Ginny woke with a start, the early morning light filtering through her window. She felt an odd flutter in her stomach, something she couldn't quite place—a tingling, a sense of weight, or maybe just nerves, but different than anything she'd felt before. She lay there, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of this strange feeling. She'd had vivid dreams the night before, dreams that felt so real she could still feel the traces of them lingering as she slowly came to consciousness.
She pushed herself up, pulling the covers around her as she sat in bed, her thoughts drifting to a distant possibility. Her hand went instinctively to her belly, a strange thrill stirring inside her at the mere thought of it. Was it possible?
Taking a deep breath, she slipped out of bed, moving quietly through the house. Her movements were slow, almost reverent, as if acknowledging some sacred feeling she wasn't yet ready to fully embrace. She found herself reaching for her wand to summon a pregnancy test, something she'd kept in the cabinet "just in case" but had never actually thought she'd need. As the test appeared in her hand, she hesitated, her heart pounding.
Moments later, she closed herself in the bathroom, her hands trembling slightly. She set the test on the counter, watching it with a mix of trepidation and hope. Seconds stretched into what felt like hours as she waited, biting her lip, every heartbeat echoing in her ears. Ginny, who had faced down danger, death, and heartbreak, found herself feeling small, vulnerable, and yet brimming with a fragile sense of hope.
When she finally looked down at the test, her breath caught in her throat. It was positive.
She placed a hand over her mouth, her eyes filling with tears as the reality of it began to sink in. She was pregnant. She was actually pregnant. A wave of emotions washed over her—joy, disbelief, excitement, and even fear. She felt the enormity of it all settle over her, a mix of gratitude and apprehension.
Thoughts spun in her mind, faster than she could keep up. She imagined his reaction, wondering how he would respond to the news. She thought of her own parents, of the family she'd come from, and what kind of family they would create together. There was a sudden, fierce protectiveness within her—this tiny life inside her was already so deeply loved, so intensely cherished.
A sense of responsibility wrapped around her like a warm blanket, solid and grounding. She took a long breath, letting herself fully feel the moment, the stillness, the beginning of something entirely new and beautiful.
For a long time, she just sat there in the quiet, her hand resting over her stomach, a small smile playing on her lips. This was her secret, her moment, something that felt so deeply intimate and yet too incredible not to share. The possibilities were endless, the future stretching before her like a path she was ready to walk, one step at a time.
When she finally left the bathroom, she knew her life had just changed in a way that no spell or battle ever could.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the dim, golden light of the Malfoy penthouse dining room, a fragile peace hung in the air, like the final notes of a symphony slowly fading into silence. The room, grand and opulent, was softened by the evening's glow, casting warm hues over the table where remnants of a pleasant meal still lay. The atmosphere had been light, joyful even, a rare moment of laughter and ease shared among friends who had long been haunted by shadows from their past. Yet, an undeniable tension now lingered beneath the surface, settling over them like a dark mist, hinting at the secrets that lay dormant, waiting to be revealed.
Hermione sat propped up in her plush armchair at the head of the table, an armrest beneath her, creating a cocoon of comfort that belied the nerves dancing beneath her skin. Her eyes shifted around the room, taking in each of her companions, their faces softened by the candlelight but tense with anticipation. Lysander, perched in his highchair next to her, was blissfully oblivious to the heavy atmosphere, happily smearing his face and the nearby table with pureed pumpkin. He laughed, a pure, innocent sound that cut through the quiet like a tiny bell, drawing a soft smile from Hermione.
At his feet, Lady Lemongrass, Pansy's beloved pug, snorted in delight, lapping up the bits of food Lysander had sent her way. It was a small, endearing scene, a reminder of the domestic bliss they'd fought to protect. Ginny, seated beside Hermione, chuckled as she reached over to dab Lysander's cheek with a napkin, her red hair glowing in the candlelight. When she looked up and caught Hermione's eye, there was a shared understanding between them, a silent acknowledgment of the trials they had overcome together and the unspoken fears still lurking in their hearts.
Across the table, Pansy and Draco bantered lightly, their words laced with sarcasm and affection that only those closest to them could understand. Pansy, always quick-witted and dramatic, leaned toward Draco with an exaggerated expression, her fingers gesturing in mock exasperation as she playfully scolded him for something trivial. Draco smirked in response, his silver eyes glinting with a rare warmth that softened his usually steely exterior. Even Theo, who was often stoic and guarded, seemed at ease, leaning back in his chair with a faint smile as he observed the others, his hand resting casually on Luna's arm.
But beneath the laughter, Hermione could sense the tension simmering, like a dormant volcano waiting to erupt. The feeling grew as the minutes ticked by, her stomach twisting with a strange premonition. She looked over at Draco, who caught her gaze and held it for a long, intense moment. There was something in his eyes—a flicker of vulnerability, perhaps, or an unspoken warning—that sent a shiver down her spine. Her heartbeat quickened, and she tightened her grip on the stem of her wine glass, bracing herself for what she could sense was coming.
Draco rose from his seat, his face cast in shadow as he lifted his glass, the crystal catching the light and casting small, shimmering reflections across the room. He cleared his throat, and the quiet conversations around the table ceased as everyone turned their attention to him. His posture was tense, his expression unreadable, but his voice carried a solemnity that silenced even Pansy's usual quips.
"A toast," he began, his voice steady but weighted. "To honesty, and to the courage to face the truths we've hidden from ourselves and from each other. Tonight, we stop running. No more secrets." His gaze swept over each of them, lingering on Hermione for a fraction of a second longer, and she felt a strange knot tighten in her chest. "May the truths we uncover tonight bind us closer, or…" His voice softened, a trace of hesitation slipping through. "Or reveal the cracks we've tried so hard to ignore."
There was a collective intake of breath around the table, and Hermione could feel the change in the room, a tangible shift as everyone grasped the weight of Draco's words. The laughter that had filled the room moments before had vanished, replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to magnify every creak of the floorboards, every flicker of the candle flames. Hermione's pulse quickened as she realized that whatever was about to unfold would alter the course of their lives irrevocably.
She glanced over at her, who sat still, her expression unreadable, though her hand had tightened around him. Beside her, his face was set in a mask of calm, but his eyes betrayed a wary vigilance, as if he, too, was steeling himself for the confessions to come. Pansy shifted in her seat, her usual confidence momentarily slipping as she fidgeted with the edge of her napkin, her fingers twisting it into knots. Even Theo, ever the picture of composure, seemed to have lost his usual detachment, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against the table's edge.
"To honesty," she echoed softly, her voice steady but her eyes alight with determination. The words hung in the air like a vow, and Hermione could feel the weight of it pressing down on her. They had been through so much together, and yet, she knew that whatever truths were waiting to be revealed would test their bonds in ways they had never imagined.
One by one, they raised their glasses, the crystalline clink echoing through the room like the toll of a distant bell, a somber chime that sent chills down Hermione's spine. She felt the unease growing within her, a gnawing dread that clawed at her insides as she met Draco's gaze across the table once more. His face was pale, the usual mask of cold composure gone, replaced by an uncharacteristic vulnerability that unnerved her.
The silence stretched on, thick and oppressive, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for the moment when the dam would finally break. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows that danced on the walls, twisting and contorting in eerie shapes, mirroring the secrets that lay buried within each of them. And as the fire crackled softly in the background, Hermione felt a foreboding sense that this moment, this night, would change everything.
Draco cleared his throat again, his gaze sweeping over the table before he finally spoke, his voice a low, almost mournful murmur. "There are things we've all kept hidden, things we've tried to forget or bury, hoping they would disappear with time. But secrets don't fade—they grow, they fester. And tonight, it's time to face them."
Hermione's heart raced, her mind racing through the countless secrets they each harbored, the sins and regrets that had bound them together but had also threatened to tear them apart. She could feel her own past, her own buried pain, rising to the surface like a dark shadow, whispering of mistakes and choices she'd tried so hard to forget.
Around the table, she saw the same unease reflected in the others' eyes. Pansy looked down, her usual bravado stripped away, leaving her looking strangely vulnerable. Theo's jaw was clenched, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the wood. His hand remained tightly clasped with hers, a silent testament to the strength they drew from each other even in moments like this.
Luna, usually so serene, had a faint crease of worry on her brow as she glanced at Theo, her hand resting on his arm in a gesture of quiet support. Lysander, oblivious to the tension in the room, babbled happily in his highchair, a small reminder of the innocence and love that bound them all together, even as their darker truths threatened to pull them apart.
Draco's gaze returned to Hermione, and she felt a surge of something—fear, anticipation, maybe both—as he held her gaze. "No more lies, Hermione," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "No more hiding."
The finality of his words settled over her, heavy and unrelenting, and she knew that there was no turning back. Whatever secrets they were about to lay bare, whatever truths they were about to confront, they would have to face it together. And as the candles flickered and the shadows danced, Hermione braced herself, heart pounding, for the unraveling to come.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His grip tightened on her arm as he pulled her into a shadowed corner of the house. The warmth of his kiss lingered on her lips, laced with a desperation that sent shivers down her spine, his fingers digging into her skin as if afraid she might slip away.
"Baby girl, listen to me," he rasped, his voice rough and urgent. "We've been skirting around this for months, but it can't wait any longer. Not tonight."
She met his gaze, her emerald eyes flickering with a storm of emotions—betrayal, anger, and something darker, a sliver of fear that twisted low in her stomach. Her voice was barely above a whisper, laced with a tremor that even she couldn't fully suppress. "What can't wait?"
He took a ragged breath, his face a mask of conflicting emotions—fear, guilt, and something steely that she hadn't seen before. "The truth, Ginny. You deserve to know everything."
Her eyes narrowed, a bitter laugh escaping her. "Everything about what? Your little… 'business' trips? Disappearing for days on end without a word, leaving me to wonder if you're ever coming back?"
His jaw tightened, his gaze sharp and cold as winter steel. "It's not a business, Mia cara," he bit out, his voice thick with frustration. "It's… it's my life. It's how we survive."
He saw the flicker of pain in her eyes and his voice softened, a weak attempt at comfort in the face of her seething rage. "Look, I know you haven't gotten over the initial shock. Finding out the man you love… the man you thought you knew…" He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, knowing every word fell like an ember on dry leaves.
Her voice was a low, venomous whisper. "Is what? A killer? An assassin?"
He flinched at her words, but forced himself to hold her gaze. "There's more to it than that. But the truth is, my hands aren't clean. And I can't pretend they are any longer."
Her emerald eyes narrowed, hardening into something vicious, a dangerous glint replacing the flicker of hurt he'd seen only moments before. "Is that it? Every fur coat you bring back, every expensive trinket, every luxurious trip—are they all little tributes to your… killings?" Her voice dripped with a cold, cutting fury that sent a chill through him.
His throat tightened. He hadn't intended for her to see him this way, hadn't planned for her to piece it together so vividly. "No, baby, not exactly," he stammered, his voice laced with desperation as he tried to find the words to soften this. "It's… it's not that simple. There are jobs, retrievals, protection details… it's all part of the… the family business."
"Family business?" she spat, voice laced with disbelief and rising anger. "Blaise, we're married! A family business involves running a little shop together, a café, something honest. Not… not disappearing for weeks and coming back smelling of blood and dark magic!"
Her words hit him like stones, and he felt himself shrinking under her glare. But she wasn't done; her anger only intensified, her voice rising to a dangerous pitch. "You lied to me! You pulled me into this hell of yours without a choice, without a single warning. Do you have any idea how horrifying it is to find out that your husband is a murderer? How dare you! How could you look me in the eyes every day and keep this from me?"
The crack in her voice betrayed a deep, raw wound, and he saw tears welling up, a fierce mix of anger and betrayal. She yanked her arm free from his grip, her expression a twisted mask of pain. "I trusted you," she whispered, voice breaking with the weight of her words. "And you shattered that trust with every lie, every single secret. How am I supposed to look at you now and feel anything but disgust?"
He reached for her, but she slapped his hand away, her expression a blistering storm. "Don't touch me," she hissed, her voice ice-cold. "You don't get to make this better with empty words and hollow promises. You made your choice. You hid behind your secrets, knowing it would destroy me if I ever found out."
She turned sharply, and her gaze fell on a porcelain vase—a cherished wedding gift. Without thinking, she grabbed it, her fingers tightening around the smooth, cold surface. With a fierce, angry cry, she threw it to the ground. It shattered, pieces skittering across the floor in a chaotic mess, echoing the rage and heartbreak she couldn't contain.
The silence that followed was thick and bitter, the only sound the soft crackle of her heavy breathing. The shards of porcelain glinted up at her, little daggers of her shattered trust. Tears spilled down her cheeks, but her expression remained fierce, resolute.
Blaise, stunned, watched her, his heart a heavy weight in his chest as he took in the destruction, both in the room and in her eyes. "Ginny… please…" he murmured, desperation roughening his voice. "I never wanted this… I never wanted you to see me like this."
"Too late," she whispered, her voice raw and broken, yet unyielding. "You don't get to rewrite this. You made me love you under a lie. And now? Now you want forgiveness?" She shook her head, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "You don't deserve it. Not after everything you've done."
She turned her back on him, her shoulders trembling with barely contained emotion. He felt the ache of his own heart cracking, but she was shattered, and he knew there were no words left that could reach her through the wreckage.
Selective transparency is not honesty.
And may the fire of who you are burn you alive until you are capable of standing in the fucking truth of it .
The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on them like a curse that neither of them could break. He felt his heart pounding as he looked at her, who was standing just feet away, yet felt miles out of reach. She was glaring at him with such a depth of betrayal and fury that he felt physically sick.
Her voice, though barely more than a whisper, cut through the silence like a blade. "Do you even understand what you've done to me? What have you done to us?"
The venom in her words made him flinch. He opened his mouth to speak, to try to defend himself, but she didn't give him the chance.
"You've spent all this time lying to me, dragging me into your web of secrets, pretending we had something real," she spat, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "And all the while, you've been out there in the shadows, killing and deceiving, thinking I wouldn't find out. Did you really believe I'd never see you for what you truly are?"
He winced, guilt clawing at him. "Baby, please, you have to understand—"
"Understand what?" she snapped, her eyes blazing with fury. "Understand that you're a murderer? That you're willing to risk everything just to keep playing your sick game with these… these people you call 'family?' You don't even know what that word means!"
The room felt small, oppressive, as her words echoed. He took a step toward her, but she backed away, her face twisting with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. She wrapped her arms around herself as though trying to shield herself from the weight of his betrayal.
"Do you even know what you've done to me?" she whispered, her voice raw and breaking. "Do you know how many nights I lay awake, wondering if you were lying in some gutter somewhere, bleeding out, because you couldn't be honest with me? And all the while, you'd come home with those expensive gifts, trying to mask your sins with trinkets, pretending everything was normal."
The rage in her eyes shifted, replaced by something colder, harder. Her next words came out in a strangled whisper. "And now, you've made it even more impossible."
He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, the dread creeping up his spine. "What… what do you mean?" he stammered, his voice barely audible.
She hesitated, and for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability flashed across her face. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a steely resolve that sent a chill through him. She drew in a shuddering breath and met his gaze head-on, her expression unyielding.
"I'm pregnant, Blaise."
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp, like a guillotine poised to drop. He felt the ground shift beneath him, his mind struggling to process the revelation. Pregnant? The word echoed in his mind, each syllable weighted with implications he hadn't allowed himself to consider.
A look of horror crossed his face, and he reached out instinctively, but she jerked away, her eyes blazing. "Don't you dare touch me," she hissed, venom dripping from each word. "Don't you dare act like you care now, as if suddenly, we mean something more than just another secret to keep hidden away!"
"Ginny, please…" His voice cracked, the weight of her words pressing down on him, suffocating. "I didn't know… I didn't—"
"Of course you didn't know!" she snapped, her voice rising. "How could you? You're too busy playing your twisted games, wrapped up in this dark, pathetic empire you call a 'family.'" Her eyes narrowed, the intensity of her gaze scorching him. "This baby is real. We are real. And you're standing here, telling me I should just accept this hell of a life you've dragged us into?"
Her hands were shaking now, her fingers curling into fists as she struggled to control the fury that radiated off her in waves. "Our child deserves better. Our child deserves a life, a safe home, a father who isn't some shadowy figure slipping out in the night to kill whoever's next on his list. Do you think I want to raise a child who lives in fear? Who never knows if their father will come home?"
His voice was a tortured rasp as he tried to respond. "Ginny, I—there's no way out of this. My family… they don't just let people go. They don't give second chances."
She laughed bitterly, the sound devoid of any warmth. "So that's it, then? You're too much of a coward to fight for us? To fight for your own child?"
The accusation hit him like a physical blow, and he felt himself stagger under the weight of it. But she wasn't finished.
"You stand here and tell me about loyalty, about family, but what about this family? What about me? What about this baby?" She placed a trembling hand on her stomach, the gesture so vulnerable, so heartbreaking, that he felt his throat tighten. "Do we mean so little to you? Are we just… collateral damage?"
He reached for her again, but she recoiled, her eyes flashing. "You don't get to play the victim here. You don't get to stand there and make excuses while I try to figure out how to keep our child safe from the life you chose."
He took a step back, the magnitude of her words crashing over him. He felt as if he were drowning, his mind reeling, but he knew she was right. He had chosen this life, had let himself be ensnared by the darkness, and now it was threatening to consume everything he loved.
"Baby girl," he choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "I… I'll find a way. I'll find a way to make this work."
Her laugh was hollow, mocking, and he could see the pain etched into every line of her face. "You think you can just say that, and everything will magically fix itself? You've torn us apart. Piece by piece, with every lie, every secret. And now, you're telling me you'll just 'figure it out'? That's not enough."
He stood there, frozen, as she continued, her voice a haunting whisper. "I won't let you drag this child into your world of shadows and death. I won't let you destroy them the way you've destroyed me. So you make a choice, right here, right now. Us, or that twisted family of yours."
He stared at her, the weight of her ultimatum pressing down on him like a physical force. His entire life had been built around loyalty to his family, around the legacy that had been passed down to him. But now, standing here, faced with the woman he loved, carrying his child… he felt that foundation crumbling.
"Ginny… I…There's no escaping this."
Her face twisted in disgust. "Then at least have the decency to be honest about what you're choosing," she spat. "Because it's clear to me now. You'd rather keep your place in that blood-soaked family than protect the life we could have together."
She turned away, her shoulders tense, her voice trembling as she spoke. "I don't know what hurts more. That you lied to me, or that, even now, you won't fight for us."
He reached for her one last time, desperate, pleading. "Ginny… please…"
But she shook her head, stepping out of his reach. "You've made your choice."
With a final, heart-wrenching look, she turned and walked away, leaving him standing alone amidst the shattered remnants of their life together.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hermione fidgeted in her chair, the joyous atmosphere of the reunion dinner a distant memory. The sounds of muffled shouts echoed from the bedroom, punctuated by a strangled cry from upstairs. A sickening crash resonated from the hallway, followed by a string of furious curses that would make Kreacher blush.
Her gaze darted towards Draco, his face etched with a grim determination that sent shivers down her spine. It wasn't just the anger that coiled around him like a venomous snake, but a cold, practiced efficiency that spoke of a man who had faced similar situations before, and emerged bloodied but unbroken.
"Draco," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the commotion, "are you sure about this? Maybe there was another way…"
Draco reached for her hand, his touch a grounding force amidst the growing chaos. "My love," he said, his voice low and steady, "there's no turning back now. They all deserve to know the truth. It's the only way to ensure something like this… never happens again."
He squeezed her hand gently, his eyes flickering with a flicker of apprehension that mirrored her own. "Look," he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we knew there would be… resistance. But hopefully, once the initial shock wears off, they'll see reason."
Ginny didn't see reason. She didn't see hope. All she saw was Draco Ferret Malfoy.
With each measured step towards the dining room, the fury in her eyes intensified, a wildfire threatening to consume her. Reaching the doorway, she stopped, not to gather her composure, but to savor the dramatic effect.
"Draco Malfoy," she hissed, her voice laced with enough venom to petrify a troll. "You dare speak of reason? You, whose family motto might as well be 'Death and Destruction for Dummies'?" A humorless laugh, sharp and brittle, escaped her lips. "Resistance? You call this resistance? This is what you dragged me into? This clandestine, pathetic little rebellion?"
She scanned the room, taking in the bewildered face of Hermione, who looked ready to faint at the sight of her blazing fury. "You want me to see reason? Look around you, Malfoy! Look at the terror you've instilled in these people! This is your legacy – fear, not freedom!"
Her gaze snapped back to Draco, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "You took away my Fred, you took away my family," she choked out, a single tear tracing a fiery path down her cheek. "And now, you want to take away their future? All because you can't seem to escape the shadow of your Death Eater father? Well, let me tell you something, Malfoy," she snarled, her voice cracking with barely contained rage, "you may be a Malfoy, but you'll never be a leader. All you are is a pale imitation, a wannabe revolutionary clinging to the coattails of a ghost."
Hermione flinched, the accusation a fresh wound on top of the confusion already swirling in her gut.
"Ginny, wait!" she called out, her voice small in the wake of her fury. "It's not that simple."
She spun on her heel, her emerald eyes blazing with a fire that chilled Hermione to the bone. "Not that simple?" she shrieked. "He disappears for weeks on end, comes back smelling like a graveyard, and you tell me it's not that simple? Did he tell you about the bodies, Hermione? About the bloodstains he can't quite seem to wash away?"
Her voice softened, a sliver of vulnerability peeking through the rage. "Blaise… he's a good man, Hermione. At least, he used to be. But this? This family business you keep defending? It's turning him into a monster. And you," she pointed an accusing finger at Hermione, her voice trembling, "you're enabling him!"
Tears welled up in her eyes, brimming with a cocktail of betrayal, fear, and a fierce love for the man caught in the crossfire. "He has a choice, Hermione. He can choose THE family, or us. But you… you seem content to stand by your piece of shit dog and watch him drown in his darkness."
The raw pain in her voice struck a chord deep within Hermione. Looking at him, his face ashen and his shoulders slumped in defeat, she realized she wasn't entirely wrong.
"Ginerva please," Draco drawled, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Don't play the wide-eyed ingénue. The Zabinis? They've been neck-deep in bloodshed for centuries. Saint Blaise? More like Saint Butcher. Your precious husband was a murderer long before he ever crossed paths with me. This darkness? It's woven into the very fabric of his family tapestry."
He leaned closer, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "Did he ever tell you about the fun little 'accidents' that kept the Zabini coffers overflowing? Or maybe he prefers to keep his trophies hidden under that greasy charm of his."
His voice dropped to a venomous hiss. "Don't delude yourself, Weasley. Your perfect husband is just as good at playing pretend as you are. He may smile and bring you trinkets, but beneath that veneer lies a monster you wouldn't recognize. A monster you probably wouldn't mind taming, considering your taste in broken things."
Her face contorted in a mask of fury, her emerald eyes blazing with a fire that could rival a phoenix's. "Don't you dare," she spat, her voice a feral growl. "Don't you dare speak of him like that! He may not be a saint, but at least he doesn't slither around in the shadows like a malnourished ferret, his every action dictated by a daddy with a reputation for torture!"
"Threats, Malfoy? You wouldn't know a real threat if it Avada'd you from behind. Maybe you should worry about the crumbling foundation of your own ancestral home before you try to lecture me on mine. Because unlike you, Draco Malfoy, I will protect my family. Even from overgrown schoolyard bullies with delusions of grandeur and a desperate need to cling to the coattails of a Dark Lord whose shadow will forever stain your pathetic existence."
"And what about you, Granger?" She shrieked, her voice strained with a mix of fury and hurt. "After everything? After I spent months holding your hand, this is how you repay me? After I wiped your ass for months while you were busy mooning over your precious ferret-faced husband?"
Draco bristled at the blatant disrespect towards Hermione, his own voice laced with icy contempt. "Ginerva, enough of this Gryffindor theatrics," he sneered. "Don't you dare talk about my wife like that. We all know Weasley heroics are best left in the past, along with your precious brothers who couldn't defend themselves from a rogue bludger."
Her face contorted in a mask of fury hotter than a fiendfyre. "Heroics? You wouldn't know heroism if it confunded you straight into the Chamber of Secrets! You spent your entire life hiding behind your daddy's robes, while I was out there facing Death Eaters, not waltzing around like a pampered peacock with a superiority complex the size of Hogwarts!"
She took a menacing step forward, her voice a low growl. "And don't you dare lecture me about loyalty, Malfoy. Your wife, your precious Granger, couldn't stay loyal to a cause for a single school year, let alone a husband. Just like you, she's a traitor who betrayed her friends and her ideals for a seat at the Slytherin high table."
A dangerous glint flickered in her emerald eyes. "Perhaps you two deserve each other. A pair of self-serving people, more concerned with power and prestige than anything resembling decency. You with your delusions of a pureblood utopia and your wife with her insatiable thirst for knowledge that always seems to lead her down the most self-righteous path."
Draco's face flushed a deep crimson, his sneer replaced by a grimace. "At least my wife possesses an intellect that rivals her morals, Weasley. You may have had your five minutes of fame during the war, Weasley, but those days are over. Now all you have left is the bitter taste of defeat and the desperate need to cling to the ghost of a lost brother."
A choked sob escaped her lips, a heartbreaking counterpoint to the fury in her eyes. With a feral snarl, she lunged for Draco, her hand raised high, aiming for a stinging slap across his smug face. But vengeance was ripped from her grasp.
A flash of crimson light filled the room, not from her wand, but from Hermione's. "Stupefy!" she shouted, her voice hoarse with a mixture of anger and despair. The spell hit her squarely in the chest, sending her flying backwards.
She crumpled onto the threadbare rug, the breath knocked out of her lungs. Her emerald eyes, wide with shock and betrayal, locked onto Hermione's face. Tears, a treacherous mix of fury and hurt, streamed down her cheeks, blurring her vision.
A commotion erupted upstairs, a flurry of movement and startled shouts. Couples surged down the stairs, their faces etched with confusion and alarm. Luna and Theo, who had been a picture of domestic bliss moments ago, appeared at the landing, their entwined hands now slack at their sides. Their expressions mirrored the shock that contorted Neville and Pansy's faces. Just seconds earlier, they had been locked in a tearful embrace, their shared grief replaced by a stunned silence.
In the center of the room, Hermione and Draco stood frozen, their gazes fixed on Ginerva. She lay sprawled on the threadbare rug, her fiery hair a stark contrast to the pale floor. Tears streamed down her face, blurring her vision as she looked up at Hermione with a mixture of betrayal and disbelief. The crimson light from Hermione's wand seemed to burn a hole into the scene, a stark reminder of the fractured peace that had just shattered.
Hades and Persephone.
Draco, his jaw clenched tight, finally spoke. His voice, laced with a bitter edge, cut through the room.
"Well," he drawled, his eyes flickering between her tear-stained face and the stunned expressions of the others, "that was certainly a… productive way to handle things. Perhaps everyone else managed to keep their emotions in check, unlike some of us."
Draco's hand tightened around Hermione's, his knuckles white against her skin. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a low growl, devoid of its usual bravado.
"Tonight," he began, each word measured and laced with a chilling purpose, "we don't seek justice. We seek vengeance." All eyes locked on him, the weight of his declaration a physical presence in the room.
"Jelena Karkaroff," he continued, his jaw clenched tight. "The woman who dared to harm the woman I love." A possessive glint flickered in his eyes, a stark contrast to the cold fury that simmered beneath the surface.
"An eye for an eye," he said, his voice hardening like steel. "That's the game we play now." The possessive hand around Hermione tightened, a silent vow of protection that resonated in the tense silence.
"Igor is in Romania, hiding in the shadows like the coward he is," Draco spat, the word laced with venom. "We'll smoke him out." He scanned the room, his gaze meeting each pair of eyes, a silent challenge.
"Form groups," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Find Igor Karkaroff. This is not a request. This is my order, and we do not fail those we love."
The air crackled with a dark energy, a chilling resolve emanating from Draco, a man driven by a love as fierce as his wrath.
Luna's usually ethereal demeanor took on a darker edge as she devised a plan to track down Igor Karkaroff using magical creatures. Meanwhile, Pansy meticulously gathered her poisons and vials, each one carefully selected for its potency. Neville, summoning his Gryffindor bravery, chose a gleaming sword from his collection, ready to face whatever dangers lay ahead. Theo and Blaise were deep in their armory, preparing their weapons with practiced precision.
Amidst the bustle, Draco and Hermione stood together, exchanging tender glances, their connection a stark contrast to the tense preparations around them. Their silent, lovesick gaze spoke volumes in the midst of the chaos.
The group readied themselves for what promised to be a bloodbath. Neville, no longer the shy boy he once was, stood with a fierce determination in his eyes. He had transformed into a man willing to use any means necessary, even illegal spells, to protect Hermione and his beloved wife.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pansy stayed with Luna and Hermione to escalate the situation with Ginny.
After Draco and the others took the portkey to Budapest, the girls worked together to help her regain consciousness.
Hermione, her expression resolute despite the turmoil around her, knelt by her side. "Ginny, wake up," she urged, her voice gentle yet firm.
Luna, her usual ethereal calm replaced by a rare intensity, waved her wand over her, murmuring a soft incantation. "She'll come around soon," she said, her voice steady.
Pansy, her demeanor uncharacteristically serious, stood nearby with her arms crossed. "When she does, we need to make sure she understands everything," Pansy said. "We can't afford any more misunderstandings."
She stirred, a low moan escaping her lips. Slowly, she opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh light. "Hermione?" she whispered, confusion clouding her gaze.
Hermione squeezed her hand reassuringly. "It's okay, Gin. You're safe."
Her eyes flickered with recognition, then widened with a surge of anger. "Safe? You call this safe?" she spat, struggling to sit up. "My life is falling apart because of you! Everything is your fault, Hermione, since the day I met you in school, everything is your fault."
"Ginny, please," Hermione pleaded, her voice trembling.
"NO!" she shouted, her voice breaking with emotion. "Every bad thing that happened to Harry and Ron is your fault. Everything that happened during the war, and my Fred's death—it's all in your hands."
"Started with me?" Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. "Gin, I don't understand."
"Don't you dare play dumb!" Dhe spat. "Remember first year? You waltz into Hogwarts with your bushy hair and know-it-all attitude, stealing the attention like a siren. Suddenly, Harry's only interested in what Hermione Granger has to say, not Ginny Weasley." Her voice cracked slightly, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the anger.
"That's not true," Hermione countered gently. "We were all just kids then, learning the ropes. Harry valued your friendship too."
She scoffed. "Maybe. But then came the Triwizard Tournament. You were all for Harry entering that death trap! Didn't you care about the danger? What if he hadn't come back? What if I'd lost him too?" A choked sob escaped her lips as she remembered the terror of that year.
"We were worried sick about Harry," Hermione admitted, her voice softening. "But we never thought…"
"Then came the fight between Ron and Harry," she interrupted, her voice gaining momentum. "Fourth year, the Yule Ball, all that mess. You were supposed to be their friend, Hermione, but you let everything explode. Didn't you ever think about how it affected the rest of us?"
Hermione flinched, a pang of guilt twisting in her gut. "Of course I did! But sometimes friendships go through rough patches. We all make mistakes."
"Maybe," she conceded, "but it always felt like there was this inner circle – you, Ron, and Harry. Planning, strategizing, keeping secrets. While the rest of us, me included, just… existed on the periphery." Her voice was laced with bitterness.
"That's not fair," Hermione pleaded. "We included you whenever we could. Remember the Chamber of Secrets? You were a target, possessed by that awful diary. If it wasn't for Harry…"
She cut her off with a sharp shake of her head. "Don't you see? All this danger, this war… it stole my childhood, Hermione. Stole Fred! Maybe if you hadn't been so focused on fighting the good fight, on following Dumbledore blindly, things would have been different!"
Tears streamed down her face now, a raw torrent of long-suppressed emotions. "And now you! You dragged me into this mess with Malfoy, and look where it landed me. He changed, Hermione. There's darkness in him, a darkness you seem content to ignore because it fits your narrative."
Hermione stood there, tears silently sliding Tears streamed down her face, her voice raw with barely contained emotion. Downward spirals are messy, and her anger was a torrent threatening to drown them all.
Hermione slumped slightly in her chair, unable to form a coherent defense. The weight of her accusations, a culmination of years of unspoken hurt, felt like a crushing blow.
Luna, ever the voice of reason, surprised them both. Her voice, usually laced with ethereal calm, was now firm, tinged with a fierceness they hadn't witnessed before. "That's enough, Ginny," she said, her eyes flashing with a newfound intensity. "We've all lost people we love. Blaming Hermione won't bring them back. It won't bring Fred back."
She recoiled slightly at the mention of her brother, a flicker of pain momentarily eclipsing the fury in her eyes.
But the anger quickly reignited. "No, Luna!" she shouted, her voice rising with renewed fury. "My husband and all the men are gone, just to save Hermione's golden hide! What's so special about your cunt, huh? Why does everyone bend over backwards for the brightest witch of her age?"
The venom in her voice hung heavy in the air. Pansy, who had been a silent observer until now, uncrossed her arms and spoke with a surprising calmness that contrasted sharply with her tirade.
The room seemed to hold its breath as her words hung in the air, a bitter echo of her pain. Hermione's eyes widened, her face pale, unable to respond.
Before anyone could react, she spun on her heel and apparated away, the crack of her departure leaving an oppressive silence in its wake.
Luna sighed, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. "She's hurting," she whispered, her voice thick with empathy. "We all are."
Pansy, uncharacteristically subdued, crossed her arms. "Doesn't excuse the outburst," she muttered, her gaze flickering to Hermione.
Hermione stood frozen, a tapestry of emotions swirling on her face. Guilt gnawed at her insides, her words echoing in her mind.
"Maybe it is too much," she choked out, a tear escaping her eye. "Maybe I am the reason they're all in danger." Luna shook her head firmly. "No, Mimi. They're doing it because they care about you. Because you're part of the family."
Pansy nodded, her voice softer now. "We need to stay strong, for them and for ourselves. Ginny will come around. She just needs time."
Hermione nodded, wiping away her tears. "We have to keep going. For all of us."
As they stood together, the strength of their bond became their anchor, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. The resolve to protect and support each other solidified, forging an unbreakable alliance in the face of their shared trials.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Landing on the cobblestones, Blaise looked around, his breath visible in the chilly night air. The dimly lit street stretched out to his right, the flickering lamps casting long shadows. He had an address in mind, a safe haven in the labyrinth of the downtown backstreets.
He moved swiftly, his steps echoing softly against the cobblestones. The address belonged to an old friend, a trusted ally from his darker days. Reaching the modest townhouse, he knocked on the door, his knuckles rapping against the aged wood with a sense of urgency. Minutes passed with no response. He knocked again, louder this time, but the house remained silent. Frustration gnawed at him. He knew he couldn't stay exposed in the open for long."Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath. His plan was unraveling before it even began.
The crisp mountain air of Hargita-Băi stung Draco's lungs as he stepped into the dense forest. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the thick canopy overhead, casting long, eerie shadows across the forest floor. Blaise and Theo flanked him, their expressions grim as they surveyed their surroundings.
"Any sign of him?" Theo asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Draco shook his head, his gaze darting nervously between the gnarled trees. "Not yet. But this place…" he trailed off, the unsettling quiet pressing down on him. An unnatural stillness hung in the air, broken only by the occasional snap of a twig or the rustle of unseen creatures in the undergrowth.
"Feels wrong, doesn't it?" he muttered, pulling his cloak tighter around him. "Like the magic here is… twisted."
A shiver ran down Draco's spine. He wasn't one to shy away from the darker corners of the magical world, but there was something about Hargita-Băi that felt different, more malevolent. Perhaps it was the lingering knowledge of the dark rituals rumored to have been practiced here in centuries past, or maybe it was the weight of their mission – vengeance against a woman who had sought to harm his love.
Suddenly, a loud screech echoed through the trees, sending a flock of crows scattering into the twilight. Draco instinctively reached for his wand, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Just a bird," Theo said dismissively, but his hand hovered near his own wand.
"Maybe," Draco replied, his voice tense. "But keep your eyes peeled. This place seems to be teeming with… something."
They continued deeper into the forest, the silence pressing in on them, broken only by the occasional rustle or crack. The air grew colder, and the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled their nostrils. The further they ventured, the more twisted and gnarled the trees became, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, clawing at the sky.
"There," he hissed, pointing towards a clearing ahead. In the center stood a dilapidated cabin, its windows dark and boarded up. Smoke curled from a crooked chimney, the only sign of life in this desolate place.
Draco's breath hitched. A cold certainty settled in his gut – they had found Karkaroff. This was the place where Hermione's would-be murderer lay in hiding.
Now came the hard part – extracting their vengeance.
A wry smile played on Theo's lips. "About time, Neville," he chuckled, his grip tightening around the worn hilt of his sword. The years of relentless Herbology studies had transformed him, but his Gryffindor courage still burned bright. Here, in this remote village nestled amidst an unsettling forest, he had a chance to prove himself worthy, not just to his friends, but to himself.
The white church, once a symbol of hope, now seemed strangely out of place next to the dilapidated house spewing ominous smoke. It was a stark reminder of the corrupting influence of dark magic, even in the most unexpected corners.
Neville adjusted the straps of his pack, ensuring his arsenal of magical plants was readily accessible. He'd spent countless hours researching obscure flora with Professor Sprout, learning their unique properties and potential applications in combat. Today, that knowledge might be the difference between victory and defeat.
"Remember the plan," Draco said, his voice low and steely. "We take Karkaroff by surprise. No time for theatrics. Theo and I will disarm him, Blaise will watch the perimeter, and Neville…" Draco's gaze met Neville's, a flicker of respect replacing his usual indifference. "You'll handle any… surprises Karkaroff might have lurking in the shadows."
Neville straightened his back, a surge of determination coursing through him. "Ready when you are," he replied, his voice firm.
With a silent nod from Draco, they crept towards the house, their movements cloaked in the shadows cast by the encroaching darkness. The rhythmic creak of the old wooden door and the faint glow emanating from a single cracked window were the only sounds that disturbed the eerie silence.
As they neared the porch, a low growl erupted from within the house, a sound that sent shivers down Neville's spine. It wasn't human. Whatever lurked inside with Karkaroff, it wasn't something they'd anticipated.
Neville's hand instinctively reached for the pouch containing powdered Dittany, a potent healing agent – just in case.
A tense silence descended, broken only by the ragged breaths of the approaching group. Neville's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the stillness.
This was it. The moment of truth. He was no longer the shy boy who couldn't remember a simple charm. He was Neville Longbottom, and he was here to fight.
But the fight wasn't what he expected. As they burst through the creaking door, a hulking creature lunged from the shadows. It was a monstrous boar, its tusks gleaming wickedly in the dim light. Karkaroff, pale and sweating, scrambled back in fear, his wand clattering to the floor.
Theo and Blaise reacted instinctively, disarming Karkaroff before he could reach his wand. But Neville's focus was solely on the enraged beast. Adrenaline surged through him, sharpening his senses. He remembered Professor Sprout's lessons on Mooncalf aggression – how they were soothed by calming scents. Thinking fast, he rummaged through his pack, pulling out a vial of lavender essence.
With a deep breath, Neville tossed the vial at the boar's feet. The creature, momentarily stunned by the sudden fragrance, hesitated in its charge. Seizing the opportunity, Neville lunged forward, not with the grace of a skilled swordsman, but with the raw courage of a Gryffindor. He parried a vicious swipe of the boar's tusk, then used his knowledge of Herbology to his advantage.
Spotting a clump of Devil's Snare growing in the corner, he yanked a length of the vine with surprising strength and entangled the boar's legs.
The enraged creature squealed in frustration, struggling against the constricting vines. With a final heave, Neville managed to trip the boar, sending it crashing to the ground with a thud. He stood there, chest heaving, his sword pointed at the subdued beast.
Silence descended upon the room, broken only by Karkaroff's ragged breaths.
They stared at Neville with a mixture of surprise and grudging respect. Even Draco's eyes held a flicker of something that might have been admiration. In that moment, Neville Longbottom wasn't just the Herbology prodigy anymore. He was a warrior, a protector, and a testament to the power of courage that resided within him.
Neville's grip tightened around his sweat-slick sword hilt.
He wasn't sure what awaited him outside, but the chilling finality in Draco's voice sent a shiver down his spine. Loyalty warred with unease, the weight of their mission pressing down on him.
"What about Karkaroff?" he managed, his voice hoarse. Leaving the former Headmaster with Draco and the others, especially after witnessing that monstrous creature, felt wrong.
A flicker of something akin to respect crossed Draco's face, a stark contrast to his usual Malfoy sneer. "We'll handle him," Draco said curtly. "Just… go. Clear your head."
Neville hesitated for a moment longer, his gaze lingering on the subdued boar and the disarmed Karkaroff. Finally, with a deep breath, he nodded curtly and turned towards the doorway. As he stepped outside, the heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the oppressive silence.
He found himself standing on a creaky wooden porch, bathed in the cool moonlight filtering through the dense canopy. The crisp mountain air stung his lungs, a stark contrast to the stale, fear-tinged atmosphere within the house. Distant sounds of the forest – the rustling of leaves, the hooting of an owl – seemed amplified in the sudden quiet.
Neville leaned against the rough wooden railing, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He wasn't naive.
He knew what awaited Karkaroff inside. Vengeance, swift and merciless. A part of him, the Gryffindor part, recoiled from the violence. But another part, the part that ached for his parents and all the others lost to the war, understood the thirst for justice, even if it came at a dark price.
He closed his eyes, the image of Hermione's face flashing before him. Her unwavering belief in him, her fierce loyalty, fueled a surge of determination within him. He may not have been a part of what was happening inside, but he would ensure their mission's success. He would protect Hermione and his wife, no matter the cost.
Taking a deep breath, Neville straightened his back and squared his shoulders. He may not have been able to fight with herbs this time, but the lessons learned, the courage ignited, would stay with him. He was Neville Longbottom, a Gryffindor, and he would stand strong, ready for whatever came next.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The air crackled with a different kind of tension now. Luna and Lysander, thankfully, remained blissfully unaware, their rhythmic breathing a stark contrast to the scene that unfolded before Pansy and Hermione. The silence that followed the apparition was deafening, broken only by the soft clinking of a glass as Pansy set it down with a trembling hand.
Their gazes fell upon Draco, their initial relief at his safe return morphing into horror as they took in the macabre spectacle. He stood there, an unsettling stillness radiating from him. Blood, a sickening crimson, soaked his clothes and dripped from his hands, one of which held a grisly trophy – Karkaroff's severed head, its eyes wide with a permanent, silent scream.
Hermione lurched forward, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. The image that met her eyes threatened to shatter her. This wasn't the determined Draco she thought she was fighting alongside. This was a monster, a chilling reflection of the very darkness they were trying to vanquish.
Her voice, when it came, was a mere whisper, laced with a tremor of fear. "Draco… what have you done?"
Pansy, usually so composed, seemed to shrink under the weight of the moment. Her face, drained of color, mirrored the horror dawning on Hermione's. This wasn't vengeance; this was cold-blooded murder, and the implications sent a shiver down her spine.
Draco, however, remained unmoved. His gaze was distant, as if he were lost in a world only he could see. He raised the severed head, its lifeless eyes staring vacantly, and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion.
"Justice has been served," he said, the words echoing hollowly in the tense silence.
Pansy, as if sensing his return, practically leaped out of her chair. Her usual poise was replaced by a frantic desperation as she flew into his arms.
"Neville, my love, are you alright?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Neville met her embrace with a measured calmness that surprised him. He held her close, a silent promise of protection in the face of the storm brewing around them.
Across the room, Draco stood like a statue, Karkaroff's head still dangling from his hand.
His earlier detachment had given way to a chilling emptiness in his eyes.
"I should've brought you trophies as well, home sooner," Draco murmured, his voice barely a whisper. Was it a genuine apology or a twisted justification for his actions? It was impossible to tell.
Theo, with a faint grimace, used a silent charm to levitate Luna and Lysander, their peaceful slumber undisturbed. They drifted upwards, glowing faintly in the moonlight filtering through the window, before he gently deposited them in the guest bedroom.
Blaise broke the silence. "Where's Ginny?" he asked, his voice laced with worry. His wife, usually calm and collected, wouldn't just disappear.
Pansy, drained from the emotional rollercoaster of the evening, sighed. "She had a… meltdown," she said, choosing her words carefully. "Big one. Apparated out of here in a huff."
His face hardened. The news of her outburst clearly struck a chord. Without a word, he rose from his chair, his cloak billowing around him. A crack echoed in the room as he Disapparated, his destination likely.
The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, its warmth a stark contrast to the chilling scene before them. Hermione stood there, alone with Draco, the severed head of Karkaroff, a grotesque centerpiece on the table. The air crackled with unspoken words, the weight of the night pressing down on them.
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Hermione spoke. "The head," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Toss it in the fire. Get rid of it."
Draco turned towards her, his face an unreadable mask. He picked up the head by its hair, the lifeless eyes staring vacantly. For a moment, Hermione thought she saw a flicker of something akin to satisfaction in his gaze, a dark thrill that sent shivers down her spine.
"Thank you, sweetness," she said finally, the words catching in her throat. "For taking care of things."
A wry smile played on Draco's lips, a chilling counterpoint to the sincerity in her voice. "Anything for you, my love," he replied, his voice laced with a hint of something that could have been devotion or something far more dangerous.
He strode towards the fireplace, the head dangling from his hand like a macabre trophy. As he tossed it into the flames, a wave of heat rolled out, momentarily obscuring their faces. When the flames subsided, only ashes remained, a silent testament to the brutality that had transpired.