just did not know what it meant yet.
His lips were warm and familiar, but beneath that warmth there was something stiff, something unmoving that should not have been there. His grip on her waist was firm enough to steady her, yet he did not draw her closer. He did not sink into the kiss like he usually did. His entire body felt like a wire pulled too tight, vibrating with a tension that hummed against her skin. His hands moved the way they always did, practiced and sure, but the instinct was missing. The desire did not rise to meet hers.
She felt it immediately.
A wrongness. A shift. A storm held just beneath the surface.
Her heartbeat stumbled, quickening for all the wrong reasons. She could not decide whether to press him for answers or pretend she had not noticed the way he felt strangely distant in her arms. But the problem was simple.
She had noticed.
And her body reacted before her mind could catch up, instinct tightening in her stomach like a warning she could not ignore.
He ended the kiss first. He pulled back only a little, just enough to look at her properly. His eyes were dark, unreadable, searching her face the way a man searches a battlefield for hidden traps. When he spoke, his voice was soft, but it carried something fragile beneath the surface, something on the edge of cracking open.
"You know that you are my everything, right?"
The words should have wrapped around her like comfort, but instead they landed heavy and thick in the space between them. There was something off in the way he said them, something raw and unsettled.
She forced a smile, though it felt thin and unsteady. "I know that, darling."
But he did not smile back.
He just stared at her, his gaze sharp and stormy, waiting for something she could not name.
"Look," he said, and his voice dropped into something lower, darker, carrying an edge that crawled beneath her skin. "When I told you I loved you while I was drunk… I meant it. I love you more than life itself, baby girl."
The air tightened around her. The weight of the confession pressed against her chest like a hand she could not push away. There was no flirtation in his voice. No teasing charm. Nothing light or easy. It was desperate and absolute.
She tried again, her smile even smaller. "Thank you, darling."
His jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek ticking with frustration.
That wasn't the answer he wanted.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides before he released a sharp breath through his nose, trying and failing to reel himself back in. The tension in the room thickened, growing dense enough to feel in her teeth.
"The only person I have ever loved is you," he said, and this time the words came out steady and cold, the way a blade feels steady and cold when pressed to the skin. He stepped toward her, closing what little distance had remained, his eyes burning into hers with an intensity that made her heart stutter. "And can you honestly look me in the eye and say the same?"
There it was.
The question that had been circling them all evening. The thing she had been avoiding. The fear hiding behind every forced breath. The predator finally stepping into the light.
Her throat tightened. The floor felt unsteady beneath her feet. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Panic fluttered in her chest like trapped wings. She wanted to lie. She wanted to soothe him, tell him everything he needed to hear. But her voice betrayed her before she even formed the words.
"Blaise…" she whispered, and even she could hear the hesitation in her own voice.
His expression shifted like a shutter slamming closed. Something dark flickered across his features before settling into a cold, still mask she had never seen on him before.
"That is enough of an answer for me," he said, his tone flat and sharp, slicing through the silence. His lips curled into something that might have been a smirk if there had been any trace of humor in it. There was none. Only anger. Only hurt. Only something dangerous lurking just beneath the surface.
"Ginevra."
Not Ginny. Not baby girl. Not love.
Ginevra.
Spoken as if he were spitting out poison. Spoken like a final verdict.
Her heart dropped straight into her stomach.
She reached for him, her fingers closing around his arm. "Blaise, wait—"
But he pulled away violently, tearing his arm from her grasp with a sharp, controlled movement that carried more anger than he had shown in years. He turned from her without a single word, his footsteps silent as he strode toward the front door.
She followed him helplessly, her voice breaking somewhere in her throat, but he did not look back.
The door slammed behind him hard enough to rattle the walls, the sound echoing all through the house.
The silence that followed settled over her like ash.
She stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, her hand still half-raised, her heartbeat thrumming like a warning bell. Her breath stuck in her throat. Her body went cold.
Ginny stood there, gripping the counter as if it could steady her against the tide rising inside her. Her mind would not quiet. Every thought collided with another, messy and frantic, each one tugging her in a different direction until she felt stretched thin, caught between what she had and what she feared she was losing.
This is not what I wanted.
She had not asked for doubt. But once cracked open, the truth did not slip away. It hung in the air, stubborn and relentless, like smoke that refused to clear.
Her eyes drifted back to the roses.
Ninety-seven roses. A perfect, heavy, suffocating monument to the bond she had once taken comfort in. Now, they felt like a spotlight. A silent accusation. A challenge.
Prove it. Prove you love him the way he loves you.
She swallowed hard, her throat tight. She tried to look at them the way she had earlier, as a grand gesture, as something tender. But the longer she stared, the more unnatural they seemed. Too many. Too deliberate. Too pointed. As if he had been trying to pin down something slipping through his fingers.
Her heart twisted painfully.
She had spent years telling herself she was content, that what they had was strong and steady, built from the ashes of a world that had nearly destroyed her. She had chosen Blaise. She had chosen this life. She had fought for it.
But now her certainty wavered.
The scent of the roses grew heavier, thick in the air, cloying. It filled her lungs with something that felt almost oppressive. She backed away from them without meaning to, her breathing shallow as she tried to clear her head.
Am I losing him?
The thought hit her with the force of a blow. She braced both hands on the counter, fighting the urge to crumble right there on the kitchen floor.
No. No, she would not lose him.
Blaise loved her with a depth that sometimes frightened her. He had said it with such conviction tonight, his voice trembling on the edge of something violent and desperate. He loved her more than life itself.
A tremor ran through her chest, sharp and hot. She had not meant to hurt him. She had not meant to look unsure. She had not meant to let the cracks show.
She dragged a hand across her cheek. Another tear followed, uninvited, slipping down her skin before she could stop it. She hissed under her breath, frustrated, angry that she was crying, angry that she had let things get this far.
The house was painfully quiet now. Too quiet. It hummed with the absence he had left behind, the silence he had carved into the walls with the slam of the door. She could almost hear the echo of it still ripping through the air.
How did everything fall apart so quickly?
She forced herself to move, even though her legs felt unsteady. She turned the stove off, watching the steam rise from the pot one last time before it faded into nothing. The room smelled like herbs and garlic and roses and fear.
Her fingers pressed into the counter, knuckles pale as she tried to steady her shaking breath.
Blaise's words cut through her again, sharper this time. "The only person I have ever loved is you."
She had never heard him say anything with that kind of conviction. There had been a plea in his voice, a warning, a demand. And she had answered with silence.
She lifted one hand to her chest, pressing it there to keep herself from coming apart. Her pulse thudded beneath her palm, too fast, too loud.
She wanted to fix this. She wanted to run after him, to pull him back inside and tell him she was scared, that she was confused, that she was trying so hard to understand what she felt. She wanted to tell him she didn't want anyone else. She wanted to tell him she loved him.
But the words caught in her throat, tangled with doubt she could not name.
Her eyes drifted to the door he had slammed shut.
The truth settled in her chest like a stone.
She did not know how to fix this.
And for the first time since she had married him, she was terrified that he might not let her try.
~~~~~~
She walked the length of the kitchen again, then turned back, only to pace in the other direction. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the truth sitting in her chest had begun to sink deeper with every breath she took.
Get it together, Ginny.
The thought came sharp and desperate, but it did nothing to steady the tremor in her hands. She pressed her palms to the countertop and let her head drop for a moment, breathing slowly through her nose. She could not keep pretending. Not after tonight. Not when her heart was beginning to trip over feelings she could no longer explain away.
She knew what Blaise felt. He had never been shy about it. Blaise Zabini loved her in a way she had only ever read about in novels, with that fierce, consuming devotion that wrapped around her like a shield. He loved her with every part of himself. He worshipped the ground she walked on. He treated her like she was made of something rare and irreplaceable.
She knew it in the way he touched her. In the way he looked at her. In the way he spoke her name like it belonged only to him.
She was his world.
And she was grateful for that. She cared about him, more than she had expected to when they had been thrown together. She admired him. She trusted him. She enjoyed the life they had built. He made her laugh. He made her feel safe. He made her feel chosen.
But she wasn't in love with him.
Not in the way he deserved.
The truth pressed against her ribs so hard it almost hurt. It had been there for months, tucked away in a corner of her mind she refused to look at. But tonight, after the way he had left, it sat there, relentless, refusing to be ignored any longer.
She wanted to love him. Merlin, she wanted that more than anything. She wanted her heart to catch up to the life she had built, to feel the things he felt, to want him in the quiet, aching way he wanted her. She wanted to fall into him the way he had fallen into her, without hesitation, without fear.
But she could not make herself feel what she did not feel.
And pretending had become its own kind of cruelty.
She dragged a hand through her hair, fingers shaking. Her chest felt tight, as if her breath was caught on something sharp. She stayed still for a moment, letting the quiet settle around her, letting it press against her until it felt almost unbearable.
Blaise deserved the truth.
The thought made her nauseous. He deserved honesty, even if honesty would hurt him. Even if it tore something open inside him that she had never wanted to see undone. Even if it broke something between them that might never fully mend.
She swallowed hard and pushed herself away from the counter.
This conversation would not be easy. It would not be clean or gentle or careful. It would wound him. It would wound her too. But leaving it unspoken would be worse. Letting it rot in the space between them would destroy them both sooner or later.
She forced her legs to move, one in front of the other, slow and unsteady. The hallway felt longer than it ever had. The silence seemed to stretch into eternity. Her heart thudded loudly in her ears, a frantic rhythm she could not calm.
She reached the doorway and paused, her hand catching the frame as if she needed the support to keep standing.
She knew what she had to say.
She just had no idea how to survive saying it.
Her forehead rested against the cool wood, her breath catching in sharp, uneven pulls as she tried to steady herself. She lifted her hand again, faintly brushing her fingertips against the surface, as if touching the barrier might somehow undo what she had just broken.
Nothing changed.
The door stayed shut.
Her husband stayed on the other side of it.
And she had never felt so far from him.
Her throat tightened as she forced herself upright, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth to keep from making a sound. She had known this would hurt. She had known it would shake them. But she had not expected him to look at her like that. She had not expected him to speak to her like that, with a voice stripped of every ounce of softness he had ever given her.
The silence from his office scraped at her nerves. She could hear him moving, fast and restless, his magic crackling faintly through the floorboards. It made her stomach twist. Blaise rarely lost control in ways the house could feel, but tonight, everything in the walls seemed to hum with the storm brewing inside him.
She backed away from the door, step by shaky step, until her shoulder hit the opposite wall. Her legs felt weak, the kind of weakness that didn't come from fear but from the crushing weight of reality finally settling on her chest.
She had hurt him.
She had gone into that room with a plan, with a rehearsed confession, with the idea that honesty might somehow set them free. Instead, all she had done was take a knife to the one man who had given her everything. She had sliced through the fragile trust between them with a single truth she had not even meant to say out loud.
Her face crumpled for a moment. Just a moment. Just long enough for the guilt to crash over her like a wave.
She dragged herself down the hall, her feet unsteady on the hardwood. She made it as far as the top of the staircase before she had to sit, her breath shallow and broken. Her hands covered her face, her shoulders trembling with the effort to hold herself together.
He had told her to fuck off.
And that word still echoed in her chest, sharp and jagged, cutting deeper than she wanted to admit.
Because he had never spoken to her like that before.
Because he had never shut a door in her face before.
Because tonight, she had seen a version of Blaise she had only ever seen directed at his enemies. Never at her.
She drew her knees up to her chest, curling into herself, the quiet of the house pressing in from all sides. She waited for him to come out. To call for her. To slam open the door and shout at her or hold her or anything that would mean he had not pulled so far away.
But the hallway stayed empty.
His office door stayed closed.
And the minutes stretched on, slow and torturous, until she was no longer sure whether she wanted him to come out or whether she was terrified of what he might say if he did.
She laid her forehead on her folded arms, breathing in the faint scent of roses still drifting from the kitchen. Ninety-seven roses. Ninety-seven reminders of what she was supposed to feel. Ninety-seven reminders of how much he loved her.
And all she could think was that she did not deserve him.
Not tonight.
Not like this.
The house felt colder without him. The silence felt thicker. And as she sat there alone on the stairs, she could not stop the soft, broken whisper that slipped out before she could swallow it back.
"What have I done?"
The door swung open so suddenly that the air seemed to snap, and Ginny's heart leapt into her throat.
Blaise stood there, framed in the doorway like he had been holding himself back by sheer force of will. His chest rose and fell in hard, uneven breaths, his shoulders tight, his entire body coiled like a storm that had finally broken free. The shadows from the hallway clung to the sharp lines of his face, and the anger in his eyes was not loud or wild, but deep. Controlled. Terrifying in its precision.
He looked at her like he did not trust himself to step closer.
"You know what really pisses me off?" His voice was low, rough around the edges in a way she had never heard before. "The fact that I have been nothing but honest with you, Ginevra."
LIAR
The word slammed into her. Not shouted, but delivered like a sentence. Ginevra. A name he only used when he wanted to wound.
Her breath caught. "Blaise… please," she tried, but her voice barely rose above a whisper.
A faint laugh escaped him. It wasn't amused. It wasn't even a laugh. It was a brittle sound, sharp enough to cut through the air. He walked toward her slowly, each step measured like he was wrestling himself with every inch he crossed. She could feel the restraint in him, feel the rage simmering under his skin, barely contained.
"Honest," he repeated, as if testing the word on his tongue, as if it tasted wrong. "You want honesty?"
His jaw tightened. His voice dropped even lower.
"Fine. Here is honesty." He paused, his eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that made her ribs lock. "I am in love with you."
The confession landed between them with the force of a blow. It wasn't tender. It wasn't romantic. It was fierce, wounded, desperate. A man taking the last piece of himself and offering it up like a weapon.
Ginny felt the words hit her straight in the chest. She felt the ache of them, the truth in them, the fury behind them. It should have made her melt. It should have drawn her into his arms. But all she felt was a cold rush of dread, because he wasn't looking at her like a man confessing his heart. He was looking at her like a man waiting for the verdict that would determine the rest of his life.
Her lips parted.
Nothing came out.
He waited one heartbeat.
Then another.
And when the silence kept stretching and stretching, his expression hardened, shutting down piece by piece. "That's what I thought," he said quietly, and the calm in his voice broke her more than shouting ever could have.
He stepped past her, brushing by without touching her, without looking back. There was no slammed door this time. No explosive anger. Just the sound of his footsteps, steady and heavy, echoing down the hall as he walked away from her.
Ginny didn't turn. She didn't chase him. She stood rooted to the spot, feeling the absence of him like something physical, something that had been ripped from her chest. The quiet that followed was suffocating. It pressed in on her from all sides, thick and merciless.
She had wanted honesty. She had wanted to clear the air, to stop suffocating under the weight of her own confusion.
Instead, she had taken a man who loved her with every part of himself and cut him open with a single truth she had not known how to deliver gently.
This was not a fight.
This was a fracture.
A jagged, angry break that she did not know if either of them knew how to mend.
Hours crawled by, slow and punishing, each one tugging at Ginny's nerves until she could barely stand still. The house felt too quiet, too dark, too cold without him moving through it. She kept replaying every word, every look, every breath from earlier until her head throbbed with it. She didn't want space. She didn't want silence. Not when silence made everything worse. Not when distance felt like the beginning of something breaking.
She found herself standing in front of their bedroom door, hand on the handle, pulse thudding in her throat. She didn't give herself time to think. Thinking would only scare her away. She pushed the door open.
The room was dim. The lone lamp on the nightstand cast a soft circle of light, leaving the rest of the room in shadows. Blaise lay on the bed, facing away from her. His shoulders were tense, his body stiff, his breathing too steady. Too controlled.
Her eyes swept the room, and the breath left her lungs.
Her clothes were gone from the dresser. Her books missing from the nightstand. The little trinkets she had scattered on the shelves were nowhere to be seen.
Her voice cracked as she spoke. "Blaise… where's my stuff?"
For a moment, he didn't move. The silence stretched, long enough to make her chest tighten. Then he responded in a voice so cold it made her flinch.
"In your bedroom. You know, just how we started."
Her stomach dropped. Her fingers curled around the doorframe to keep herself upright. Her bedroom. Not theirs.
"Please," she whispered, stepping further into the room. "Don't do this to me. I'm not going to apologize for not being in love yet, but that doesn't mean I don't care. I'm trying. I swear I'm trying."
He let out a quiet, humorless sound, almost a scoff. "I can do whatever I want in my room. And if that means I don't want to look at you right now, then that is my choice."
His voice held no softness. No hesitation. No trace of the man who held her in the mornings like she was something sacred.
Ginny's throat tightened. "Please, baby. I'm begging you. Just talk to me. Don't shut me out."
"I am talking to you," he replied flatly, turning his head just enough for her to see the hard line of his jaw.
"No," she whispered. "You're angry. And you should be. But shutting me out won't fix anything. We need to talk about this."
Slowly, painfully, Blaise rolled onto his back and looked at her. And the coldness in his eyes was worse than anything she had imagined. It wasn't hatred. It wasn't even rage.
It was hurt.
"What else is there to say, Ginny?" he asked quietly. "What could I possibly add to this one-sided conversation? I told you I love you. I told you that you are the only person I have ever loved. And what do I get back?"
His voice cracked, just once. Enough to break her heart.
"Thanks, Blaise, but I'm just not there yet."
Her face crumpled. "Blaise, please."
"Do you think I don't know that love takes time?" His voice grew stronger, frustration bleeding through. "Do you think I don't understand that? I would wait forever for you, Ginny. I would. But I am asking you for something. Anything. I need to know I'm not wasting my time. I need to know this isn't just a 'room mate' of convenience for you."
"It's not," she said quickly, her voice desperate. "It's not, I promise. I wouldn't still be here if it was."
"Then what am I to you?" His voice rose, not in anger, but in pure heartbreak. "What am I, Ginny? Am I just the man who buys you flowers and tries to make you smile? Am I just the warm body in your bed? Am I just your roommate?"
She shook her head violently, tears burning at her eyes. "No. You're more than that. So much more."
"Then tell me," he snapped, taking a step toward her. "Tell me what I am to you. Because right now, it feels like I am nothing but a placeholder."
Her breath caught. Her lips trembled. She opened her mouth, but the words stayed stuck in her chest, trapped behind fear and doubt and everything she had been struggling with since this whole thing began.
And he saw it.
His shoulders fell. His face twisted for a brief moment, raw with pain, before it hardened again.
"You're not nothing," she whispered, tears finally slipping free. "You are everything to me."
He stared at her, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
"Then why can't you love me?"
The question wasn't shouted. It wasn't a demand. It was a plea dressed in anger, a wound dressed in pride.
"Because I'm scared," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Because I've been hurt before. Because I don't know how to do this anymore. Because when things get too real, I freeze. I shut down. I panic. But I want to love you. I want to get there. I just… I don't know how fast I can."
His jaw worked. His eyes softened, just barely, but there was still so much pain beneath it.
"I'm not him," he said quietly. "I'm not Potter. I am not going to leave you. I'm not going to break you. I'm here. I've been here since day one."
"I know," she whispered. But the uncertainty in her voice betrayed her.
He heard it. He felt it. And it made him sag, like something inside him had finally snapped.
"Then prove it," he said softly.
And Ginny looked into his eyes and saw, for the first time, just how much this had taken from him. How much he had been giving. How long he had been waiting. How deeply he had hoped.
He wasn't angry because she didn't love him.
He was angry because he loved her too much to handle the possibility that she might never catch up.
He was breaking.
And she was the one who had pushed him to the edge.