She sat alone in the garden at sunset, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them. The golden hues of dusk spread over the flowers and cast long shadows over the Burrow, but all she could feel was a cold emptiness.
It didn't seem real. It couldn't be real. Ron—her brother, her protector, the one who'd stood by her side in every family scuffle and every war. How was she supposed to breathe in a world where he didn't exist anymore?
She closed her eyes, and there he was, grinning at her across the chessboard, his face bright with the thrill of winning yet again. She could almost hear his voice—playful, teasing, calling her "Gin-Gin" just to get under her skin. Her throat tightened as the memories spilled over her. He'd been her anchor, her laughter on the stormiest days. When Fred died, they had held each other up. But who was going to hold her up now?
There was an ache in her chest that felt like something vital had been torn away. She'd lost brothers before, but this… this felt like an entirely different kind of void, raw and jagged.
"I can't do this," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I can't lose you, too, Ron." The words felt strange in the silence, as if saying them out loud might somehow make them untrue. But the silence only swallowed her words, leaving her alone with the hollow, aching truth.
Tears spilled down her cheeks, hot and unchecked. She hated herself for not being stronger. She'd promised herself she'd keep it together for her family's sake, for her mother, who looked so broken that Ginny wasn't sure how many more losses she could bear. And for Harry, who was dealing with his own pain. But right now, alone in the garden, she didn't have to hold anything back.
Her fingers dug into the soil beneath her, as though anchoring herself in the earth could somehow keep her from slipping away into the pain. She remembered Ron's laugh, so loud and bright, filling any space he was in. She thought of him teaching her to throw a Quaffle, of the two of them sneaking out at night, of him hugging her after the war when they thought they'd survived the worst.
A sob escaped her, bitter and fierce. "I needed you, Ron. We all did," she choked out, anger mixing with her sorrow. "Why does it always have to be one of us? One of my brothers?" Her heart screamed at the unfairness of it. First Fred, now Ron—it felt like some cruel cosmic joke, as though the universe was tearing her family apart one piece at a time.
She buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with grief. The memories felt like sharp edges, cutting into her. Ron had been her best friend, her playmate, her defender. He'd been there through everything—every childhood scrape, every teenage heartbreak. And now… now he was just gone.
It felt impossible that she would never again hear him grumble about work, see his goofy smile, or have him teasingly ruffle her hair. The silence felt like a weight pressing down on her, heavy and suffocating.
After what felt like hours, she lifted her head, eyes raw and red from crying. She looked up at the sky, the first stars beginning to shimmer in the darkening blue. Maybe, somehow, Ron was up there with Fred, looking down on her, laughing at her for being so sentimental.
A small, bittersweet smile tugged at her lips. "Take care of him, Freddy," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "Take care of each other."
It didn't heal the wound, didn't fill the empty space inside her. But in that moment, she felt a flicker of warmth in the cold grief—knowing that Ron, at least, was with someone who'd keep him laughing, keep him safe. And as she sat in the quiet of the garden, she found a fragile thread of peace amidst the pain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One evening, as they sat in the dimly lit living room, 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.
In the kitchen, the light was dimmer still, casting long shadows across the walls. He leaned against the counter, his back to her, as if sensing what was coming. Hermione took a moment to steady herself, her heart pounding in her chest as the words she'd been holding back threatened to spill out.
"Blaise," she began hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with the weight of what she was about to say.
He turned slowly to face her, his eyes dark and intense, a mix of determination and wariness flickering in their depths. He didn't speak, but the tension between them crackled like a live wire.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his gaze. "I... I know what you and Draco did," she finally said, the words heavy, hanging in the air like a sentence.
For a moment, there was only silence. His expression didn't change, but a shadow passed over his features, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. The room seemed to close in around them, the walls pressing in with the weight of her revelation.
He turned to face her, his eyes dark with a mix of determination and wariness. "What is it, Granger?"
She took a deep breath, summoning the courage to speak. "I... I know what you and Draco did."
For a moment, the room seemed to freeze. The words hung between them, heavy with accusation. His expression hardened, his posture shifting as he crossed his arms over his chest, a wall of defense rising around him.
"And what is it that you assume we did?" His voice was calm, almost too calm, as if he were testing her, daring her to say more.
Her throat tightened, but she pressed on, her voice trembling. "I never wanted this. I never wanted anyone to get hurt."
He let out a humorless chuckle, a sound that sent a chill down Hermione's spine. It was hollow, devoid of any real amusement, a sharp contrast to his usual confident demeanor. He took a step closer, the dim light casting shadows across his face, making him appear almost menacing.
"Noble of you, Granger," he said, his gaze hardening as he fixed her with a stare that was both piercing and unyielding. "But the world doesn't work on wishes and 'never wanting to hurt anyone.' Sometimes, you have to make hard choices."
Her heart pounded in her chest, her resolve wavering under the weight of his words. There was something in his tone, something dark and unforgiving, that made her question whether she was truly ready to uncover the truth. But she couldn't back down now. Not after everything that had happened.
She nodded, tears streaming down her face as the weight of his words settled heavily on her heart. "He wasn't an angel, Blaise. But Ginny is suffering because of it. I don't know how to make it right."
His eyes softened, just for a moment, but it was enough to reveal the depth of the turmoil beneath his hardened exterior. "There's something you need to understand, Granger. My loyalty lies with Draco, and that won't change. But that doesn't mean I don't love Ginny. She's... she's everything to me."
His voice grew quieter, almost reverent, as he continued, "Her laughter, a melody that chased away the shadows in my soul, forever changed the tune of my life. Her strength, a blazing fire that ignited a courage I never knew I possessed. Her kindness, a boundless well that overflowed, nourishing the parched corners of my heart. She's the missing piece I never knew I craved, the sun that chased away the endless night. Without her, my world would be a barren wasteland, devoid of color, devoid of love. She is my everything, and to love her is to breathe, to truly live."
Her heart ached with the sincerity in his voice, the raw vulnerability that he had allowed her to glimpse. She could see it now—the deep, unyielding love he had for Ginny, a love that had changed him, made him more human, more real.But then his expression hardened again, a wall going up between them as he steeled himself.
"However, I won't apologize for protecting my family," he said, his voice resolute. "I'll do whatever it takes to keep them safe, even if it means making hard choices. You might not agree with them, Granger, but that's the reality we live in."
Her eyes narrowed, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and fear. "And who defines family?" she demanded, her words slicing through the thick tension between them. "Because by most measures, burning down a house with people inside doesn't exactly scream 'protecting your loved ones'."
For the first time, he faltered, his usual calm demeanor cracking ever so slightly. The smoothness of his voice, always as polished as obsidian, hitched with a note of something darker, something unsettled.
"The Malfoys are my family, Granger," he admitted, his tone heavy with an unspoken burden. A shadow passed over his face, deepening the lines of worry and conflict that had been etched there by years of difficult choices.
"And in this twisted world," he continued, a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes, "that includes you, by marriage and circumstance." He paused, his gaze locking with hers, daring her to deny what they both knew. "Don't play innocent. You know the dance, the unspoken vows whispered in hushed tones, the lines drawn with blood, not ink. We made our choices when we entangled ourselves with Draco. And while you may detest them, these are the lines I won't cross."
Her retort crackled with defiance, her Gryffindor spirit flaring bright and unyielding. "We are not some cold-blooded mafia bound by blood oaths, Blaise!" she shot back, her voice sharp and resonant in the tense silence. "This isn't about blind loyalty or lines drawn in darkness! We're supposed to be the light, remember? The ones who fight for a better world, not perpetuate the cycle of violence!"
Her voice wavered then, trembling with a mix of anger and something deeper—perhaps fear, perhaps a flicker of despair. "Surely there must be another way. There has to be."
His response was slow, deliberate, as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, his eyes narrowing slightly. His lips curled into a smirk, but there was no warmth behind it.
"Easy there, fiery one," he drawled, his voice tinged with a dark amusement that sent a shiver down her spine. "Perhaps not the Muggle mafia, but we certainly have our own brand of… tradition."
His words were like a slap, a cold reminder of the world they were entrenched in. "Don't ever forget that you are part of the Sacred 28 now," he continued, his tone dripping with a blend of mockery and resignation. "And being entangled with Draco Malfoy thrust you right into the heart of it, whether you like it or not, mia cara."
He raised an eyebrow, a question lurking in his dark eyes. "Speaking of Draco," he said, his voice a smooth caress that sent shivers down Hermione's spine despite its coolness, "What's his public persona these days?"
Hermione swallowed, the weight of his scrutiny heavy on her. "He, uh," she stammered, her mind scrambling for the appropriate facade, "runs a potions supply company across Europe, I believe." The words felt hollow, even to her own ears, as if they were flimsy constructs trying to shield her from the truth.
He scoffed, a humorless sound that scraped against the tense silence. "A carefully constructed front, Granger," he drawled, his voice laced with a knowing amusement. "Perhaps one you've chosen to believe in. The Malfoy fortune extends far beyond vials and ingredients, tesoro. It reaches into shadows you can barely comprehend."
She felt a chill run down her spine as she realized that the truth she had been avoiding was far more sinister than she had imagined. His tone was smooth, almost conversational, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable.
"Draco," his voice dipped to a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in just enough to make the moment feel suffocating, "has become a force to be reckoned with since his Hogwarts days. Trust me, the wand he wields in business meetings is a far cry from the one he uses for..." He trailed off, letting the unspoken threat hang heavy in the air like a storm cloud about to burst.
Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she grappled with the implications of his words. The image of Draco as a mere businessman, someone who had managed to distance himself from his family's dark past, began to crumble in her mind. Was she naive to think that they could escape that world unscathed?
His eyes searched hers, the silence between them thick with tension. "You're smart, Granger," he said finally, his voice softer, almost pitying. "But don't let your love for him blind you to what he's capable of. The Draco you know isn't the Draco the rest of the world deals with."
A cold dread slithered down her spine, icy tendrils wrapping around her heart. The image of Draco she'd carefully cultivated in her mind—an aloof potioneer with a hidden kind side, a man she could save—began to crumble. His words painted a far more sinister picture: a Draco shrouded in a web of darkness, a darkness that threatened to consume them both.Hermione's voice barely escaped her lips, a horrified whisper.
"To do what?" The weight of his words settled in her stomach like a cold, iron weight. Love, she'd thought. A twisted, complicated love, yes, but love nonetheless. This? This was something else entirely—a chilling revelation, a glimpse into a world far darker than she'd ever dared imagine. His gaze held a chilling indifference, devoid of warmth or amusement. It was as if the man standing before her was someone else entirely—a version of him she had never seen before, and one she wished she hadn't.
"To control," he explained, each word a hammer blow, "to eliminate, to build an empire. Draco's long past playing house, Granger. He's a predator in a bespoke suit, a wolf with a silver spoon. And you, my principessa," he leaned closer, his voice a silken threat, "are now a valuable piece on his chessboard. He'll stop at nothing to keep you safe, even if the price is painting the town red."
Her breath hitched, her mind racing to comprehend the full implications of his words. The man she loved—the man she believed she knew—was a far cry from the charming, reformed aristocrat she had imagined.
This Draco, the one he described, was ruthless, calculating, willing to cross lines she hadn't even realized existed.
His expression remained unsettlingly calm, his dark eyes unreadable as Hermione's words echoed through the room. The stark contrast between her fiery outburst and his composed demeanor only heightened the tension.
"Is that what you think this is?" he asked, his voice smooth and cold, like a blade sliding through silk. "Domination?" He took a step closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming. "You think we do this for sport, for the thrill of power? You've been living in a dream, Granger."
Her hands clenched into fists, her fury barely masking the fear that gnawed at her. "You burn down a house with people inside. You make threats, you manipulate. What else would you call it?"
"I call it survival," he replied, his tone sharp as a knife. "You can stand on your moral high ground all you like, but the world we live in isn't kind. It doesn't care about your ideals or your righteousness. The only thing that matters is whether you have the strength to protect what's yours."
Her breath caught in her throat, the words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. "And that justifies everything? The lies, the violence, the destruction?"
His gaze never wavered. "In this world, yes. Because if we don't protect what's ours, someone else will take it. And they won't be nearly as merciful."
"Merciful?" her voice cracked with disbelief, her heart pounding in her chest. "You call what you and Draco do merciful?"
"Compared to what others would do, yes," he answered, 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."
He flinched at the vehemence in her voice, but his gaze remained unwavering. "This is the world we live in, Granger," he said, his voice firm but edged with a hint of weariness. "A world where lines are blurred and allegiances run deeper than blood. We make choices, difficult choices, to protect those we hold dear."
"By burning down houses with people inside?" she spat back, her voice dripping with disgust. "That's your idea of protecting family?"
His jaw clenched, the weight of her accusation hanging heavy between them. He knew he couldn't justify the act, not truly. But the unspoken loyalty that bound him, the ingrained code of their world, made it difficult to fully condemn it either.
"Draco does what he believes is necessary," he finally said, the words heavy on his tongue. "His methods… may be unorthodox, but his purpose is not without reason."
"Draco's purpose is control!" She countered, her voice rising with each word. "He's built an empire of fear and intimidation, and you expect me to just accept it?
Her shoulders slumped, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a physical burden. "But this isn't the world I ever wanted," she whispered, her voice thick with disillusionment.
He watched her, a flicker of empathy softening his hardened features for a brief moment. "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 can't always predict. But one thing remains constant: we protect our own, no matter the cost."
A heavy silence descended upon them, thick with unspoken emotions and the grim reality of their situation. Hermione wrestled with the truth he had revealed, a truth that painted their world in shades of darkness she had previously chosen to ignore. Blaise, burdened by his own loyalty and the weight of his actions, awaited her response, a fragile truce hanging in the balance.
"And what about Ginny? Does she know the truth about what you do?" Hermione asked, her voice breaking.
"She knows nothing," he replied. "And I'd like to keep it that way. It's our job to keep our loved ones safe, even if it means getting our hands dirty."
She looked away, tears welling up in her eyes. "Blaise, you killed her brother. There is no universe where she will ever forgive you. You burned his house down with no mercy. Why would you do that?" Hermione finished, fully crying.
"Granger, we kept tabs on him for months," he said, his voice firm. "Every move, every interaction. He wasn't subtle, not with you. Abuse and imprisonment." He paused, his expression softening slightly.
Shame and anger warred within her, leaving Hermione feeling exposed and raw. Shame for not having confided in Draco, anger that he had remained blind to the harsh truths that now shattered her world. She struggled to push these feelings aside, trying to hold onto the memories of a better time with Ronald. But the reality was undeniable.
"But you didn't say anything," she choked out, her voice thick with unshed tears.
His sigh was heavy, laden with an unspoken weight. "It wasn't my place to interfere," he said reluctantly, his voice rough around the edges. "There are unspoken rules in this world, Granger. When it comes to Draco Malfoy, especially regarding someone he… cares for, stepping in is a dangerous game. Even if it means watching from the sidelines as things unfold in ways that are often beyond our control."
Her eyes flashed with a mix of frustration and disbelief. "So you just stood by, letting it all happen? Because of some unspoken code?"
His expression softened, his gaze flickering with a troubled sincerity. "It's not just about codes. It's about survival. In this world, making the wrong move can have catastrophic consequences. Sometimes, the safest thing is to stay out of it, even when it means living with the burden of knowing what's really happening."
Her heart pounded, caught between the desire to lash out and the overwhelming sadness of her situation. "I thought we were friends," she said quietly. "I thought you'd care enough to do more than just… watch."
His eyes were dark, filled with a mix of regret and a deep-seated resolve. "I do care, Granger. More than you know. But the reality is, we all have to make choices that aren't always clear-cut. I'm sorry for the pain this has caused you. But some battles are fought in shadows, and sometimes, the only way to protect those we love is to let them navigate those shadows on their own terms."
The devastation surrounding her mirrored the wreckage of her own trust. Ron's betrayal, fueled by insecurity, had a domino effect far more destructive than she ever imagined. The past was unchangeable, a harsh lesson etched in stone. Yet, with this newfound understanding, Hermione steeled herself. The future stretched before her, and she would face it with a heart tempered by truth.
Her breath hitched, a sob trapped in her throat. The weight of the truth pressed down on her chest, a suffocating heaviness. "But taking a life..." she whispered, her voice thick with tears, "it's so... final."
His gaze softened, but there was a steeliness beneath it, a hardness that spoke of choices made and lines crossed. "It is final, Granger," he conceded, his voice low and deliberate. "But sometimes, finality is the only way to protect what's most precious to us. There are some lines, once crossed, that leave no room for second chances. Ron crossed that line the moment he raised his hand to you."
Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat reverberating with the weight of his words. The Draco she had known—the man she had loved—had been shaped by the same unforgiving world that had driven him to these dark conclusions. A world where power was currency and survival often required actions that left permanent scars on the soul.
She searched his face for any sign of regret, of remorse, but found none. Only a grim resolve, a certainty in the choices he and Draco had made. "I know what Ron did to me," she admitted, her voice 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," he finished for her, his tone devoid of judgment. "I don't expect you to. You're not like us, Hermione. You have a different kind of strength, a different kind of light. But in our world, light can be blinding, and darkness—" He paused, searching for the right words, "—darkness is where we thrive. We did what was necessary to protect you, to protect Draco, to protect everything we've built."
Hermione closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks as the full reality of what he was saying sank in. "And Ginny?" she choked out. "How do I ever look her in the eyes again, knowing what you've done?"
He sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of his own burden. "Ginny's world is different. 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. I love her, Granger. More than I ever thought I was capable of loving someone. But that love—" His voice broke, just for a moment, revealing a crack in his otherwise impenetrable façade, "—it doesn't absolve me of what I've done. It just gives me something to protect. Something worth fighting for."
A chilling silence settled between them, thick with unspoken truths and the unbearable weight of the choices they had made. Her mind raced, torn between the darkness that had consumed her past and the uncertain light that might guide her future. She knew he was right—Ron had crossed a line, and in doing so, had sealed his own fate. But accepting that… accepting that Draco, her Draco, had been a part of that final, irreversible act was something she didn't know if she could ever reconcile.
"Do you really believe this is the only way?" Hermione finally asked, her voice trembling. "That this is the only way to protect the ones we love?"
He met her gaze, his eyes dark and unreadable. "In our world, sometimes it is. But that doesn't mean it has to be your way, Hermione. You're stronger than you know, and you can choose a different path. But understand this: Draco will always do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Whatever it takes."
"Burn someone alive? Who did it actually? You or Draco?" Hermione's voice trembled with a volatile mix of anger and fear, the words barely controlled.
He leaned back in his chair, his expression calm and unyielding. "It was Theo, if you want to be technical."
The tremor in her hands wasn't from the cold stone floor anymore. It was a primal fear clawing its way up, a chilling realization of just how far these people she once called friends were willing to go. "Theo?" she gasped, the shock evident in her voice. She hadn't expected to hear his name.
"Yes, Granger, Theodore," he replied coolly, his calm demeanor almost mocking. "Loverboy has secrets too. He's good at crafting, after all."
Her mind reeled with this new information. Theo had always been quiet, reserved, the gentle soul of the group, but she had never suspected him of being capable of such violence. "Theo... I can't believe it."
"You should, Granger," he said, his voice carrying a hint of cold amusement. "Everyone has a dark side. Theodore just happens to be more useful than most."
A chill ran down her spine, an icy grip of dread that froze her in place. "Why? Why would he do that?"
His eyes hardened, his tone shifting from cold amusement to something darker, more dangerous. "Because it needed to be done. Don't you understand? Ron was a threat, and Theo understood that. He knew what was at stake."
She shook her head, her emotions a whirlwind of disbelief and rage. "This is madness. You can't justify murder!"
He leaned forward, his gaze intense, locking her in place with its force. "This is the world we live in, Hermione. Sometimes, we have to make hard choices to protect those we love. Ron crossed a line, and Theo made sure he wouldn't cross it again."
Her voice quivered with the effort of holding back tears, anger boiling just beneath the surface. "Madness. This is all madness. There had to be another way."
His eyes held a steely glint, his expression unrelenting. "Perhaps there was, but it would have been slower, riskier. And in our world, the weight of protecting loved ones leaves little room for idealism, Granger. We make the choices we must, and we live with them."
Her breath hitched, her fury flaring hot and wild. "You think you're protecting us? You think this—this brutality is somehow noble? It's not. It's cruel, and it's twisted."
His composure wavered, his voice lowering to a deadly whisper. "Don't mistake necessity for cruelty. What Theo did, what Draco and I sanctioned, wasn't about nobility. It was about survival. It was about ensuring that you, that all of us, wouldn't fall victim to Ron's insanity again."
Her tears finally broke free, spilling down her cheeks as she glared at him, her voice cracking under the weight of her grief. "And what about your own wife? What happens when she finds out the truth? You think you're protecting her? You think she'll thank you for killing her brother?"
His expression darkened, a flicker of pain crossing his features before he masked it with indifference. "She'll never know. And if I have anything to say about it, she'll never need to. But even if she did, I'd do it all over again. Because, Granger, when you love someone, you protect them. Even if it means becoming the monster they fear."
The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of their conversation pressing down on both of them. Hermione stared at him, her heart torn between the man she once trusted and the dark truths now laid bare before her.
"You're wrong, Blaise," she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion. "This isn't protection. This is destruction. And I won't be a part of it."
His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "You already are, Hermione. Whether you like it or not, you're part of this world now. And you'll have to decide whether you're strong enough to survive it."
Hermione took a shaky breath, her resolve hardening despite the tears still streaming down her face. "I'll survive. But not like this. Not with blood on my hands."
He watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he finally nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of 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 cut through the tension like a blade. "Let me ask you something, Granger. What would you do if you knew that someone wanted to harm Lysander?"
She froze, her mind racing as the weight of his words settled over her like a shroud. Slowly, she turned to face him, her heart pounding in her chest.
"I..." she began, the words sticking in her throat. She knew what he was getting at, and it terrified her. "I would probably kill them," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
His expression softened, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He nodded, the gesture slow and deliberate, as if to let the gravity of the situation sink in. "Exactly," he said, his voice low and intense. "Sometimes, we have to do the unthinkable to protect those we love."
The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the weight of the unspoken truth between them. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she stared at him, the enormity of his words crashing down on her like a tidal wave.
"You see," he continued, his voice a quiet, deadly whisper, "we're not so different, you and I. We both know what it means to protect, to go to any lengths for the ones we care about.
What a hypocrite. She would kill anyone if someone touched Lysander.
Ron had been a threat, and they had acted accordingly. But the cost, the brutal finality of it, gnawed at her. Looking at him, a man she once considered a rival but now saw as a stranger shrouded in darkness, Hermione knew one thing for certain. She would protect Lysander, at any cost.
Her voice trembled with a mix of fear and anger as she spoke. "What should I do with Draco? I can't even bear to hear his name right now, let alone look at him." Her desperation was evident, her eyes searching his for any sign of an answer.
He rose from his chair, the atmosphere between them thick with tension. He disappeared briefly into another room, and when he returned, he held a small vial filled with a translucent liquid, its surface shimmering ominously in the dim light.
"Veritaserum?" Her voice barely concealed her shock, her eyes wide as she stared at the potion in his hand.
"If you really want the truth, this is how you'll get it," he replied, his tone disturbingly casual. "Or," he added with a smirk that didn't reach his eyes, "you could make it a fun drinking game, loosen things up a bit. Your call."
Her agitation surged, her pulse pounding in her ears. "This isn't a game, Blaise! This is my life—my marriage!" Her voice was sharp, cutting through the tense silence, and she took a step closer, her hands trembling as she reached for the vial. "Give it to me," she demanded, her resolve hardening even as her fear gnawed at her insides.
He handed her the vial, his expression unreadable. "Be careful what you ask for, Granger. The truth can be more dangerous than the lies."
She stared at the vial in her hand, the weight of her decision pressing down on her like a physical burden. She could feel the liquid sloshing inside, the promise of answers, but also the threat of uncovering something she might not be ready to face. With a determined breath, she clenched the vial tightly.
In an instant, with a loud crack, she disapparated, leaving behind the suffocating atmosphere of his home. She reappeared in the familiar confines of her own house, the silence around her deafening. The vial felt like it was burning a hole in her hand, the reality of what she was about to do settling heavily on her shoulders.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She sat by the window, staring blankly at the autumn rain trickling down the glass, each droplet a reflection of the sadness settling heavy within her. The world felt grey, muted, her once-fiery spirit dulled. Losing a brother once was unbearable, but losing him again—to face that hollow ache all over, this time knowing he was gone for good—was an agony she struggled to contain.
She drew her knees up, hugging them tightly as if somehow, holding herself together physically might stave off the unraveling she felt inside. A part of her hated herself for the memories slipping from her grasp, the sound of his laugh fading a little more each day, even though the ache stayed constant. She was losing him all over again in the cruelest way—memory by memory.
He entered the room softly, his footsteps nearly silent. He took in the scene without saying a word, his dark eyes resting on her with an intensity that bordered on reverence. She was his everything, his brightest star, and it broke him to see her like this. Though his heart carried its own shadows, for Ginny, he would bring light.
"Amore," he murmured, crossing the room to kneel beside her. "You don't have to do this alone, you know. Let me in."
Her shoulders shook slightly as she leaned into his presence, feeling his hand come to rest on her shoulder, grounding her, the warmth of his touch slicing through her numbness. She bit her lip to keep her voice steady, whispering, "I don't even know how to let you in, darling. I… I can't get over the feeling that I let him down somehow. That I didn't tell him enough how much I loved him. I'd do anything to have that time back…"
His gaze softened, his heart constricting as he watched the anguish unfold in her eyes. He lifted a hand to her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that escaped. "My love, he knew. Believe me, he knew. People like your brother… they feel love, even when words aren't spoken. And you loved him fiercely—you still do. He wouldn't want you to carry this weight alone."
The words were so gentle, filled with a quiet certainty that only he could give her. And while they were only words, they held a power that settled over her like a warm blanket. She felt her shoulders relax just a bit, sinking into his touch, his solid, unshakable presence offering her a fleeting sense of calm.
To others, he might have seemed stoic, distant. But with her, he was different—soft, patient, a man with shadows but a heart that loved her in ways he couldn't begin to explain. He kissed her temple softly, lingering as if he could somehow transfer his strength to her. "You're everything to me," he whispered, voice barely audible. "I'd do anything to take away your pain. Anything."
The depth of his words tugged at her, reminding her just how much he was willing to give, even though there were pieces of himself he kept hidden away. He'd brought her gifts, flowers, notes, things he'd thought might cheer her up. She appreciated it all, but what she needed most was what he was offering now—him, just him, without any grand gestures or distractions.
He sensed this too, how she clung to him with a desperation that both broke and humbled him. For her, he could be whatever she needed. He held her close, letting her bury herself in his arms as he stroked her hair, his hand resting protectively against her back. Her warmth, her grief, her love—he felt it all.
There was so much she didn't know, couldn't know. His soul was forever tainted by secrets he'd take to his grave—truths he'd hidden not just from her, but from everyone. And while he knew that he would always bear the weight of his own sins, for her, he could be pure. He'd created a world of illusion, a shield around them both. He'd perfected the magic they called Fyndfire—a flame that erased any trace of their presence so the Aurors, so anyone, could never find them. For her, he'd make sure no darkness could ever touch them.
But now, here in this quiet, he was her Blaise—her source of comfort, her unbreakable support, her warmth on the coldest of days. Ginny's hand found his, squeezing as she finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "Thank you, love. For everything." She hesitated, then looked up at him, her red-rimmed eyes filled with gratitude, her lips curving into a small, sad smile. "I don't deserve you."
The intensity in his eyes deepened, a flash of emotion crossing his face that made her breath hitch. "You deserve more than I could ever give you," he murmured. "But I'll spend my life trying. Because for you, I would do the unthinkable."
For the first time in what felt like ages, she laughed—a soft, bittersweet sound that tugged at his heart. He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there as though he could will her pain away. He wanted to protect her from every heartache, every shadow that could touch her.
They sat there together, the world quiet around them, a sanctuary made of nothing but shared silence and a love that, despite everything, somehow made them both feel whole.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Grief was a cruel mistress, an unrelenting force that swept in unexpectedly, clawing at the edges of her heart and soul. It was a dark cloud, heavy and suffocating, that turned even the most mundane moments into reminders of loss. Each day was a battle against the waves of sorrow that threatened to engulf her, and in the quiet moments, when the world was still and the weight of her emotions pressed heavily on her chest, she felt its grasp tightening around her.
Visiting her parents had become a bittersweet ritual. They were shells of their former selves, the weight of their collective grief evident in the lines etched on their faces and the hollowness in their eyes. When she entered their home, she was greeted with the familiar smell of old books and lingering warmth, but the absence of laughter and the warmth of her brother's presence left a chill in the air. Their conversations were fraught with pauses, the unspoken words hanging heavily between them like a dense fog. She felt their sorrow as acutely as her own, a shared burden that was both comforting and isolating. They were all navigating the same sea of despair, but it felt like they were lost on separate islands, unable to truly reach one another.
After those visits, she often returned home, her heart aching, her mind racing with memories that flared up like sparks from a dying fire. It was during those lonely nights that grief became especially cruel, clawing at her thoughts and reminding her of all the moments she would never share again with her brother. The echo of his laughter seemed to follow her, turning into a ghostly reminder that he was gone forever.
In these darkest hours, she found solace in him. He was her anchor, the one person who could soothe the tempest within her. Despite the darkness surrounding them both, he radiated warmth—a light that pierced through the shadows, offering her a haven from the storm. Whenever she felt the weight of grief becoming unbearable, she sought refuge in him, knowing he would be there to catch her as she fell.
He understood grief in ways that few did. He had his own shadows—his own demons that whispered in the dead of night—but he never let them touch her. Instead, he wrapped her in his presence, enveloping her in a cocoon of strength and tenderness. When he held her close, it felt like the world faded away, leaving just the two of them in a space where sorrow had no place. He listened to her, not just to her words, but to the silence between them—the heavy sighs, the muffled cries, the moments of stillness that spoke louder than any words could.
Still, his business trips sometimes pulled him away from her, leaving her to navigate her grief alone. Each time he left, it felt like a part of her heart was being ripped away, leaving behind an empty void. She would sit in their shared space, surrounded by his lingering scent, the echo of his laughter still hanging in the air. The absence felt amplified, as if the very walls were closing in on her. Those nights stretched endlessly, filled with memories of their stolen moments—laughs shared over dinner, soft whispers exchanged in the dark, the warmth of his hand entwined with hers.
In the quiet of the night, she would reach for her wand, tracing patterns in the air, conjuring flickering lights that danced before her eyes. They were small distractions, illusions that helped her forget the ache for just a moment. But the flickering lights could never replace the solid warmth of him beside her.
Whenever he returned, it was as if the clouds finally parted, the sun breaking through to illuminate her world once more. His presence felt like an elixir, a balm that soothed her aching heart. He would wrap his arms around her, holding her tightly as if he could shield her from the very essence of grief itself. He would pull her close, burying his face in her hair as he inhaled deeply, and she could feel his heartbeat sync with hers, a steady rhythm that reminded her she was alive and loved.
"Amore," he would whisper, his voice low and reassuring. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
In those moments, her heart would swell with gratitude and warmth. His presence was the antidote to her grief—a reminder that, while loss was a part of her life, love still thrived in the shadows. His laughter would fill the air, echoing like a sweet melody, and she found herself smiling, the heaviness in her heart lifting ever so slightly. They would sit together, talking about everything and nothing, sharing stories that meandered through their lives, weaving a tapestry of memories that, while tinged with sadness, also sparkled with joy.
When they would walk through the park or simply lounge on the couch, the world around them would fade into a soft blur. He would steal glances at her, those dark eyes of his sparkling with mischief, and Ginny would find herself laughing at his playful banter, momentarily forgetting her pain. He had a way of pulling her from the depths of despair, of making her feel seen and cherished, as if her grief was not a burden but a part of the intricate puzzle that made her who she was.
"I know it's hard," he would say, his tone soft yet firm. "But we can carry it together. You don't have to shoulder it alone."
And she believed him, if only for those precious moments. Together, they built a fortress of resilience, a safe haven where her grief could be acknowledged but not allowed to consume her entirely. He would surprise her with small tokens of affection—a bouquet of wildflowers, a handwritten note tucked into her favorite book, or a quiet evening spent watching the stars from the balcony. Each gesture spoke volumes, reminding her that love existed even in the midst of sorrow.
He may have been a man of many secrets, a shadowy figure cloaked in complexity, but for her, he was a constant source of light. He became her anchor in the storm, a steady force that grounded her when everything felt chaotic and overwhelming. Together, they navigated the intricacies of their lives, forging a connection that transcended the pain of the past.
And while she carried the weight of grief, it became intertwined with the love they shared—a tapestry of emotions that, though tinged with sorrow, was also rich with warmth, laughter, and moments of undeniable joy. As they continued to build their lives together, she learned that grief was not a chain that bound her but a thread that wove her closer to those she loved. And through it all, he would stand by her side, a steadfast companion in the ever-unfolding journey of healing.