"The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure he never knows he's in prison. "
That phrase had looped through her mind more times than she could count, a whisper that curled around her ribs like smoke every time she lay next to him at night, his arm draped around her waist as though it were a shackle disguised as tenderness.
She remembered the first time she read it, buried in the pages of some Muggle psychology book Hermione had once recommended back when they were still sharing secrets over cups of tea instead of keeping them locked behind heavy silences. Back then, it had felt like a clever metaphor, something theoretical, distant, something that applied to other people in other lives.
But now, standing beside Blaise in their ornate kitchen, sunlight filtering through the diamond-paned windows, the scent of dark roast coffee lingering in the air like a ghost of domestic peace, she understood the quote on a cellular level. Not with her mind, but with her bones. With the deep ache in her chest that never quite left.
She had felt like a prisoner for two years—trapped not in chains, but in silk sheets, in whispered promises, in the weight of his gaze that saw everything except the parts of her she most needed him to notice. Those first two years had been gilded and golden and utterly suffocating, a beautiful cage constructed from diamonds and desire, where every room was filled with flowers and fear.
And now? Now they had been married for four. Four years of shared beds and whispered apologies and making love like war. Four years of learning how to walk the tightrope between devotion and destruction. What had changed? What had shifted so drastically that the thought of leaving him, no longer tasted like freedom, but like loss?
Valerius, of course, was one answer. Their son, their heartbeat, their little piece of unspoiled innocence in a world painted in shades of gray. He was a daddy's boy through and through, clinging to Blaise with wide, adoring eyes and that infectious laugh that could melt her from the inside out. Watching them together sometimes made her ache in a way she couldn't name—because it was beautiful, and because it wasn't hers. Blaise gave everything to that boy. And for that, she forgave him so many things.
But what was her reason? What made her stay, even now, even after everything?
Pansy had offered her a way out.
And she had thought about it. Really, truly thought about it. Because at the time, the idea of loving him felt indistinguishable from drowning in him. But when she'd stood in their bathroom that night, staring at her reflection while he slept soundly in the next room, the vial cold in her palm, she couldn't do it. Her hand had trembled, her breath had caught, and her heart—traitorous, soft, stupid thing that it was—had whispered his name like a prayer instead of a curse.
She had poured the poison down the sink and crawled back into bed beside him, curling into his warmth like someone starved for light.
Because she loved him.
Hopelessly. Terrifyingly. With the kind of love that made her question whether she'd ever really been free at all.
Now he lay curled against her chest, his body pressed so tightly to hers it felt as if he was trying to crawl inside her skin, to disappear into the steady rhythm of her heartbeat and never emerge again. His arms circled her with a grip that was almost bruising, not soft or careful, but desperate, as though the only thing keeping him anchored to this world was the solid feel of her beneath his hands.
And she let him. She let him hold her like that, let him bury his face in the hollow of her neck, let his breath falter and catch as his shoulders trembled under the weight of everything he had survived. She was just as broken, just as raw, and the heaviness of him against her body was the only thing that kept her from slipping into the dark space inside her mind where panic still waited.
Only hours ago she had seen him like a nightmare brought to life, his body hanging limp from a rope beside other lifeless shapes, his skin smeared with blood and dark bruises that told stories she was not sure she ever wanted to hear. And beside him had been Theo, equally battered, equally still.
The image would never leave her. It was already burned behind her eyelids, permanent and sharp, something that would visit her in dreams for the rest of her life. She hadn't even screamed when she found him. She couldn't. Her voice had locked inside her chest, trapped by the cold terror that stole the air from her lungs and squeezed her heart until it felt as though it would stop beating altogether. He hadn't looked real when she reached for him. He had looked like a corpse, a warning, another ghost to bury alongside all the others she had loved and lost.
And yet here he was. Warm. Breathing. Trembling in her arms like a man who had been dragged back from the brink and had no idea how to return to himself. He clung to her as if she was the only proof he had that he had survived, the only thing that could convince him he was not still hanging there, lifeless and forgotten.
She didn't speak. She couldn't. Words felt too fragile, too small to hold the magnitude of what she felt, the way her heart ached and burned and trembled all at once. So she kept running her fingers through his hair, slowly, rhythmically, grounding them both in the quiet intimacy of that moment. Her mind was a hurricane of emotions, grief and fury and a relief so violent it almost hurt to breathe. She wanted to cry, wanted to scream until her voice gave out, wanted to rip apart the world for what it had done to him, for daring to harm what was hers.
Because no one was ever going to hurt him like that again. No one was ever going to take him from her. She felt it now in her bones, the decision made without hesitation. She would keep him close from this moment on. She would not let him out of her sight, not for an hour, not for a night, not even for a conversation in the next room. He was hers and the thought of losing him again was unbearable.
The way he held her, the way his entire body trembled against her skin, was enough to make her vow silently to never let him face another moment alone. If she could have tied him to her, she would have. Not out of control or possessiveness, but out of sheer terror, the kind of fear that changes you forever. The fear that rearranges everything you think you know about what matters, what deserves protection, what you are willing to fight for.
She could feel how fragile everything was now. She could feel how easily love could be torn away in one careless, violent act. And she was done being careful, done pretending she could survive another near miss. She would keep him here, pressed against her, breathing and shaking and alive. And she would remind herself again and again that he was still here, that he was still hers.
She didn't speak. She couldn't. It felt as though every word might unravel her completely. So she just kept her fingers in his hair, moving in a slow, steady rhythm, trying to anchor both of them in the present, in this moment where he was still alive and breathing in her arms. Inside her mind, everything felt chaotic. Her thoughts spun like a storm, like a hurricane caught inside her chest, rage and grief and relief all tangled together. She wanted to scream until her throat was raw, wanted to weep until she had no tears left, wanted to set the world on fire just to make sure no one ever hurt him again. No one had the right to do that to him. No one had the right to touch him, to harm him, to string him up like some grotesque trophy. No one was allowed to take him from her.
And now, after seeing him like that, she knew she never wanted him out of her sight again. Not for a single hour. Not even for a moment. Not even if he was just in the next room. She wanted to keep him close, so close it felt like they shared the same breath. She would keep him tied to her side, not out of some unhealthy possessiveness but because of the raw, terrible fear that had settled in her bones. The fear that rewrites your entire understanding of what it means to be safe, what it means to protect the person you love, what it means to refuse to lose them no matter what.
She would not let him slip away again. Not for a long time. He belonged with her, and just the thought of him being taken, of him being hurt like that again, made her feel sick to her stomach. She understood something now, something she had never fully grasped before. How fragile it all was. How love could be ripped away in one brutal instant. How the man she had fought so hard to hold onto could be reduced to nothing more than a lifeless body if she wasn't fast enough or strong enough or ruthless enough to stop it.
So she held him even tighter, her nails digging into his back as if she could keep him with her just by sheer will. She pressed her lips to his temple, close enough to breathe him in, and whispered words she could barely hear herself say. Mine. Never again. I have you, I have you, I have you. She repeated it like a prayer, a lullaby meant to keep death itself away. Because he had come back to her tonight, and if there was ever a next time, they would bleed together. She would not stand by and watch from a distance. She would not allow them to take him from her again. If they tried, she would burn the whole fucking world down first.
Blaise's voice was raw when it came, thick with a kind of pain that sounded like it had been waiting years to surface, and barely more than a breath as he buried his face against the curve of her shoulder, his arms wrapped so tightly around her that it felt as though he feared she might vanish into smoke if he dared to loosen his grip. "Perdonami, amore mio…" he whispered, his lips brushing her skin with the weight of a prayer, "mi fa male averti delusa." The words trembled with sincerity, choked and fractured, as though the mere act of speaking them aloud threatened to tear him open completely.
Ginny let out the softest sound, her fingertips moving gently through the thick curls at the nape of his neck, her touch soothing but her voice still groggy with sleep as she exhaled, "Oh love, please… let's just go back to sleep." There was no rejection in her tone, only exhaustion—bone-deep and aching—as if her body, like his, had been stretched thin by the weight of everything they'd endured. But Blaise couldn't let it rest. Not now. Not after what she'd done. Not after the sight of her face, blood-smeared and furious and trembling with love, had anchored him back to life.
"No," he murmured hoarsely, his voice rising only slightly, cracked by emotion and adrenaline that hadn't yet left his veins. "No, amore. Listen to me. Sento il peso di ogni mio peccato …" He shifted suddenly, his hands cupping her cheeks, his eyes glassy in the moonlight seeping through their bedroom windows. "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 ."
Ginny sighed softly and tried to reach for him again, to draw him back into the sanctuary of sleep and tangled sheets and whispered promises, but he pulled back just enough to keep her eyes locked on his. "Not now, darling," she said gently, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her weariness—the kind of weariness that only comes from loving someone you thought you might lose.
But Blaise shook his head, eyes dark and wide and haunted. "Yes, Ginny. Now." His voice cracked again, this time loud enough to pierce the quiet like a thunderclap. "Fucking hell, baby girl, do you even understand what you did? You came for me. You ran straight into that hellhole, you faced them, you found me hanging there like a fucking corpse and you still you touched me like I was human. Like I was yours. You… you fucking rescued me."
"Of course," she whispered, as though the answer had never once been in question.
But Blaise laughed and pressed his forehead to hers, his breath shaky against her lips. "Why?" he rasped. "Why didn't you just let me die? It would've been easier. You could've mourned me and moved on. Found someone safe, someone good. Someone who doesn't bring war into your bed. Someone who doesn't come home smelling like iron and regret." His voice dropped to a trembling whisper, "Let me die next time."
The air between them stilled, heavy with heartbreak, and Ginny reached up slowly, her hand finding his jaw as she guided his gaze back to hers, her thumb brushing away the tear that had begun to trail down the edge of his face. Her voice was quiet, but her words were steel, ironclad and absolute. "There will be no next time."
Her gaze didn't falter, not even as the full weight of him pressed into her, his frame slack with exhaustion, every sinew of his body collapsing under the sheer magnitude of what he'd been through and the grief he still carried like a second skin. He was crumbling, but she held him up with nothing more than her presence, her refusal to look away, to step back, to surrender him to the darkness that had nearly swallowed him whole. There was something sacred in the silence between them, something raw and bruised and holy.
And then, quietly but with the kind of conviction that shattered through despair, she whispered, "Not now. Not ever. We're not going out like that, Zabini. We will die when we are old and grey and sick of each other's faces, and even then I'll still probably be yelling at you from across the garden for leaving your muddy boots on the porch. We've got a baby, Blaise. He needs a father who isn't a ghost in the doorway or a name carved into stone. He needs you. I need you. Why in Merlin's name would you think I'd ever let you die that easily?"
He was quiet for a long moment, a breath rattling from deep in his chest, rough and uneven, like he was afraid of the answer before he even asked the question. His voice, when it finally came, was hoarse and small, almost hesitant. "Then tell me," he murmured, not quite meeting her gaze. "Why? Why stay with me after everything?"
And because she was Ginny Weasley, and because she couldn't let a moment like this pass without dragging it straight through the mud just a little, she blinked slowly, raised one brow, and deadpanned, "Honestly? Your huge cock."
His eyes widened, stunned into silence. For a second, nothing happened, no breath, no movement between them, and then the tiniest laugh broke from him, breathless and shaky, a sound that cracked straight through the fog in his chest and let something lighter slip through. "Ginny," he groaned, his voice somewhere between a scold and a sigh, that familiar softness creeping back into it despite everything. "I'm serious. I asked you something real."
She leaned in then, pressing a kiss to his temple, her lips lingering longer than necessary, her breath warm against his skin as her entire body softened into him. Her tone lost all its sharp edges, turned quiet and tender. "I know, baby. I know." Her fingers moved gently along his jaw as she whispered, "Besides your massive cock—which, yes, is very appreciated—it's just you. It's always been you. I know people don't understand it. I know they ask why, why this, why you, why us. But the truth is simple, and stupid, and painfully honest. I love you. I love you when you're bleeding, and when you're cruel, and when you're trying your best to push me away. I love you even when you don't know how to love yourself. I don't need a reason. I just need you."
He closed his eyes like her words were too heavy to hold, as if they were more than he could carry right now, more than he deserved. And then, quieter than before, fragile and frayed around the edges, he asked, "Would it be better if I Obliviated you?" The words barely passed his lips. "So you could forget all this? So you wouldn't have to carry the pain, or look at me and remember what I've done?"
The sentence wasn't even finished before she moved, swift and certain, surging forward to cradle his face between her hands, fingers trembling with fury and grief and something close to heartbreak. Her voice cut through the space between them, fierce and clear and unshakable. "No," she said, her tone sharp enough to slice clean through his delusion. "Don't you dare even think about that. Don't you fucking dare. You don't get to decide what I carry, Blaise. You don't get to erase the worst of you just so it's easier for me to love you. I want all of it. The blood, the scars, the nightmares. I want the whole goddamn mess because I don't love some cleaned-up, edited version of you. I love you as you are. The whole terrible, complicated, beautiful thing. So don't you dare try to take that away from me."
Her thumbs brushed the dampness from his cheeks, her forehead pressing to his as she held him still, anchoring him with her touch, her presence, her stubbornness. And in that moment, even though the world outside them felt dark and heavy and impossible, he finally believed her. Just a little. Just enough to stay.
~~~~~~
She hadn't let him out of her sight since the moment they brought him home, not for a breath, not for a heartbeat. Wherever he went, she followed. Like gravity, like shadow, like something old and unbreakable that refused to loosen its grip no matter how much time or terror passed between them. She sat beside him when he read, lingered close while he dressed, stayed curled around him in sleep as if the very shape of his body in her arms was the only thing keeping her anchored. And now she sat with him in the bath, the water warm around them, her limbs draped over his as though even that small space was too much to bear.
He leaned his head back against the porcelain rim and let out a soft, amused breath that rippled across the surface of the water. His fingers trailed lazily over the line of her arm, memorizing her skin all over again. "Not that I'm complaining," he murmured, his lips brushing the damp crown of her hair, "but you have been glued to my side lately. Like you're afraid to breathe unless I'm in the room."
"I'm not glued," she said quietly, her words muffled against his shoulder as she squeezed her arms around his waist. "I just... I missed you. That's all."
His chest rose and fell with something heavier than amusement now, something warmer and softer, a thread of affection that tangled around every word. "Did you now?" he teased gently, tilting her chin so she would meet his gaze, brushing a few wet strands of hair from her cheek as his thumb swept a small, affectionate path along her skin. "Because it feels like you're afraid I might disappear."
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she pressed herself closer, burying her face against the curve of his neck where the water clung to his skin, and kissed him there. The kiss was long, slow, quiet, but it said everything she could not. He felt the tremble in her fingers, the sharp pull of her breath against his throat, and understood all of it.
She was terrified, and she loved him, and somehow those two truths sat side by side inside her, impossible to separate. He stayed still, holding her close, his hand sliding gently down her back, tracing the shape of her spine as if to reassure himself she was still here too. He did not rush her. He did not speak. He simply stayed right where she needed him, in the stillness of warm water and shared breath, with her wrapped around him like she was trying to fold him back inside her heart and keep him there forever.
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.
"I want 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. Let me take you in."
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 Valerius. 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. With you."
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."
~~~~~~
After the bath, Ginny finally coaxed Blaise into bed, his body heavy with exhaustion, his mind still distant but his eyes never leaving hers. 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. His breath caught in his throat and for a heartbeat, he couldn't answer. 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: not with questions about what had happened, but with presence.
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.
And that was enough.
~~~~~~
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 him, 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.
"Lysander!" she called, sitting up straighter. "Be careful with the roses, darling! 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 shirt 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."