"The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he's in prison."
The quote had taken root in her mind, looping quietly, never loud, never gone. It curled under her ribs at night when his arm settled around her waist, warm and heavy, like tenderness pretending not to weigh anything at all.
She remembered the book it came from. Something Muggle. Something Hermione had handed her years ago, back when they still traded book titles over tea. Back before the silence. Before the distance. When they had trusted each other enough to be honest.
Back then, the phrase had felt clever. A metaphor. Not personal. Not real. Certainly not something that would sink its teeth into her years later, long after she'd stopped noticing the way the house hummed with spells meant to keep her safe and still.
But standing now in the bright hush of the kitchen, the sun painting dappled patterns through the leaded glass, she understood it. Not in theory. Not in language. In her bones.
Everything looked so perfect from the outside. The estate. The coffee. The man beside her with his polished smile and perfect control. The child who ran barefoot through corridors longer than some streets. But inside, where it mattered, she had been still for too long. Four years in the same home. The same marriage. The same rhythm.
The early years had felt like a dream. Lavish, dizzying, golden. He had adored her then. Touched her like she might vanish. Loved her like she belonged to no one else.
She hadn't noticed how small the rooms felt until she stopped floating.
At first, the cage had been lined with silk. Now it was layered with memories, some good enough to make her stay, some sharp enough to make her bleed.
What had shifted? What had made the thought of leaving him no longer feel like freedom but like grief?
Valerius, of course.
Their son had changed everything.
He was the piece of Blaise that was soft. The proof that some part of him could still be good. Val was all curls and chaos, all laughter and wide, bright eyes that knew nothing of war or compromise. He loved his father with a ferocity that startled her. That child would walk through fire for Blaise. And Blaise? He would carry the whole world on his back for that boy.
She watched them sometimes with a strange ache building in her chest. Blaise on the rug with their son curled against him, reading a story with more animation than he gave to most people. Val clutching his shirt like an anchor. Blaise pressing a kiss to the crown of his head without even thinking.
It wasn't fake. None of it was. That was what made it worse. That love was real. And it didn't belong to her.
She forgave him so many things for that.
But her own reasons? Her own tether?
Pansy had offered her a way out once.
Ginny had considered it. Long and hard.
The night after the fight she had stood in the bathroom, staring into the mirror. The vial cold in her hand. One sip and it would be done. No more questions. No more weight.
He had been sleeping down the hall. Not an arm's reach away. Breathing steady. Completely unaware.
She had looked herself in the eye and tried to picture a future without him in it. No footsteps echoing down the corridor. No familiar scent on the sheets. No hand at the small of her back. Just silence. And space. And time.
It should have been a relief.
But her fingers had shaken. Her chest had gone tight. And somewhere in her mind, beneath all the noise, something soft had whispered his name like it was a lifeline.
She poured the poison down the sink.
Then she climbed into bed beside him, curled into the shape of his body like she had every night since the day she said yes, and closed her eyes.
Because she loved him.
And not in a way that made sense. Not with reason. The kind of love that held her hostage with hands that only ever felt warm.
She didn't know if that meant she had never really been free.
And maybe that was the worst part.
She wasn't even sure she wanted to be.
Now he lay curled against her chest with a closeness that felt almost unreal, his body pressed so tightly to hers it seemed as if he wanted to disappear inside her, to crawl beneath her ribs and live where her heartbeat could drown out every memory that had nearly killed him. His arms wrapped around her with a grip that bordered on painful.
There was nothing gentle in the way he held on. It was a desperate clutch, a man clinging to the only thing that still felt solid after the world had tried to hollow him out. She could feel every tremor that ran through him, every shaky breath that caught in his throat.
And she did not ask him to loosen his hold. She let him cling. She let him bury his face in the warm curve of her neck. She let the shudder in his shoulders settle slowly against her skin.
She was shaking too, not as visibly, but deep in the place where fear coils when someone you love is nearly taken from you. The weight of him pressed against her pulled her out of the dark corners of her mind, kept her from falling into the memory of what she had seen only hours earlier.
She had found him hanging like a nightmare made flesh. His body limp beside Theo's. Blood smeared across skin that looked too pale, too cold, too far from life. The bruises on his throat had spoken of hands that had meant to silence him forever.
She knew that vision would never leave her. It lived behind her eyes now, sharp and permanent, something she would carry into every future moment whether she wanted to or not. She had not even screamed when she reached them. Her voice had vanished inside her own chest, trapped by terror so strong it felt like someone had pressed a hand over her mouth and another around her heart.
He had not looked alive when she touched him. He had looked like a warning carved from flesh, another body to bury, another scar to carry. And yet he was here now. Warm. Breathing. Trembling like someone dragged back from a world where no one returns. His grip on her was the grip of a man who feared what would happen if he let go. As if loosening his hold for even a heartbeat might drop him back into that place where a rope dug into his throat and his life slipped away inch by inch.
She wanted to tell him he was safe, but her voice felt too fragile to trust. Words seemed too breakable, too small to carry something as heavy as her relief. So she kept her fingers in his hair and let the rhythm of her touch say everything she could not.
Her thoughts swirled without direction. Grief tangled with fury and relief until she could not tell one from the other. She wanted to cry and scream and strike something solid until her palms split. She wanted to tear the world apart for what it had done to him, for daring to touch what she loved so violently.
A decision settled inside her in that moment. It grounded itself deep, in a place she did not usually let anything reach.
No one was ever going to get close enough to hurt him again. She would keep him beside her from now on, close enough that she could feel the rise and fall of his breathing.
She would not let him out of her sight. Not for a day. Not for a night. Not even for a short conversation in another room. The thought of losing him again turned her stomach in a way that made her feel both sick and fiercely protective.
He held her as if she was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world, and in a way, she felt the same. If she could have tied him to her, she would have. Not out of a need to control, but because of the raw fear that had carved itself into her bones when she found him hanging there. A fear that had changed her understanding of what it meant to keep someone safe. What it meant to love someone so deeply that losing them would shatter something you could never rebuild.
She knew now how fragile love could be. How it could be snatched away in a single violent moment. How quickly a person could go from warm and alive to hanging silently between life and death. She did not bother pretending she would handle another loss with grace. She would not survive it. She knew that with certainty.
Her hand kept moving through his hair. Slow. Steady. A rhythm that kept her from collapsing into the storm inside her chest.
Her mind refused to settle. Images flickered too fast. His lifeless body. His trembling frame now. The silence in his breath when she found him. The desperate sounds he made now, quiet and uneven, pressed into her neck. She felt rage twist inside her. A cold, steady anger aimed at anyone who had dared to touch him. No one had the right to hurt him. No one had the right to reduce him to a dying breath. No one had the right to hang him like some cruel symbol.
She tucked him even closer, as if closeness could undo the memory. As if the warmth of her chest against his face could overwrite the image of his body suspended in the air, robbed of the simplest human dignity. She felt the full weight of how precious he was now. How easily he could have been lost. How easily she could have been left holding only the memory of him.
She would not allow the universe another chance at him. She would watch him breathe. She would feel his warmth. She would keep him exactly where he was, pressed against her heart, until the world proved it could not take him again.
So she held him even tighter, her nails pressing into his back like she was trying to stitch him into her skin by instinct alone. Her lips touched his temple, close enough to breathe him in, close enough that he felt the warmth of her mouth with every word she whispered. Mine. Never again. I have you, I have you, I have you.
The words barely carried sound, more like breath wrapped around devotion, a lullaby she whispered into the dark as if it could keep death from circling back for him. He had come home to her tonight. If there was ever a next time, she would not watch from afar. She would not lose him again. She would tear the world open before she let that happen.
His voice when it came was stripped bare. A rasp shaped by grief and fear and survival, muffled against the curve of her shoulder as if he was ashamed of being heard. His arms wrapped so tightly around her she wondered if he believed she might vanish if he gave himself even a moment to breathe. "Perdonami, amore mio…**" he whispered, the words trembling against her skin, "mi fa male averti delusa.**" It broke out of him like something that had been trapped behind his ribs for years and finally found a crack to escape through.
She made a soft sound, something between comfort and exhaustion, as her fingers slipped into the thick curls at the base of his neck. Her voice carried sleep, frustration, love, all tangled into one aching exhale. "Oh love, please. Let's just go back to sleep."
The look on his face told her he was not ready for sleep, not when the image of her standing there, covered in someone else's blood and shaking with fury, was still burning through him.
"No," he said, his voice rough and rising only enough to reveal how unsteady he still was. His pulse seemed to tremble under her palms. "No, amore. Listen to me. Sento il peso di ogni mio peccato.**" His hands came up in a sudden, shaky movement, cupping her cheeks like he was afraid she might slip out of reach if he did not hold her steady. His eyes gleamed in the soft moonlight in a way that made her heart twist. "Il bisogno urgente di inginocchiarmi davanti a te, amore mio, per chiederti perdono. Uno per uno. Per ogni bugia. Per ogni notte che ti ho lasciata sola. Per ogni goccia di sangue versato. Per ogni volta che ti ho fatto temere che non tornassi più.**"
She sighed and tried to pull him closer again, tried to tug him back into the small sanctuary they had built in their bed, but he leaned just far enough away to force her eyes on his. "Not now, darling," she said in a tone she wanted to sound gentle, but the tremor betrayed her. This was the exhaustion that came from almost losing the person she loved most in the world.
He shook his head, the motion strained and full of something close to desperation. "Yes, Ginny. Now." His voice cracked hard enough to cut through the quiet. "You came for me. You ran into that hellhole. You found me hanging like some dead thing and still you touched me like I was human. Like I was yours. You rescued me." His voice shook like the memory might tear him apart if he dared to speak it again.
"Of course," she whispered. To her, the answer was simple. Obvious. A truth she had never thought to question.
But he let out a broken laugh and pressed his forehead to hers, his breath trembling as it brushed her lips. "Why?" he asked, voice cracking under the weight of the thought. "Why didn't you let me die? It would have been easier. You could have moved on. Found someone safe. Someone who does not bring blood and war into your bed." His next breath faltered, the words barely audible. "Let me die next time."
The silence that followed felt like it changed the shape of the air. Ginny reached for his jaw, lifted his face, and wiped the tear that had escaped before he could hide it. Her voice came out soft, but every word carried iron. "There will be no next time."
He sagged against her, trembling with exhaustion, his body heavy in a way that spoke of more than physical fatigue.
She held his weight without flinching. She held everything he was, everything he had survived, with nothing but her hands and her refusal to let go. The quiet between them felt almost sacred. Something bruised but holy, something carved out of the edges of their pain.
Then she breathed in slowly, steadied herself, and spoke with a conviction that left no room for doubt. "Not now. Not ever. We are not going out like that, Zabini. We will grow old and grey and argue over ridiculous things, and even then I will still be shouting at you for tracking mud across the porch." Her thumb brushed his cheek, gentler this time. "We have a baby. He needs a father who is here, not a memory of him. I need you. Why would you think I would let you go that easily?"
He was quiet for a long time, as though her words were still fighting their way into the parts of him that believed he was easier to mourn than to love. When he finally spoke, his voice was thin and unsure. "Then tell me," he whispered, eyes drifting away from hers as if he feared the truth, "why stay with me after everything?"
She blinked, tilted her head slightly, and delivered her answer with a perfectly straight face. "Honestly? Your huge cock."
The tiniest laugh escaped him, cracked at the edges, fragile but real. It loosened something in the room. He breathed out a sound that might have been relief or disbelief, and for a moment his chest softened against hers.
"Ginny," he groaned, the sound drawn from somewhere deep, a mix of exasperation and longing. "I am serious. I asked you something real."
She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his temple, her mouth warm against his skin, her breath brushing the place where he still shook.
Her voice softened until the teasing melted away, leaving nothing but truth. "I know, baby." Her fingers traced the edge of his jaw, light and slow, and his eyes fluttered closed under the weight of it. "Besides your massive cock, it has always been you. People do not understand it. They never will. They wonder why I chose you, why this, why us. But the truth is simple and it hurts in the best way. I love you. I love you when you are bleeding. I love you when you are cruel. I love you when you shove every feeling you have into some locked corner of your mind because you think you do not deserve softness. I love you even when you cannot look at yourself in the mirror. I do not need a reason. I only need you."
He inhaled sharply, almost as if the air itself stung on the way in. His eyes closed like her words carried too much weight to bear, as if love itself had become a burden heavier than blood or bruises.
When he spoke again, the words barely held shape. "Would it be better if I Obliviated you?" His voice trembled. "If you could forget all this? If you did not have to carry the pain, or look at me and remember the things I have done?"
He had not even finished the thought before she moved. Her hands were already on his face, firm and certain, her fingers trembling with a fury that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with love that refused to be diminished. She held him as if she could keep the world from touching him again.
Her voice cut through the air, clean and sharp, steady enough to break whatever delusion he was trying to build. "No," she said, the word a blade of clarity. "Do not even think about that. Don't you fucking dare. You do not get to decide what I carry. You do not get to erase the worst of you just so it feels easier for me to stay. I want all of it. The blood. The scars. The nightmares. I want every ugly, complicated piece because I do not love a polished version of you. I love the man who crawled through hell and still tries to hold me like I am something worth protecting. I love the man who breaks and keeps going anyway. I love the whole damn truth of you. So do not try to take that away from me."
Her thumbs brushed the dampness from his cheeks, gentle in a way that contradicted the sharp force of her words. She pressed her forehead to his, holding him there, grounding him with nothing more than her breath and her stubborn, relentless devotion. His hands settled over hers, not to pull her closer or hold her tighter, but because he needed the contact like oxygen.
And in that small, quiet moment, with the world outside still heavy and the memory of death still clinging to his skin, he let himself believe her. Just a little. Just enough to stay.
~~~~~~
She had not let him out of her sight since the moment they brought him home, not for a breath, not for a heartbeat. Wherever he moved, she moved with him. She followed like gravity, like shadow, like something ancient and unbroken that refused to loosen its hold no matter how much fear still clung to her bones. She sat beside him while he read, stayed near while he dressed, curled herself around him at night as if the shape of his body against hers was the only thing keeping her steady.
And now she sat with him in the bath, the water warm around their bodies, her limbs draped over his as though even a small gap between them felt unbearable.
He tipped his head back against the porcelain and let out a quiet, amused breath. The sound rippled across the water. His fingers drifted along her arm in a slow, aimless path, as if he was relearning her skin by touch alone. "Not that I am complaining," he murmured, brushing his lips against the wet crown of her hair, "but you have been practically glued to me lately. Like you are afraid to breathe unless I am in the room."
"I am not glued," she said, her voice soft and muffled against his shoulder as she tightened her arms around his waist. "I just… I missed you. That is all."
His chest lifted with something much warmer than amusement, something tender and steady that wrapped itself around every note in his voice. "Did you?" he asked gently. He tipped her face up so he could look at her, sliding a few damp strands of hair away from her cheek. His thumb traced a small, easy path along her skin. "Because it feels like you are afraid I might disappear."
She did not answer. Instead she pressed herself closer and tucked her face into the curve of his neck, her lips touching the water-cooled line of his skin. The kiss she gave him was slow and quiet, and it spoke for her. He felt the slight tremble that moved through her fingers, the quick pull of her breath against his throat, and he understood.
She was terrified, and she loved him, and those two truths lived inside her side by side, impossible to separate.
He stayed perfectly still, his arm sliding around her back, his hand moving in a gentle trail along her spine as if he needed the reassurance of her presence just as much as she needed his.
He did not pull away. He did not try to fill the silence. He simply held her, letting the warmth of the water rise around them, letting the breaths they shared become the only sound in the room, letting her cling to him as if she could fold him into her heart and keep him there.
Then he moved down her arms and then across her stomach. His touch was light, teasing her skin. As his fingers trailed over her lower stomach, he felt her breathing increase.
His touch was light, teasing her skin. As his fingers trailed over her lower stomach, he felt her breathing increase. He continued to massage her belly and she sighed. His fingers moved down even further until they were lightly brushing her pubic hair. She gasped at his touch.
"You want more?" He whispered.
She nodded and moved her legs to give him better access. He kissed her neck as his fingers slipped between her folds. Her head rolled back onto his shoulder, as his fingers slid up and down her wet cunt.
Her breath hitched as his fingers explored her, slow and deliberate, every motion coaxing her further out of herself. He didn't rush—he only circled her gently, learning her all over again like a song he never wanted to forget the lyrics to. One hand cradled her hip beneath the water, grounding her, while the other kept stroking, gliding through her slickness with maddening patience.
She turned her face toward his, mouth searching blindly until she found him. The kiss was wet and deep, tasting of need and something older than desire. When she moaned into him, he slipped a finger inside her—just one, curling it slightly to draw a shudder from her spine.
"You're shaking," he whispered against her lips.
"You're making me feel everything," she breathed, eyes fluttering open for just a second before closing again.
Another finger joined the first, and he rocked them slowly, in and out, each thrust matched to the rhythm of her hips beginning to move with him. Her thighs tensed around his hand, water sloshing quietly around them, and her nails dug into his back, not hard, just anchoring herself there, like he was the only real thing in a world still too fragile to trust.
He shifted beneath her slightly, angling her body more fully into his lap. She gasped when she felt him against her, thick and hard between her thighs, but he didn't push, not yet. Instead, he withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth, tasting her with a soft groan that made her stomach twist in the most delicious way.
"You're everything," he said, voice rough. "Everything I dreamed about touching.
He didn't rush. His fingers traced lazy circles, coaxing slick heat from her with every gentle pass. He watched her face as he moved—how her lips parted, how her brows knit in pleasure, how her throat worked around a quiet, helpless moan. It was like watching something sacred unfold in real time.
He kissed the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the hollow just beneath her ear, while his hand kept its slow rhythm. When he slipped a single finger inside her, he did it with reverence, curling just right, feeling her clench around him like her body was begging him to stay.
"Is this okay?" he whispered, breath warm against her ear.
She nodded, too breathless to speak, her head falling back to expose her neck to his kisses.
He added another finger, stretching her carefully, his thumb brushing over her clit with every stroke. Her hips bucked into his hand, water rippling around them, but he steadied her with his other arm, anchoring her to him like he never wanted her to drift away again.
"You're so soft," he murmured, lips grazing her shoulder now. "So wet for me."
She whimpered, her legs spreading wider, letting him go deeper. Every motion was deliberate, no rush, no urgency, just the luxury of time and the weight of everything unsaid between them. He worshipped her with his hands, mapping her pleasure point by point like a prayer he intended to get right.
When her breath caught and her body arched, he slowed—not to tease, but to savor. He kissed down the column of her throat, then dragged his lips over her chest, pausing to take one of her nipples into his mouth. She cried out softly, fingers threading into his hair as he sucked, his fingers inside her moving in tandem with his tongue.
"I love the way you feel," he said into her skin. "The way you fall apart for me."
Her whole body trembled now, tension curling through her spine. He didn't stop. He didn't let up. He gave her everything, his mouth, his hands, his voice, until she was rocking against him, moaning his name like it was the only thing that kept her grounded in the world.
She was trembling against him, eyes glassy with need, lips parted as if searching for breath or maybe just words, but the only ones she found were his name and a whispered, "Please."
He looked at her then, really looked. Her flushed cheeks, the way her wet hair clung to her skin, the desperation in her gaze that matched the ache coiling in his chest.
"Tell me what you want," he murmured, brushing his fingers down the curve of her thigh.
"You," she breathed. "I want to feel you inside me."
"You already do," he teased gently, fingers still buried between her legs, slow and steady.
"No," she moaned, a trembling kind of urgency in her voice now. She shifted in his lap, her slick heat brushing over his length. "I need all of you. I want to ride you. Please—please, let me."
He caught her hips, stilling her with a soft groan. "You've been begging for minutes, baby girl," he said, voice thick with restraint. "You know what that does to me?"
Her hands moved to his chest, then to his shoulders, nails grazing his skin. She kissed him, messy and hungry, before pulling back just enough to whisper, "Then stop torturing us both. Let me feel you."
That broke him.
He lifted her with both hands, guiding her slowly over his cock. She reached between them, positioning him, breath shuddering as the thick head slid against her entrance.
They both gasped when he started to press in—inch by inch, tight and slow and stretching. Her mouth fell open, a soft cry escaping her lips as she sank down onto him, her body trembling with every inch that disappeared inside her.
"Fuck," he growled, head dropping back as she finally seated herself fully on him. "You feel… you feel unreal."
Ginny wrapped her arms around his neck, hips rolling instinctively, drawing another broken sound from his throat.
"Don't move yet," he whispered, holding her there. "Just… stay like this for a second."
She nodded, pressing her forehead to his. Their bodies were flush, skin to skin, joined in a way that made everything else fall away.
"I love you so much," she whispered.
He kissed her softly, reverently. "I'm not going anywhere."
And then, slowly, he let her begin to move.
She moved slowly at first, rolling her hips in a smooth, searching rhythm, learning him again from the inside out. Every inch of him stretched her just right, filled spaces in her that had been hollow since the last time they'd touched like this. She held onto his shoulders, their eyes locked, their breaths shared like something sacred.
He didn't look away, not even once. He wanted to see every flicker of pleasure that crossed her face, wanted to memorize the way her mouth parted, the way her body trembled when she found just the right angle and ground herself down onto him with a soft gasp.
"You're perfect like this," he murmured, voice hoarse. His hands traveled reverently over her back, down her spine, settling at her hips to help guide her movement. "So fucking perfect."
She kissed him again, messier this time, deeper, her lips crashing against his like she needed to taste him just as much as she needed to feel him. Her thighs started to tremble around him as her pace quickened, the wet sound of their bodies meeting filling the space between them, mingled with their quiet moans and gasps.
He slid one hand between them, thumb brushing her clit in tight, controlled circles. Her breath caught, her body jerking slightly as the added sensation lit her nerves on fire.
"Oh—God," she gasped, head dropping to his shoulder as her hips bucked in response. Her arms clung to him, nails biting gently into his skin, grounding herself against the overwhelming flood of pleasure building low in her belly.
He groaned at the way she clenched around him, every roll of her hips dragging a deeper sound from his throat. "That's it," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, voice thick and wrecked. "Take your time. I want to feel every second of you falling apart."
Her breath hitched, and she moved faster, grinding against him in smooth, desperate circles now. Every movement dragged sparks across her nerves, every stroke of his thumb sent another shockwave through her core. Her body began to tighten, breath stuttering as her climax crept closer—sharp, inevitable.
"I can't—" she choked, voice trembling. "I'm gonna—"
"Yes," he breathed. "Come for me. Right here. Let me feel it."
With a broken cry, she shattered, her whole body seizing, her walls clamping down hard around him as the orgasm crashed over her like a wave breaking against stone. Her hips lost rhythm, shaking and grinding through the high, riding out every pulse while he held her through it.
"Fuck, amore," he groaned, gripping her tight as she clenched around him. The way she came—so open, so raw it was too much. He could feel himself unraveling, the pleasure coiling deep in his spine, pressure building fast and hot.
Even as she trembled in his lap, she reached for his face, cupping his jaw, kissing him through the haze. "Come inside me," she whispered against his lips. "I want to feel you."
That did it.
He thrust up into her, hard and deep, twice—three times—before his body locked tight beneath her. With a low, guttural moan, he spilled inside her, hips jerking as he emptied himself in slow, shuddering waves. She stayed wrapped around him the whole time, arms tight, lips brushing his cheek, his neck, his mouth.
Their breathing slowed together, hearts still racing but gradually settling into the silence. She didn't move, didn't pull away. She just stayed, straddling him, skin slick and glowing, lips pressed to his temple as he smoothed his hands down her back in long, tender strokes.
They didn't speak right away. They didn't need to.
The water had gone lukewarm around them, but neither cared. All that mattered was the quiet thrum of connection, the warmth of skin on skin, and the soft way she kissed him again, this time not out of hunger, but love.
She climbed into the bed with a hesitant kind of grace, the steam from the bath still clinging to her skin, wrapping her in a warmth that didn't quite reach the anxious flutter beneath her ribs. Her fingers trembled just slightly as she pulled the duvet up over her bare body, the softness of the sheets unable to calm the tight coil of nerves in her stomach. She looked at him and for a moment she couldn't speak. Not because the words weren't there, but because they mattered too much to be rushed.
Blaise turned toward her immediately, propping himself up on one elbow, his dark eyes scanning her face, catching the shift in her energy with the unshakable attentiveness he reserved only for her. His hand, still damp, reached for her cheek, cupping it gently as his thumb brushed along her temple.
"What is it, amore?" he asked, voice soft as cashmere, velvet over concern.
He leaned in without waiting for an answer, kissing her with a slow kind of purpose, the kind that said, Whatever it is, I can handle it. I'll carry it for you, if I have to. His lips lingered, coaxing comfort into her silence, his fingers threading through her hair as he pulled her just slightly closer.
She melted into him for a moment before she finally pulled back, her gaze searching his as her breath hitched in her throat. "I…" She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight, her voice caught somewhere between vulnerability and longing. "I want another baby."
For a moment, everything in the room paused. Even the wind outside seemed to hush. Blaise blinked once, slowly, as if her words were too sacred to react to with anything less than reverence. His mouth parted, but nothing came out at first—not because he didn't know what to say, but because his heart was still catching up to the fact that she had said it out loud.
Finally he exhaled, a sound that came from the very center of him, full of wonder and disbelief and so much aching love that it nearly undid him. He laughed, softly, shakily, pulling her into his chest as though he couldn't bear even a breath of space between them. "Say it again," he murmured into her hair, his voice uneven, thick with emotion. "Please, baby, say it again."
"I want another baby," she whispered into his collarbone, her lips brushing against his skin. "With you. I want to see your face when I tell you I'm pregnant. I want to feel you talk to my belly again, like you did with Val. I want to hear you hum lullabies in the dark and complain about how tired you are and pretend you're not secretly obsessed with newborn socks. I want all of it."
Blaise's eyes stung. He pulled back just enough to see her face, brushing her damp hair from her cheek, and for a moment, he just looked at her, the way he always did when he realized all over again that she was his, that somehow the world had seen fit to give him something this good, this holy.
"You're sure?" he asked gently, almost afraid of breaking the moment. "It's not just the heat from the bath or the soft sheets or the post-orgasm hormones talking?"
She smiled, slow and radiant, her eyes glassy with emotion. "I've been thinking about it for weeks," she admitted, voice hushed. "I just… didn't know how to bring it up. And then tonight, you were so tender, and it reminded me—this is our life. We built it from the ashes. I want to keep building it. With you."
He kissed her again, deeper this time, reverent, almost worshipful. When he finally pulled back, he placed a hand on her belly. "Then we start tonight," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Let's make another little piece of forever."
~~~~~~
She watched him settle against the pillows, his usual careful posture gone, replaced by something looser, something raw. She tucked herself in beside him, curling close, and for the first time in what felt like days, the house fell into a fragile kind of quiet.
But that quiet did not last long. The soft pad of small, bare feet broke the stillness, followed by a tiny sniffle and the creak of the bedroom door easing open. Valerius appeared, his pajama top slightly askew, one sock missing, and his beloved battered stuffed kneazle tucked under one arm. His hair was rumpled, curls sticking up every which way, but his wide, solemn eyes fixed on the shape of his parents in bed.
He didn't say a word. He simply crossed the room on unsteady toddler legs, dragging his kneazle by its ear, and without asking, climbed up onto the mattress.
Ginny shifted instinctively to make space but it was Blaise he went to, crawling right over her lap to wedge himself between them. Small hands grabbed at Blaise's arm with the determined grip of a child who wanted his place made clear.
"Daddy," he whispered, his voice soft but sure, his warm little body pressing tight to his father's side, "are you sad?"
The question stopped Blaise cold. Ginny watched as his face crumpled slightly, not breaking but softening in a way she hadn't seen since before the nightmare of the past few days began. Valerius didn't understand everything, but he felt the tension, the heaviness in the house, and this was his way of answering it.
Blaise drew in a shaky breath, then gently gathered Valerius into his arms, lifting the boy as though he weighed nothing at all, pulling him close until his tiny head fit perfectly in the crook of his neck. He kissed his son's curls, burying his nose there, letting the familiar scent of him fill his lungs. The grip he kept on Ginny's hand tightened too, a silent promise anchoring him to them both.
"Not anymore, piccolino," he murmured, his voice rough but tender, brushing Valerius's hair back from his forehead. "Not when I have you and mummy. Not when you're both right here."
Valerius nodded solemnly, as though satisfied by that answer, and curled in tighter against his father's chest, his small fingers curling into Blaise's shirt. Within seconds, his breathing slowed, and his thumb slipped into his mouth the way it always did when sleep was near.
Ginny watched them, her heart so full it ached.
This, she thought. This was why she stayed. Why she would always stay. For this boy, their boy, and the way Blaise softened around him in ways he didn't even understand he could. For the way their son could crawl into a room heavy with ghosts and wordlessly reclaim it as a place of warmth again.
She reached across, brushing Valerius's soft curls, her fingers tangling with Blaise's. Neither of them spoke. No more apologies. No more confessions. Just breath, warmth, and the quiet weight of their family, all tangled together in the hush of the room.
Valerius shifted once in his sleep, letting out a little sigh, his kneazle clutched to his chest. Blaise turned his face into Ginny's hair, closing his eyes at last.
And there, wrapped around each other and their child, they finally rested. It was messy, imperfect, a little too tight and a little too warm, but it was them. A fragile pile of limbs and exhausted hearts that said more than any vow or promise ever could.
It said: we survived. We are here. We are still us.
~~~~~~
The afternoon sunlight spilled lazily over the garden, turning the grass a vibrant green and warming the stone paths that wound between beds of lavender and wild roses. Ginny sat cross-legged on a blanket spread beneath the ancient oak, watching as Valerius tore through the grass at a dead sprint, his cheeks flushed and his laughter ringing loud enough to make the birds scatter.
Just behind him, Lysander galloped after Val, his wild blond curls a halo of chaos as he brandished a stick like a sword, shrieking something incomprehensible about dragons and treasure.
The playdate had seemed like a lovely idea when Luna first suggested it that morning—so much innocent energy, two best friends tumbling around in the sunshine while the adults sipped tea and caught their breath after the week they'd all had. In theory, it sounded perfect.
In practice, it was a feral circus.
Blaise appeared beside her, clutching two cups of coffee like a lifeline, his tie askew, his shirt untucked, and a distinctly harried look in his eyes. He handed her a mug without a word and sank down onto the blanket beside her with a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand decisions he regretted.
"This is absolute madness," he muttered, dragging a hand through his already-disheveled hair. "I don't know how they have this much energy. They've been running in circles for forty-five minutes."
Ginny smirked behind her coffee cup. "Only forty-five? Feels like we've been out here for a year."
Valerius let out a piercing whoop as he ducked under a rose arch, Lysander hot on his heels. Ginny could swear there was a glint of actual panic in Blaise's eyes as he watched the boys careen dangerously close to the flowerbeds.
"Ly!" she called, sitting up straighter. "Be careful with the roses, love! They're full of thorns!"
Lysander just shouted back, "But the dragon's hiding in there, Ninnie!" before disappearing into the thicket with Valerius trailing after him like a co-conspirator.
Blaise groaned, flopping dramatically onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. "They're trying to kill us. I'm certain of it. This is coordinated warfare. They've planned this."
Ginny laughed, nudging his shoulder. "You're supposed to be a hardened assassin, remember? I thought you'd have more composure under fire."
He peeked at her from beneath his arm, a slow, tired grin creeping onto his face. "I was trained for many things. Negotiating peace treaties between two tiny lunatics high on sugar is not one of them."
At that moment, Valerius and Lysander reappeared, breathless and red-faced, covered in grass stains and clutching fistfuls of dandelions they had clearly declared to be "wizarding gold."
"Mummy!" Valerius shouted, bounding toward them, "We caught the dragon and now we're rich!"
Blaise sat up straighter, smoothing his hair in mock seriousness. "Well, that changes everything. I suppose you'll be buying your own dinner tonight, then?"
Valerius giggled, climbing into Blaise's lap without hesitation, still clutching his dandelions like they were precious jewels. Lysander followed suit, wedging himself comfortably between Ginny and Blaise, utterly oblivious to the fact that neither adult looked remotely prepared to become human climbing frames.
Ginny caught Blaise's eye as both boys nestled themselves in, chattering over each other about their imaginary adventures, and she couldn't help but laugh softly.
"Remember when we thought this would be a calm afternoon?" she murmured.
Blaise's grin softened into something quieter, more genuine, as he kissed Valerius's curls and wrapped an arm around both boys, pulling them close despite their sticky, grass-stained limbs.
"Chaos," he said, shaking his head. "Absolute chaos."
"But it's ours," Ginny added, leaning into him.
And it was.
Even as Lysander tried to convince Blaise to give him a "real wand" and Valerius plotted how they could build a "dragon trap" next to the hydrangeas, even as Ginny sipped her lukewarm coffee and fought the urge to beg Luna to come collect her child early, she knew she wouldn't trade a second of it.
Not for peace, not for quiet, not for anything.
It was messy and loud and exhausting, but in that little garden, with their son in Blaise's arms and Lysander chattering at her side, it felt like the closest thing to home she would ever know.
The late afternoon sunlight spilled lazily across the living room, gilding the scattered toys and crumpled blankets in soft gold. The day had unraveled in a blur of shrieks and laughter, Valerius and Lysander running endless laps through the garden and back inside, dragging mud and leaves behind them like victorious little warriors.
Now, at last, the house was quiet.
Valerius was curled up on the rug with Lysander draped half over him, both boys snoring softly, cheeks flushed from the exertion of their playdate. Their battered toy wands lay abandoned nearby, along with an empty biscuit tin that bore witness to their mischief.
Ginny let herself sink back into the couch with a long sigh, her legs draped over Blaise's lap. Her hair was a mess, her dress smeared with a sticky handprint, but there was a contented weight in her chest.
Blaise, looking equally defeated by the chaos of the day, ran a tired hand through his disheveled curls and chuckled under his breath. "We survived," he murmured, leaning his head back and exhaling slowly.
Ginny groaned, letting her head drop onto his shoulder. "Barely," she said, her voice muffled against the soft fabric of his shirt. "Why did we think two toddlers was a good idea? Honestly, what were we thinking inviting Lysander over?"
Blaise laughed quietly, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. "Because we're idiots. And because you're completely incapable of saying no to Luna when she asks for help."
Ginny smiled tiredly, letting her fingers curl loosely around Valerius's abandoned juice cup that was still somehow in her lap. "I'll admit it," she whispered. "I love seeing them together. They're exhausting, but… look at them. They're perfect."
Blaise's gaze softened as he glanced at the two boys, tangled together on the rug like puppies. "They are," he agreed quietly.
A long, comfortable silence settled over them, broken only by the gentle hum of the television playing some brightly colored cartoon neither of them could focus on.
"Are we supposed to move them to bed?" Blaise asked eventually, but there was no real conviction in his voice.
Ginny shook her head, her eyelids already heavy. "No… leave them. They're happy. And I can't move."
"Same," Blaise muttered with a tired smirk.
Another beat passed, and without even realizing it, Ginny's head slid further down, resting against Blaise's chest. Blaise followed moments later, letting his eyes slip shut as he pressed a lazy kiss into her hair.
Within minutes, they had all drifted off. Two exhausted parents on the sofa, their legs entwined, and two tiny boys asleep in a heap on the floor, all bathed in the fading golden light of afternoon.
The house was peaceful, at least for now, and in that moment of perfect, unplanned stillness, it felt like the most beautiful kind of home.
~~~~~~
The late afternoon sun slanted through Ginny's sitting room windows, drenching everything in a honeyed glow that made even the cluttered mess of polish bottles, hair clips, and abandoned biscuits look almost charming. The air smelled of lavender tea, but more dominantly of Pansy's absurdly expensive rose-scented lotion, which she had unapologetically slathered all over both of them the moment she walked in, declaring that Ginny "reeked of motherhood and despair."
Ginny was sprawled across the plush rug, one foot propped lazily on Pansy's knee as Pansy bent over her toes, brush in hand, looking scandalized.
"This color," Pansy drawled, holding up the crimson polish and examining it as though it personally offended her. "This… atrocity. Red, darling, it's not tragic, it's criminal. If the Ministry knew you willingly chose this shade they'd revoke your wand on principle."
Ginny snorted, tipping her head back onto the arm of the couch. "Matches my mood lately. Dark and dramatic."
"You wouldn't know drama if it hexed you in the face," Pansy sniffed, carefully painting a nail with exaggerated delicacy. "Luckily for you, I do."
"Oh, I know," Ginny deadpanned. "You've single-handedly kept Wizarding drama alive since Hogwarts."
Pansy gasped in mock offense, pressing a hand to her chest as if Ginny had wounded her deeply. "How dare you? I've refined my craft. I am a connoisseur of well-timed emotional breakdowns and devastating exits."
Ginny giggled, reaching over to swipe one of the biscuits that had fallen onto a gossip magazine featuring a particularly unflattering photo of Draco Malfoy. She held it up between two fingers. "And yet here you are, reduced to painting my toenails like a glorified house-elf. The tragedy, Pansy. The indignity."
"I'm performing an act of mercy," Pansy replied, dramatically rolling her eyes as she blew on Ginny's freshly painted toes. "If Blaise has to come home to these feet another day I fear he might file for annulment just to escape them."
Ginny kicked gently at her, laughing harder now, but then her laughter softened and she leaned her head on her arm, her gaze slipping thoughtful.
A long, companionable silence settled between them, broken only by the faint clink of a teacup and Pansy muttering under her breath as she wrestled with a stubborn bottle of nail polish. It was the kind of silence that only came from years of knowing each other's flaws too intimately to care.
Then Ginny spoke, her voice quieter than before but still with a wry edge. "You know… I never properly said thank you."
Pansy froze mid-brushstroke and arched a perfectly shaped brow. "For what, darling? For single handedly rescuing your toes from aesthetic disaster? Honestly, you should be thanking me every day for that."
Ginny snorted but shook her head, her smile tugging at the corners of her mouth even as her tone softened. "No, Pansy. For Blaise. For helping him that night. For… fixing him. I know you didn't have to, and you did anyway."
Pansy blinked, momentarily thrown by the unexpected sincerity, her usually glib tongue caught between barbs. She set the polish down with a dramatic sigh and draped herself over the back of the couch as if even sincerity required a theatrical faint.
"I didn't do it for Blaise, obviously," she finally said, flicking a lock of hair over her shoulder with exaggerated nonchalance. "Merlin knows he's insufferable enough without me saving his life. I did it for you, Red. Honestly, can you imagine what a mess you'd be if he'd actually died? We'd have to scrape you off the floor, and I simply didn't have the time to manage your melodramatic widowhood."
Ginny let out a laugh that cracked right through the emotion tightening in her throat, leaning over to shove Pansy's shoulder gently. "You're a terrible person."
Pansy grinned wickedly, leaning into the shove with relish. "Obviously. But I'm your terrible person. You're stuck with me. Also, for the record, I will absolutely remind you of this moment every time you're cross with me in future. 'Oh but Pansy, remember when you saved my husband's life?'" she mimicked in a ridiculous falsetto, clutching her chest in mock-earnestness.
Ginny rolled her eyes but her cheeks were flushed with affection. "You are insufferable."
"And you're lucky," Pansy shot back smoothly, reaching for a biscuit and taking a deliberately dainty bite. "Besides, you know you needed me that day. Imagine anyone else trying to help Zabini."
Ginny giggled helplessly, falling back into the cushions. "You're not wrong."
Pansy wagged a finger at her. "I'm never wrong. Now shut up and give me your other foot, disaster. I'm not about to let you walk around with only one set of perfectly polished toes. The scandal alone would kill me."
Ginny wiggled her toes teasingly and handed over her other foot with exaggerated grace. "Do your worst, Parkinson."
"Oh, I intend to," Pansy purred dramatically, twirling the nail polish brush with theatrical flair. "After this we're doing a face mask. And if you resist, I swear to Merlin I will drag you to a Muggle salon and tell them everything about your tragic taste in polish colors and men. Honestly, Red, your judgment is criminal."
Ginny let out a soft laugh but before she could fire back, Pansy's tone shifted just slightly. She didn't lose her dramatic flair entirely but there was a tremor of honesty threaded through her next words.
"Besides the joke… I was terrified that night," Pansy admitted, gaze flickering down as she carefully smoothed crimson polish across Ginny's toenail. "He's my childhood friend. You know that. We've survived a lot of awful shit together. I would've done anything to keep him alive."
Ginny's teasing softened into something warm, her smile small but sincere. "I know, love," she murmured, her voice low with genuine gratitude.
Pansy glanced up, her dark eyes sharp but softer than usual. "And I see that you do love him, Red."
Ginny sighed dramatically, flopping her head back against the cushion, a playful groan escaping her lips. "Unfortunately," she muttered, her lips curving into a wry smirk.
Pansy let out a short laugh and narrowed her gaze. "Why did you stay? Why stay through all this chaos? You could've run the moment he started brooding near dark windows and coming home smelling like blood and expensive whiskey."
Ginny tilted her head toward her friend, her grin wicked. "His cock, darling," she deadpanned.
There was a beat of perfect, shocked silence before Pansy let out a delighted cackle, clutching her chest like Ginny had just recited the most beautiful poetry.
"That's my girl," Pansy declared triumphantly, tossing her head back. "Merlin help us all but that's the energy I expect from you."
Ginny raised her teacup in a mock toast, eyes gleaming with mischief. "If I'm going to endure a ridiculous amount of trauma and forced marriage politics, I'm at least going to get something out of it."
"Exactly," Pansy agreed, raising her biscuit in response. "Big cock energy is a perfectly valid reason to suffer. That's practically the motto of every pureblood woman I know. I should have it stitched onto a throw pillow."
They both burst into giggles, leaning into each other as the tension melted into shared laughter, sharp quips and irreverent humor cushioning the very real love and loyalty beneath it all.
Pansy finally reached for Ginny's other foot with a flourish. "Now, hush and give me this tragic foot. We still need to repair your reputation before your next public appearance. I refuse to be seen with you if your toes look like that."
Ginny snorted, stretching out luxuriously. "Merlin forbid anyone mistake me for a woman who doesn't have her toes professionally mocked by Pansy Parkinson herself."
Pansy winked, "Your suffering is my favorite hobby, darling."
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Perdonami, amore mio…" - Forgiv me my love.
mi fa male averti delusa. - It breaks me that I disappointed you.
Sento il peso di ogni mio peccato. - I feel the weight of every sin I have ever committed.
Il bisogno urgente di inginocchiarmi davanti a te, amore mio, per chiederti perdono. Uno per uno. Per ogni bugia. Per ogni notte che ti ho lasciata sola. Per ogni goccia di sangue versato. Per ogni volta che ti ho fatto temere che non tornassi più. - I feel this urgent need to fall to my knees in front of you, my love, and ask your forgiveness. One thing at a time. For every lie. For every night I left you alone. For every drop of blood spilled. For every moment I made you fear I would never come back.