She sat alone in the garden, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around herself as if she could keep from falling apart by holding everything in place. The truth was she was already breaking. The sky above her was painted in soft streaks of gold and rose, the last light of day stretching lazily across the Burrow's familiar grounds. It was beautiful in a way that almost felt cruel. The sun kept setting, the birds kept singing, the breeze kept drifting by with the scent of wildflowers and grass.
And none of it mattered.
Ron should have been here to see it. He should have been sprawled across the lawn with a butterbeer, complaining about how the garden gnomes were getting bold again. He should have been laughing, teasing her, alive.
The world had the nerve to keep turning anyway.
It didn't feel real. It felt like someone had scooped the air out of her lungs and left her with nothing but empty space. Ron was gone. Her big brother. Her protector. The loudest voice in every argument, the worst dancer at every wedding, the softest heart in every fight.
He was the boy who had shoved mashed potatoes in her hair at dinner, only to later threaten to hex anyone who made her cry. He was the one who taught her how to grip a broom properly, who shared his chocolate frogs when he thought she was sad, who yelled at anyone who hurt her feelings but still stole her blankets when he was cold.
He was the man who stood beside her in every battle, even when he was terrified. He was stubborn and messy and ridiculous, but he had always been there. How was she supposed to breathe in a world where Ron didn't exist?
She closed her eyes and he appeared behind her lids in an instant. Sitting across from her at Christmas, crowing about a chess victory. Calling her Gin-Gin in that infuriating voice he reserved only for her. Laughing, loud and warm and alive.
Her throat tightened. The sob rose before she could stop it.
When Fred died, it had been Ron who held her upright. He stayed at her side through every night she woke up shaking. He was the one who carried her through that grief.
Now who would carry her through this?
Her breath hitched, sharp and uneven. The ache in her chest felt unbearable, as if someone had reached inside her and torn out something vital, leaving a hollow, bleeding space behind. She had lost brothers before, but this was different. This felt like losing half of her own heart.
She pressed her forehead to her knees. "I cannot do this," she whispered, and even she barely heard her own voice. It did not sound like her at all. It sounded small. Fragile. Helpless.
Her hands dug into the dirt, fingers curling around the grass as though she could anchor herself to the ground, but nothing could steady her. Not when the world she knew had been ripped apart.
Her family was falling apart. Her mother had not spoken since the fire. Her father's back had bowed under the weight of another grave, as if the earth itself had asked too much of him. George looked worse than the day they lost Fred, quieter somehow, as if he had always believed Ron would make it to the end. And Harry… Harry could barely look at her. His eyes were haunted, guilty, shattered.
She had tried so hard to be strong for them. She had promised herself she would hold everything together. For her mother, for her father, for Harry. But out here in the garden, as the day sank into night, she did not have to pretend.
Tears slipped down her cheeks, burning hot trails across her skin.
"You were supposed to be safe," she choked out. The words tore from her chest like something sharp. "I needed you, Ron."
Her voice cracked, breaking like thin glass. "We all did."
The garden swallowed her grief, the wind carrying her cries toward the fields. The world around her stayed gentle and quiet, which only made her pain feel louder.
She thought of him teaching her how to throw a Quaffle without missing, how to tie her shoes when she was small. She thought of him leaning down to whisper curses at the dinner table so their mother would not hear. She thought of the nights she had curled under his blanket during thunderstorms, whispering her fears in the dark, knowing Ron would always make her feel safe.
But he was gone.
She stared at the horizon, the sunset bleeding into the earth like a wound.
It was not fair. It would never be fair.
A sob ripped through her, harsh and broken, shaking her entire body. It felt like something inside her cracked wide open. How many more times was she expected to endure this? How many more brothers would she have to bury before the universe decided she had suffered enough? How many pieces of her family would be carved away before there was nothing left but ghosts and empty chairs at Christmas?
Her hands curled into the soil until her nails were dirty and her palms ached. The earth felt cold, almost comforting in its stillness. She swallowed hard, breath catching in her chest as another wave of grief hit her like a punch.
Ron should be here.
He should be rolling his eyes at her for crying. He should be calling her dramatic, nudging her with his elbow, laughing in that familiar loud way that always filled every room. He should be ruffling her hair, messing it up just to annoy her. He should be saying something stupid like, "Oi, Gin, stop being so bloody emotional. I'm fine."
But he wasn't fine.
He wasn't anything anymore.
The truth hollowed her out. It scraped at her ribs, left her breathing like someone had stolen half her lungs. She lifted her head, blinking through the blur of tears, staring at the sky where the first stars had begun to shimmer.
Maybe he was up there. Maybe they both were.
Two bright points in a sky full of strangers. Fred laughing at something inappropriate. Ron pretending he wasn't laughing too, but failing miserably. The thought wrapped around her like a tender ache.
A sound slipped from her chest, something between a laugh and a sob. It felt wrong to laugh, but it also felt wrong not to. Her family had always lived in that messy space between heartbreak and humour. Fred would have insisted on it. Ron would have backed him up.
"Take care of him, Freddy," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please. Take care of each other."
A breeze stirred the garden, brushing against her cheek like a hand she longed for. It brought no answers and no comfort, not really. The pain stayed, sharp and raw, a wound too deep to name.
But as she sat there, curled in the fading light, she let herself imagine her brothers together again. Ron walking into some strange afterlife, confused and grumbling, and Fred tackling him into a hug before he could complain. She saw Ron's shy, lopsided smile. She heard Fred's laugh.
And for a single breath, a thin thread of peace crept into the fracture in her chest. It was fragile and trembling, but it was real. The kind of peace that comes from believing that maybe, just maybe, love did not disappear when a heart stopped beating.
She closed her eyes, letting the tears fall freely. For the first time since the fire, she did not fight them.
~~~~~~
One evening, as Hermione and Blaise sat in the dimly lit living room in the Zabini Manor, the oppressive weight of grief hanging heavily in the air, she finally succumbed to exhaustion and fell into a restless sleep. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, the only sound breaking the silence that had settled over the room. Hermione watched her best friend's face, lined with sorrow even in sleep, before shifting her gaze to him.
He sat across from her, his expression unreadable in the shadows cast by the flickering firelight. They exchanged a look over Ginny's sleeping form, a silent understanding passing between them, though it was tinged with an unspoken tension.
After a moment, he stood, his movements careful, as though afraid to disturb the fragile peace. He made his way toward the kitchen, the wooden floor creaking softly underfoot. Hermione hesitated, her mind racing, but then she quietly followed, unable to bear the silence any longer.
The air in the dimly lit kitchen grew suffocating, thick with the weight of unsaid words. The only sound was the faint crackling of the fire in the other room, its dying embers casting restless shadows along the walls. Hermione felt the tremor in her own breath as she forced the words out, her voice brittle but unwavering.
"I know what you and Draco did."
The statement hung between them, heavy as a guillotine poised to fall.
Blaise didn't flinch. His expression remained eerily composed, save for the slight tightening of his jaw. Not surprise. Not denial. Just silence.
The confirmation was there, in the way his fingers curled into the countertop, in the careful control of his breathing.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost contemplative. "Do you?"
Hermione's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I know Draco was behind it. I know you helped him. You set Ron's house on fire. You killed them." Her voice cracked, her throat constricting around the weight of the accusation.
Blaise exhaled slowly, tipping his head back as if contemplating the ceiling, as if searching for a reaction that would be appropriate. But what was the appropriate response when faced with a truth so damning?
He didn't bother denying it.
Instead, he turned fully, stepping closer, his presence looming. "And what exactly do you plan to do with this knowledge, Granger?" His voice was smooth—too smooth. It lacked remorse, lacked even the illusion of guilt.
The room seemed to shrink around them, the silence thick and suffocating in the wake of her words. The flickering light from the fireplace cast long, jagged shadows across Blaise's face, sharpening the edges of his already unreadable expression.
For a moment, Hermione thought she had struck a nerve.
Blaise exhaled through his nose, his lips pressing into a thin line before he spoke, voice measured but laced with something colder beneath the surface. "You think this is black and white, Granger? That you can weigh morality on a fucking scale and determine who's righteous and who's damned?"
His words cut through the space between them, sharp as a blade. "Let me tell you something about 'protecting your loved ones.' It's ugly. It's messy. It's doing things you never thought yourself capable of, making choices that will haunt you every time you close your eyes." He took a deliberate step toward her, his presence an imposing force of restrained fury. "And it's knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that you'd do it all over again if it meant keeping them safe."
Hermione refused to step back, even as her pulse hammered against her ribs. "Safe?" she echoed, her voice tight. "Ginny doesn't feel safe. She feels shattered. You claim to love her, but what do you think will happen when she finds out the truth? When she realizes you and Draco have destroyed the very people she was meant to call family?"
A muscle in Blaise's jaw twitched. "She won't find out."
Hermione let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound brittle and exhausted. "You really believe that? You really think she won't start putting the pieces together? Ginny is grieving, Blaise, not blind."
His dark eyes flashed dangerously. "She doesn't need to know."
"But I know." Hermione's voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thousand screams. "And I have to live with it."
Blaise studied her for a long moment, something unreadable passing over his face. Then, slowly, he exhaled and leaned back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest again—not in defense this time, but in calculation.
"Tell me something, Hermione," he murmured, his voice softer now, more insidious. "Did you really come here to make accusations? To condemn me? Or did you come here looking for absolution?"
She stiffened.
"You love him." The way he said it wasn't a question, but a certainty, a quiet, devastating truth laid bare. "And a part of you understands exactly why he did it."
The breath hitched in her throat.
"You don't want justice," Blaise continued, watching her with an unnerving calm. "You want reassurance. You want me to tell you that this wasn't your fault. That you're still a good person, despite the blood on Draco's hands." He tilted his head, his smirk slow and knowing. "Tell me, Granger, when you close your eyes at night, do you see the fire? Or do you see him, standing in its glow, waiting for you?"
Her stomach twisted violently, nausea rising in her throat. Because she did see him. She saw Draco in the fire. And she didn't know if he was the arsonist… or the salvation.
Blaise's smirk deepened, as if he'd read every unspoken thought that had just crashed through her mind.
"That's what I thought."
Hermione shook her head, stepping back, needing distance, needing air. "This isn't who I am," she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Blaise merely shrugged. "Maybe not." He reached for a glass of firewhiskey on the counter, swirling it lazily before taking a slow sip. "But it's who you've chosen."
Her breath caught, her whole body tensing at the implication.
"And that's the real question, isn't it, Granger?" He set the glass down, his gaze locking onto hers, dark and unwavering. "Now that you know what he's capable of… now that you know what I'm capable of…" A pause. "What are you going to do?"
Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came.
Because she didn't know the answer.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
The mask of Blaise Zabini cracked, just for a fleeting moment. His voice, usually smooth and polished like cut obsidian, hitched with something rawer, something less certain.
"The Malfoys are my family, Granger," he admitted, and for the first time, it wasn't just a statement—it was a confession. A shadow passed over his face, sharpening the edges of his carefully crafted mask, deepening the lines of a burden he rarely let show.
"And in this twisted world," he continued, his voice quieter, heavier, "that includes you—by marriage, by circumstance, by the choices you keep making." His gaze locked onto hers, dark and unwavering, daring her to refute what they both knew to be true. "You're woven into this, Hermione. Whether you like it or not."
Her fury flared in response, bright and unrelenting. "We are not some cold-blooded mafia bound by blood oaths, Blaise!" The words tore from her throat, sharp and shaking. "This isn't about ancient alliances and blind loyalty! We were supposed to be different. Better. We fought to break cycles, not to become them!"
But even as she spoke, her voice wavered—because deep down, a sickening thought clawed at her. Had she already crossed too many lines to turn back?
Blaise tilted his head, observing her with a knowing smirk—one devoid of warmth, heavy with something colder. "Easy, fiery one," he murmured, voice smooth but laced with dark amusement. "You say that, but tell me… how many lines have you already blurred for Draco?"
The words struck her like a curse, and he knew it.
He pushed off the counter, stepping closer, his presence imposing but eerily calm. "You may not want to hear this, but listen carefully." His voice dipped, each syllable deliberate, wrapping around her like a vice. "You bear the Malfoy name now. You stand in the heart of the Sacred 28, tangled in bloodlines and legacies that don't forgive or forget." He exhaled, his gaze unwavering. "And no matter how much you fight it, mia cara, this world doesn't release its own."
She swallowed hard, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Blaise's smirk returned, cruel and knowing. "So tell me, Granger," he murmured, his voice a silk-wrapped blade. "Are you truly here to lecture me on morality? Or are you just desperate to convince yourself that you still have any left?"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Blaise arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering behind his dark eyes. "Speaking of Draco," he murmured, his voice smooth, deliberate—a caress laced with something sharper. "What's his public persona these days?"
Hermione hesitated, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her. "He, uh..." she began, cursing herself for the uncharacteristic stammer, "runs a potions supply company across Europe, I believe." The words felt feeble, as if saying them aloud might make them more true.
Blaise exhaled a slow, knowing chuckle, the sound both amused and pitying. "Ah, Granger," he drawled, swirling his wine lazily, "such a neat little fairytale you've woven for yourself." His smirk widened, razor-sharp. "Draco Malfoy, the respectable businessman. A reformed man, washed clean of his past." He leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something almost conspiratorial. "Tell me, do you actually believe that?"
A chill crawled down Hermione's spine, her fingers clenching around the edge of the countertop. "What are you implying?" she asked, forcing steel into her voice, though the tremor in her hands betrayed her unease.
Blaise's smirk darkened. "That potions trade is a well-manicured front," he said smoothly, his gaze gleaming with quiet menace. "A smokescreen for far more lucrative ventures." He lifted his glass, taking a leisurely sip before continuing. "The Malfoy fortune was never built on something as mundane as cauldrons and dragon liver, Granger. It thrives in the kind of shadows that swallow people whole."
She felt her stomach twist, an icy realization settling over her. "You're wrong," she said, but even to her own ears, it sounded more like a plea than a statement.
Blaise hummed in amusement, tilting his head. "Am I?" He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a silken whisper. "Draco has become a force to be reckoned with since our Hogwarts days. The wand he wields in a boardroom is a far cry from the one he uses for..." He trailed off, letting the weight of his silence speak volumes.
The words lodged in her throat, her heart hammering against her ribs. The careful illusion she had clung to began to crack, fissures spiderwebbing through the carefully constructed lie.
She wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell Blaise he was wrong, that Draco had changed. But deep down, in the space she rarely dared to acknowledge, she knew the truth.
Draco Malfoy was no ordinary businessman.
And she had been foolish to ever believe otherwise.
Blaise's gaze bore into hers, the silence between them stretched taut, heavy with something unspoken yet undeniable. "You're intelligent, Granger," he murmured at last, his voice deceptively gentle, almost pitying. "But don't let your love for him blind you to reality. The Draco you know is not the Draco the rest of the world kneels before."
A cold dread slithered through her veins, an invisible vice tightening around her chest. The Draco she knew. The man who brought her tea in the mornings, who held her close in the dead of night, who whispered confessions against her skin like prayers. The same man who, according to Blaise, lurked in the shadows, spinning a web of power and destruction beneath the façade of a businessman.
Her voice was barely a breath when she finally spoke. "To do what?"
The weight of the truth pressed down on her like an iron shroud, suffocating. She had thought it was love—twisted, complicated, but love nonetheless. But this? This was something else entirely. Something colder. Something calculated.
Blaise's expression hardened, his usual lazy smirk absent, replaced with something unreadable—something dangerously close to pity. "To control," he said, each syllable landing like a hammer strike. "To eliminate. To build an empire. Draco isn't playing house, Granger. He's playing kings and conquerors."
The breath caught in her throat, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Blaise took a deliberate step forward, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light, his voice a quiet, silken threat. "He's a predator in a bespoke suit, a wolf with a silver spoon. And you, my dear principessa," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, watching the realization dawn in her eyes, "are no longer just his lover. You're a queen on his board. And he will set fire to the whole damn town if it means keeping you in checkmate."
Hermione trembled, not from fear of Blaise, but from the awful, inevitable truth unraveling before her. The man she loved, the man she swore she understood, was not just a reformed aristocrat trying to carve a life away from his past.
No.
This Draco—the one Blaise spoke of—was something else entirely.
Ruthless. Calculating. Unstoppable.
And she had been a fool to think she could ever change him.
Hermione's nails bit into her palms, her hands clenching into trembling fists. "You burned down a house with people inside, Blaise. You make threats, you manipulate. What else would you call it?"
Blaise didn't so much as blink. "I call it survival," he said, his voice as sharp and unyielding as a blade. "You can stand on your moral high ground all you like, Granger, but the world we live in doesn't reward righteousness. It rewards power. Strength. The ability to protect what's yours before someone else takes it."
Her breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing down on her. "And that justifies everything? The lies, the violence, the destruction?"
Blaise's eyes darkened, his expression unreadable. "In this world? Yes." There was no hesitation, no remorse, only certainty. "Because if we don't do what needs to be done, someone else will. And trust me, they won't be nearly as merciful."
Hermione let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound foreign even to her own ears. "Merciful?" she echoed, her voice laced with disbelief. "You call what you and Draco do merciful?"
Blaise exhaled through his nose, his patience waning. "Compared to what others would do, yes," he said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "We're not saints, Granger, but we're not monsters either. We do what needs to be done to keep our world intact. And sometimes, that means making choices you can't even begin to understand."
"No, Blaise." Her voice was sharp now, cutting through the charged silence like a blade. "This is about power. This is about control. Draco isn't protecting anything—he's ruling it. And you? You stand by and call it loyalty."
A flicker of something crossed his features, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "This is the world we live in, Granger," he said, his tone measured, edged with something almost tired. "A world where lines blur and allegiances run deeper than blood. We make choices—impossible choices—to protect those we hold dear."
"By burning people alive?" she spat, her voice rising with fury. "That's your idea of protection?"
His jaw tightened, the weight of her accusation crackling between them like an unspoken curse. She saw it then, the ghost of doubt flickering in his expression. He couldn't justify the act, not really. But he wouldn't condemn it either. Loyalty, that unbreakable, suffocating bond of the Malfoys and their circle, was too deeply ingrained.
"Draco does what he believes is necessary," Blaise finally said, his voice quieter, heavier. "His methods may be ruthless, but his purpose is not without reason."
"Draco's purpose is control," she countered, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. "He's built an empire of fear and intimidation, and you expect me to just accept it?"
The words tasted like acid on her tongue. Blaise didn't answer right away, and in that silence, she felt the weight of inevitability pressing down on her like a crushing force.
Her shoulders sagged, exhaustion overtaking anger. "This isn't the world I wanted," she whispered, her voice raw with disillusionment. "This isn't the life I wanted."
For the first time, Blaise hesitated. A flicker of something softer, something almost regretful, passed through his gaze. But it wasn't enough. "We don't always get to choose the world we live in, Granger," he said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. "The choices we make, the allegiances we forge… they shape us in ways we never intended. But one thing never changes."
His gaze bore into hers, unwavering. "We protect our own. No matter the cost."
The air between them felt suffocating, thick with unsaid words and the weight of a reality Hermione had refused to acknowledge for far too long. The dim glow of the kitchen light barely touched the depth of the shadows lingering in Blaise's eyes, nor did it soften the brutal truth pressing between them.
"And what about Ginny?" Hermione's voice wavered, raw with grief. "Does she know what you've done? What you've become?"
Blaise's jaw tightened, his usual smooth composure hardening into something unyielding. "She knows nothing," he admitted, his voice quiet but firm. "And I intend to keep it that way. It's our job to protect the ones we love, even if it means getting our hands dirty."
Hermione exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping her lips before she could stop it. "Protect?" she echoed, shaking her head. "You killed her brother, Blaise. You burned him alive in his own home. There is no universe where she will ever forgive you."
Blaise didn't flinch. "I know," he said simply. "But I would do it again."
Tears welled up in Hermione's eyes, spilling over before she could blink them away. "Why?" she whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of it all. "Why would you do something so—so irreversible?"
His expression didn't waver, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—something unreadable, something almost resigned. "Because he deserved it." The words were final, spoken without hesitation. "We kept tabs on him for months, Granger. Every move, every interaction. He wasn't subtle—not with you. He locked you in rooms. He controlled you. That wasn't love, and you know it."
Shame and fury warred within her, leaving Hermione feeling utterly exposed. Shame for never telling Draco what had happened, for pretending she could handle it alone. Fury at Blaise, at Draco, at all of them for making choices on her behalf, for deciding that vengeance was love.
She struggled to hold onto the memories—the good ones, the ones that still made Ron feel like someone worth mourning. But they were slipping away, scorched by the fire that had swallowed his house and the truth that had finally burned through her carefully constructed denial.
"But you didn't say anything," she choked out, her voice barely above a whisper.
Blaise let out a slow, measured breath, the weight of unspoken things pressing against his shoulders. "It wasn't my place," he admitted, the edges of his voice rough, jagged. "There are rules in our world, Granger. And when it comes to Draco, especially where you're concerned, stepping in? That's a dangerous fucking game. Even if it means standing back and watching things unfold in ways we don't always control."
Hermione's hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the counter. "So you just… stood by? Let it all happen? Because of some unspoken code?"
His face softened, just slightly, but the regret in his expression was fleeting. "It's not just a code, Hermione. It's survival. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and you don't just risk your own life—you risk the lives of everyone you love." His voice dipped, quieter now, almost pleading. "You think I didn't want to do more? You think I don't live with that?"
Her breath came fast and uneven, fury warring with heartbreak. "I thought we were friends," she said, voice unsteady. "I thought you would have cared enough to do more than just watch."
Blaise's eyes darkened, filled with a complexity she wasn't sure she wanted to decipher. "I do care, Granger. More than you know." He took a step closer, his voice lower now, laced with something raw. "But in this life, we don't always get to make the choices that sit well with our conscience. We make the ones that keep us alive."
Silence stretched between them, heavy and final.
"I'm sorry," he murmured at last, though Hermione wasn't sure if he was apologizing for Ron, for Ginny, or for the entire tangled mess they had all found themselves in.
She swallowed back another wave of tears, shaking her head. "No, you're not."
Blaise's lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable once more. "Maybe not," he admitted. "But that's the price we pay, isn't it?"
And just like that, Hermione realized the horrifying truth: Blaise had never been the one she needed to convince. Because somewhere, buried beneath her grief and anger, a part of her already knew—Draco wasn't going to stop.
The devastation around her mirrored the wreckage of her own trust. Ron's betrayal had ignited a chain reaction more destructive than she ever could have imagined. The past was immutable, carved into her skin like an old wound that would never fully heal. But now, with this truth laid bare, Hermione felt something shift. She could not undo what had been done, but she could decide what came next.
Her breath hitched, her chest tight with unspoken grief. "But taking a life..." she whispered, voice thick with emotion, "it's so... final."
Blaise's expression softened, but only slightly. Beneath the flicker of sympathy, there was steel—a resolve forged in the darkness they lived in. The reality he had long accepted.
"It is final," he admitted, his voice low, deliberate. "That's what makes it necessary. Permanent. There are some lines, once crossed, that leave no room for second chances. Ron crossed that line the moment he laid a hand on you."
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. The Draco she loved had been shaped by this same world. A world where power dictated survival, where justice wasn't decided in courtrooms but in the quiet, bloodstained corners of reality.
She searched Blaise's face for regret, for hesitation, for any sign of remorse. She found none. Just cold certainty.
"I know what Ron did," she admitted, barely more than a whisper. "I know he was dangerous. That he hurt me in ways I still can't fully comprehend. But even knowing that…"
"You still can't accept what had to be done," Blaise finished for her, his tone utterly devoid of judgment. "And I don't expect you to. You're not like us, Granger. You have a different kind of strength, a different kind of light. But in our world, light can be blinding. And darkness—" He exhaled slowly, deliberately. "Darkness is where we thrive. We did what was necessary. To protect you. To protect Draco. To protect what we've built."
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as the weight of his words settled deep into her bones. "And Ginny?" she choked out, "How do I ever look her in the eyes again, knowing what you've done?"
Blaise's sigh was slow, heavy. "Ginny's world is different," he said finally. "She doesn't know about the shadows we move in, the lengths we go to in order to keep her safe. And if I have anything to say about it, she never will." He swallowed hard, the first true crack in his composure. "I love her, Granger. More than I ever thought I was capable of. But that love—" His voice faltered, just for a second, before hardening again. "It doesn't absolve me. It just gives me something to protect. Something worth fighting for."
The silence between them was suffocating, thick with unspoken truths. Hermione's mind raced, tangled between the devastation of the past and the uncertain path before her.
Ron had sealed his fate the moment he became her nightmare. That much she could admit. But Draco? Draco, the man she had built a life with? Draco, the man who held her every night, whispered love against her skin, worshiped her as though she were his only religion? Had he really been part of this?
She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. "Do you really believe this is the only way?" Her voice trembled. "That this is the only way to protect the people we love?"
Blaise met her gaze, unwavering. "In our world? Sometimes, yes." His voice dipped, quiet but certain. "But Draco? Draco will always do whatever it takes to keep you safe. No matter the cost."
A chill slithered down her spine.
"Burn someone alive?" Her voice cracked. "Who did it, Blaise? You or Draco?"
He leaned back slightly, watching her carefully. If the question rattled him, he didn't show it. Instead, he exhaled a slow breath, his lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"It was Theo, if you want to be technical."
The floor beneath her might as well have crumbled.
Her fingers trembled. Not Draco. Not Blaise. Theo.
The quiet one. The thoughtful one. The one who had always seemed... detached from this world of blood and power.
The realization sent something sharp through her, something too jagged to name. "Theo?" she gasped, the betrayal stark in her voice.
"Yes, Granger," Blaise said smoothly, as if discussing the weather. "Theodore. Loverboy has his secrets, too. He's good at crafting, after all."
The words hit her like a slap. Theo, the elegant strategist. Theo, the one who always stood at the edge of things, watching. Theo, who held Luna and their son like they were the only things in the world that mattered.
Theo, who set a man on fire.
Her stomach twisted, nausea rising in her throat. How deep did this darkness run? How much had she never seen?
She had feared Draco's ruthlessness. She had braced herself for Blaise's cold, unshakable logic.
But Theo?
Theo had always been the calm one. The one with the softest smiles, the cleverest words. The one with the steadiest hands.
Of course, those same steady hands could light a match.
Hermione's mind spun, grasping for something that made sense in this twisted reality she had been thrust into. Theo. Theo. The quiet one, the rational one. The one who had always seemed more detached from the darkness that clung to Draco and Blaise like a second skin. And yet… he had been the one to strike the match.
"I can't believe it," she breathed, barely recognizing her own voice.
"You should, Granger," Blaise murmured, his tone laced with a cold amusement that sent a chill straight through her bones. "Everyone has a dark side. Theodore just happens to be more… efficient than most."
Her stomach twisted, nausea rising like bile in her throat. "Why?" she demanded, her voice raw. "Why would he do that?"
Blaise's eyes sharpened, the playfulness vanishing as something darker slid into place. Something final. "Because it needed to be done," he said, each word carrying the weight of a verdict already delivered. "Don't you understand? Ron was a threat. Theo saw that, just as we all did. He knew what had to be done, and unlike you—" he leaned in, his gaze burning into hers "—he didn't hesitate."
She recoiled as if struck, the room around her shrinking, suffocating. "This is madness." Her voice trembled, fury and grief colliding like a storm inside her. "You can't justify murder!"
Blaise exhaled a slow breath, as if she were exhausting him. As if her very resistance was an irritation, a naïve hurdle he had no patience for. "This is the world we live in, cara mia. Hard choices, impossible choices—they're still choices that must be made. Ron crossed a line. Theo made sure he wouldn't cross it again."
Hermione's nails dug into her palms, anger rising like a wildfire she could barely contain. "There had to be another way."
His lips curled, though there was no humor in it. "Perhaps," he allowed. "A slower way. A riskier way. But in our world, we don't get the luxury of hesitation. We do what needs to be done, and we live with it."
Her breath hitched, fury igniting like a live wire under her skin. "You think this is protection?" Her voice cracked with raw emotion. "You think this—this brutality is some twisted act of love? It's not. It's monstrous."
For the first time, something flickered in Blaise's expression. Something dangerous. His voice dropped to a whisper, soft and sharp as a blade. "Don't mistake necessity for cruelty, Granger. What Theo did, what Draco and I sanctioned, wasn't about revenge or pleasure. It was about ensuring that you wouldn't fall victim to Ronald's sickness ever again."
Her vision blurred with tears, her entire body trembling under the weight of the truth. "And what about Ginny?" she rasped. "What happens when she finds out? You think you're protecting her? You think she'll ever forgive you for murdering her brother?"
For the briefest moment, pain cracked through Blaise's carefully constructed mask. Real, raw pain. But then, just as quickly, it was gone, buried beneath a layer of calculated indifference.
"She'll never know," he said simply. "And if I have anything to say about it, she'll never need to. But even if she did—" His gaze locked onto hers, dark, unrelenting, a battlefield of certainty. "I'd do it all over again."
The confession landed between them like a death sentence.
"Because when you love someone," Blaise continued, his voice steady, final, "you protect them. Even if it means becoming the monster they fear."
A crushing silence swallowed them whole, the air thick with everything that had been said—and everything that still remained unsaid.
Hermione looked at Blaise then, truly looked at him. The man she had once trusted. The man she had laughed with over wine and late-night debates. The man she had thought better of.
Now, she only saw a stranger. A man who had chosen his darkness.
And a part of her knew Draco had too.
"You're wrong, Blaise," Hermione whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "This isn't protection. This is destruction. And I won't be a part of it."
Blaise's expression hardened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "You already are, Granger," he countered, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. "Whether you like it or not, you're part of this world now. And soon enough, you'll have to decide whether you're strong enough to survive it."
Hermione took a deep breath, her hands trembling at her sides, but her resolve remained unshaken. "I'll survive," she said, her voice steadier this time. "But not like this. Not with blood on my hands."
Blaise studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching hers for something—weakness, doubt, anything to prove his point. But then, to her surprise, he nodded, a slow, almost imperceptible gesture. A quiet acknowledgment. "Then we'll see just how strong you really are, Granger. Because in our world, strength is the only thing that matters."
His voice dropped lower, a near whisper, though its weight pressed down on her like a vice. "Let me ask you something, Granger. What would you do if you knew someone wanted to harm Lysander?"
She stilled. The question hit like a physical blow, cutting through her righteous fury like a knife. Slowly, she turned to face him, her heartbeat thudding against her ribs.
"I…" The word caught in her throat, hesitation clawing at her. She knew exactly what he was asking, and the terrifying part was that she already knew the answer. "I would probably kill them." The admission came out in a whisper, the weight of it suffocating.
Blaise's expression didn't shift, but something in his eyes gleamed—approval, or maybe just the satisfaction of proving his point. He inclined his head slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "Exactly." His voice was quiet, measured. "Sometimes, we have to do the unthinkable to protect the ones we love."
The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the weight of unspoken truths. Hermione could barely breathe past the realization sinking into her bones.
"What a hypocrite." The thought clawed at her, bitter and undeniable. She had condemned Draco and Blaise, she had screamed at the injustice of their actions. But if someone dared lay a finger on Lysander?
She would burn the whole world down. For any of her friends.
Ron had been a threat. He had hurt her. He had trapped her in the darkest version of herself. And Theo had simply… ended it. She was horrified. She was enraged. But she understood.
Blaise watched the turmoil play across her face, the slow unraveling of her black-and-white morality. "We're not so different, you and I, Granger," he murmured, his voice edged with something that almost sounded like pity. "We both know what it means to protect, to go to any lengths for the ones we care about."
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers to her temples as if she could block out his words. "What should I do with Draco?" she finally asked, her voice barely more than a breath. "I can't even bear to hear his name right now, let alone look at him."
She expected a mocking reply, some sardonic remark about how her entire world was crumbling because she finally saw the truth. But instead, Blaise simply stood, disappearing into the other room. When he returned, he held a small vial in his hand, the translucent liquid shimmering ominously in the dim light.
Hermione's breath hitched. "Veritaserum?"
Blaise twirled the vial between his fingers, his smirk sharp and unreadable. "If you really want the truth, this is how you'll get it." His gaze flickered over her, assessing. "Or… you could make it a fun drinking game, loosen things up a bit. Your call."
A rush of anger surged through her, white-hot. "This isn't a game, Blaise! This is my life—my marriage!" Her voice was sharp, cutting through the suffocating tension. She stepped forward, her hands shaking as she snatched the vial from his grasp. "Give it to me."
He relinquished it easily, his fingers brushing against hers for the briefest moment. "Be careful what you ask for, Granger," he murmured, his tone oddly solemn. "The truth can be more dangerous than the lies."
The glass was cool against her palm, its weight far heavier than its size. Her breath came in shallow bursts, her mind racing with possibilities.
She had already made her choice.
With a loud crack, she disapparated.
~~~~~~
The rain slid down the window in long, trembling lines, tracing the glass like a map of her heartbreak. Each drop fell with a slow, heavy weight, and she felt every one of them inside her. The world outside was washed in grey, caught somewhere between silence and mourning, and she felt as if all color had drained from her life along with Ron.
Ginny sat curled in the corner of the window seat, knees pulled tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them as if she could hold her grief in place. But nothing held. Nothing stayed. Everything inside her was breaking apart piece by piece.
Losing Fred had nearly destroyed her. Losing Ron felt like that same wound ripped open again, only deeper, only crueler. This time there was no space between the breaths, no moment to steady herself. It was all hitting her at once, relentless and brutal.
The memories had begun to blur. That was the worst part. She could feel them slipping away, little by little. The sound of Ron's laugh. The way he always smelled of smoke and treacle tart. The way he shouted her name during rows but softened when she cried. Every time a memory flickered, she grabbed at it desperately, but it always seemed to drift out of reach.
She clenched her eyes shut. She tried to force the memories to stay, tried to hold them in place inside her heart, but they kept sliding away like water through an open palm.
Death was not a single moment. It was the cruel erosion that happened afterward.
The soft sound of footsteps broke through the haze of her thoughts, but she did not lift her head. She did not need to. She felt him before she saw him. She always did. He carried a kind of warmth that tugged her back toward the world when the darkness clawed at her.
He stood there for a moment, watching her. He could see the way her shoulders shook, the way her hair clung damp against her temples, the way her breath trembled each time she exhaled. She was the strongest person he had ever known, his fire and his heartbeat, and seeing her like this made something in him fracture.
He crossed the room without hesitation and lowered himself to his knees beside her. His voice was soft when he spoke, thick with quiet devotion.
"Amore, you do not have to carry this alone. Let me in."
She flinched at the first touch of his hand on her shoulder, but the warmth of him seeped into her skin, and she let herself lean in, just a little.
"I do not know how to let you in," she whispered. Her voice cracked, thin and tired. "I feel like I failed him. I feel like I did not tell him enough that I loved him. I would give anything to have one more day. One more minute."
He swallowed hard. He wanted to tell her she had done everything. That Ron had known. That brothers always knew. But when she spoke like this, it broke him in ways he did not know how to mend.
He reached up and cupped her cheek, brushing away a tear with his thumb. "He knew," he said, steady and certain. "A man like your brother could feel love without needing to hear every word. You loved him fiercely. You still do. Nothing changes that."
More tears slipped free. He caught each one with gentle fingers, as if collecting them might ease her pain.
Then he gathered her into his arms, pulling her close until her forehead rested against his collarbone. Her fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt, hanging on to him with a desperation that made his chest ache. He kissed the side of her head, lingering there as if he could breathe strength into her.
"You are everything to me," he murmured. "I would give anything to take your pain away."
He meant it. She did not know how completely he meant it.
She felt safe in his arms. Safe enough to tremble, safe enough to cry, safe enough to fall apart. And he held her with a tenderness that did not match the violence he was capable of. She did not know what his hands had done for her. What they had already done.
She did not know about the fire. The cursed flame that destroyed everything it touched. The spell he had perfected, a secret he shared with no one. A fire that left no ashes, no remains, no evidence. A fire that answered to him alone.
Fiendfyre that knew his name.
She did not know the lengths he had gone to. The line he had crossed for her. The line he would cross again if the world dared to hurt her.
He could not let her know. Not now. Maybe not ever.
She had lost her brother. She was drowning in a grief that cut through her like broken glass. But she would not lose herself. Not while he was here. Not while he could keep her safe from every shadow that stretched toward her.
If the world demanded blood to protect her, then he would give it. If it demanded fire, he would burn it down piece by piece.
He tightened his arms around her, resting his chin on top of her head.
"You are not alone," he whispered. "Not ever."
The world outside faded into a muted blur, distant and irrelevant. Nothing could reach her here, not in this quiet where her grief softened into something she could finally breathe through. All she felt was him. Her Blaise. Her steady ground. Her shelter in every storm. The one person who never faltered, never hesitated, never loosened his hold on her even when she felt herself slipping into pieces.
She tilted her head toward him, her body heavy with exhaustion, but her instincts pulled her closer. She sought him the way a drowning person clings to air. Her fingers brushed against his and then held on, her grip small but deliberate. His hand enveloped hers immediately, warm and solid, grounding her in a way nothing else could.
"Thank you, love," she whispered, barely more than a breath. The words were fragile, shaped by exhaustion, but they carried the weight of everything she could not say. She paused, swallowing hard as emotion clawed its way up her throat. Slowly, bravely, she looked at him.
Her eyes were swollen, lashes clumped with dried tears. Her cheeks blotched, raw from crying. Yet she was beautiful in a way that shattered him, beautiful in the way a storm is beautiful when it finally breaks. She tried to smile, but it faltered the moment it reached her lips.
"I don't deserve you."
His fingers tightened just slightly around hers. Not enough to hurt, only enough to tether her. His dark eyes softened and darkened all at once, touched by something fierce and aching. The firelight shifted over his face, catching the sharp lines of his jaw, casting half of him in warm gold and half in shadow, but nothing could hide the truth burning there.
"You deserve more than I could ever give you." His voice was low and thick with feeling, steady even though it was breaking him to see her like this. "But I will spend my entire life trying. For you, I would do the unthinkable."
The confession slipped through the air like a vow meant for altars. Her breath stuttered, her chest trembling as something inside her cracked open under the force of his honesty. He never said things he did not mean. Every word he gave her was true, carved out of bone-deep devotion.
A tiny sound escaped her. A laugh. Barely there, thin around the edges, shaped by sorrow but real. The first flicker of light she had made in days. His expression shifted at once, a quiet smile tugging at his lips like her breath of laughter had reached some hidden part of him that only she had access to.
He leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull back if she wanted. She never did. His lips pressed softly to her forehead, warm and steady, lingering there as if he could write a promise into her skin. He stayed like that, lips resting against her, breathing her in, breathing for her when she could not. If he could have taken her pain into himself, he would have done it without hesitation. He would have carried every bruise of her heart, every fracture, every shadow.
They did not speak after that. Silence settled around them, but it no longer felt hollow or frightening. It wrapped around them like a blanket, thick with understanding. He held her, and she leaned into him, letting the steady rise and fall of his breathing draw her back into her own body.
For a moment, the grief did not win. For a moment, the darkness receded.
They stayed like that as the fire cracked softly in the hearth, its glow slipping over the walls in lazy waves. The world outside could keep turning. Let it. Here, in this quiet, they found a place where the ache softened, where the weight lifted just enough, where they were not broken.
They were just two people.
Together.
~~~~~~~
Grief had a way of creeping in when she least expected it. It slipped through the cracks of her mind with quiet precision, settling into the silence between heartbeats, finding her in the dim hours before dawn when sleep had given up on her. It lived in the soft echoes of laughter she would never hear again. It pressed down on her chest like an invisible weight, reminding her every time she closed her eyes that he was gone.
She lived in a world of ghosts now. Ron's voice had become an echo that drifted in and out of her memory. His face existed only in the blurred edges of photographs tucked away in drawers, or in the remnants of dreams that broke apart the moment she tried to hold onto them. Each day felt like a battle against something she could not see, a tide of sorrow that rose again and again, pulling at her until she felt scraped raw inside. And when the world quieted, when there was nothing left to distract her, the grief wrapped itself around her like a vice.
She kept visiting her parents, because it was the only thing that made sense anymore. The Burrow used to be warmth and noise and the kind of chaos that felt like home. Now it felt hollow, as if the walls were holding their breath, waiting for a sound that would never come.
Molly moved through the kitchen with a kind of absent tenderness, stirring soups no one ate, her hands trembling just enough for Ginny to notice. Arthur sat in his favorite chair by the fire, staring at the flames as though he might see Ron in them if he watched long enough.
Ron's absence was everywhere. It was in the empty chair at the dinner table. It was in the dust gathering over his old Quidditch gear stacked in the corner. It was in the extra cup Molly set out of habit before quietly putting it away. They were grieving together, but they were grieving apart too, each caught in their own version of the loss, unable to bridge the distance grief had carved between them.
Every visit left Ginny heavier. She carried the ache in her bones, felt the exhaustion spread through her limbs in a way sleep could never fix. Nights were the worst. The dark stretched out around her, magnifying every regret, every unsaid word, every tomorrow she would never have with him. She would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling as though the house itself understood her pain and pressed closer around her until she could hardly breathe.
But in the middle of it all, there was him.
Blaise. Her calm. Her steadiness. The one person who never once faltered when everything else around her cracked.
He knew grief in ways she didn't have words for. He carried shadows of his own, ones he never named, ones she only ever sensed when his voice softened or his eyes went distant. But his grief never touched her. He kept it buried deep, always stepping between her and anything that might break her further. He held her when she needed to fall apart. He sat beside her when silence was the only thing she could manage. He listened. He waited. He let her move at her own pace without pushing her into healing she wasn't ready for.
And when he left on business, the absence carved her open all over again. The bed felt too wide and too cold without him in it. The house felt quiet in a way that unsettled her, a stillness that reminded her how alone she could feel even in a place built with love. She would sit in the corner of their living room, wrapped in his sweater, pretending that if she inhaled deeply enough, he might walk through the door as though nothing had changed.
Some nights she lit her wand and traced soft arcs of light through the air, tiny sparks shaped into stars, into flowers, into fluttering shapes that lasted only a second before fading. Small illusions that distracted her just long enough to breathe. But they were only light. Not warmth. Never warmth.
Not without him.
And then, he would return.
The change always came quietly. One moment she would be curled up on the couch, lost inside her own thoughts, and the next she would hear the faint click of the front door, the soft rustle of his coat being shrugged off, the familiar weight of his footsteps crossing the floor. The air shifted with him, as though the whole house exhaled at once, relieved to have him back within its walls. She felt it too. The tension that sat in her chest loosened. The ache in her ribs eased. Breathing became possible again.
She always moved first. Before he could say a word, before he could take more than a single step inside, she was already in his arms, clutching at him with a desperation she never confessed aloud. He folded into her just as quickly, strong arms lifting her off the ground for a moment, holding her close like he needed the contact just as badly as she did. Her face found the familiar spot against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him, letting it fill the places that hurt the most.
"Amore," he murmured into her hair. His voice always softened when he said it, warm and steady, a quiet vow woven into the syllables. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
And every time, she believed him. Not because he said the right words, but because he meant them with a sincerity that wrapped itself around her heart. His presence reminded her that grief had not stolen everything from her. It reminded her that love could still exist in the ruins, that a future could still be built even when a part of her lay buried with her brother.
They always spent the first hour the same way. No talking. No questions. Just the two of them pressed together on the couch, the rise and fall of their breathing slowly falling into sync. His hand always found hers, fingers lacing together in that quiet, instinctive way that made her feel grounded. Sometimes he rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. Sometimes he traced circles against her wrist, pressing slow kisses there whenever she trembled. Each kiss felt like a reminder that she was still here, still living, still loved.
He watched her more closely during those moments. He never made it obvious, never hovered, never asked if she was alright. But she always caught him stealing glances at her, his dark eyes full of tenderness and something deeper, something almost reverent. As if he was memorising her. As if seeing her breathe was enough to calm whatever storms raged inside him.
There were quiet gestures woven into every evening. A blanket draped over her shoulders when she drifted to sleep without meaning to. A cup of her favourite tea placed beside her without a word. Music playing softly in the background because he knew silence made the grief louder. And sometimes, when her tears came without warning, he would gather her gently into his lap, letting her bury her face in his chest until the shaking stopped.
"I know it hurts," he would whisper then, voice roughened by emotion he tried hard to hide. "But we can carry it together. You don't have to face this alone."
And in those fleeting, delicate moments, she allowed herself to believe that too.
He surprised her in small ways. A few wildflowers waiting on the kitchen table. A note tucked into the pages of her book, written in his hurried script, telling her to eat or to rest or simply that he loved her. Once, when the night had been particularly heavy, he had taken her hand and turned her toward him in the kitchen, moving slowly, guiding her into a dance with the soft hum of their old radio filling the silence. His hands on her hips, her forehead resting against his chest, the world shrinking down to the feeling of being held.
She knew he carried secrets. She felt them in the way he sometimes fell quiet, eyes darkening with thoughts he never shared. There were shadows in him that she could sense but never reach, parts of him locked behind walls built long before she ever loved him. But he never let those shadows touch her. Never let any of it spill into her world. He kept his darkness contained and gave her only warmth.
For her, he was light. For her, he would have become anything.
Grief would always linger. It would always be there in the quiet hours, in the memories that cut deep, in the spaces Ron once filled. But it no longer swallowed her whole. Not when she had arms to fall into, a heartbeat to listen to, a love steady enough to carry the things she could not.
She still hurt. She still ached. But she was not alone.
She had him.