Do I wanna know?

Ginny had never been one to back down from a challenge. And this? This was war.

She decided to push the boundaries, toying with a newfound confidence that sent a delicious thrill through her. Her battlefield? The house. Her weapon? Herself.

It started subtly—a whisper of silk against her skin, a robe tied just loosely enough to suggest more than it concealed. She moved through the halls like a cat—silent, fluid, fully aware of the effect she was about to have. If Blaise thought he could stay composed, if he thought he was above temptation, well… he was about to learn otherwise.

She had caught his lingering glances. The way his dark eyes would flick over her, always quick, always controlled—except she felt it. That quiet, restrained hunger that simmered just beneath the surface. He was a gentleman, of course. Refined. Calculated. But even Blaise Zabini had his limits.

And she was very interested in finding out exactly where they were.

It was early afternoon when she made her first move.

He had been locked away in his study for hours, the door slightly ajar, an unspoken invitation for distraction. She took it.

Barefoot, she drifted past his door, feigning disinterest, the long silk robe barely brushing against her thighs. She knew precisely how the soft fabric clung to her body, how it draped over her curves like water.

She didn't even glance inside. She didn't have to.

Seconds later—

CRASH.

A smirk curved her lips. Oh? Was that the sound of something breaking?

Her plan was working faster than expected.

For good measure, she let out a soft, almost innocent laugh as she continued down the hallway, ensuring the sound carried just enough for him to hear. Let him stew in it. Let him sit there, pretending his hands weren't clenched into fists, pretending he wasn't two seconds away from stalking out of that office and pinning her against the nearest wall.

She could practically feel the tension thrumming through the house like a live wire.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

By the time evening rolled around, she was ready to up the ante.

Her next move? Less fabric. More temptation.

She discarded the robe in favor of something even riskier—a lace-trimmed slip of a dress, thin straps, sheer in all the right places. It barely skimmed her thighs, whispering against her skin as she moved, each step a calculated strike.

She timed it perfectly.

The moment she heard his measured footsteps in the hallway, she stepped into his path.

Blaise froze.

For a moment, his expression remained unreadable—carefully neutral, perfectly composed.

But then, just for a flicker of a second, his control slipped.

His gaze dragged over her, slow and heavy, like a man staring down something he desperately wanted to ruin.

She tilted her head, her lips curving into an innocent smile. "Something wrong, amore?"

He blinked, his jaw tightening, like he was physically forcing himself to breathe properly.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Ginny." His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it—a warning wrapped in velvet.

She shrugged, feigning innocence as she strolled past him, her bare shoulder just barely grazing his arm.

"Am I?" she mused, glancing over her shoulder, eyes alight with mischief. "I hadn't noticed."

She could feel his eyes burning into her back as she disappeared around the corner, and she knew—knew without a doubt—this wasn't over.

The next morning, she decided it was time to raise the stakes.

No more subtle hints. No more fleeting glimpses or barely-there teases. If Blaise Zabini wanted to keep up this little charade of control, then she was going to make damn sure he struggled to hold onto it.

She emerged from their bedroom in nothing but a delicate lace bralette and a pair of shorts that could barely be classified as clothing. Soft, barely-there fabric that clung to her skin like a whisper, teasing just enough to be maddening.

It wasn't desperate. It wasn't obvious. It was just the perfect balance of effortless and devastating.

She moved through the house as if she had all the time in the world, her bare feet padding against the cool floors, the morning light catching the sheen of her skin as she stretched lazily.

And then, she passed his study.

She didn't hesitate. Didn't knock. Didn't pause.

She simply pushed the door open as if she had every right to. Because she did.

He was at his desk, brow furrowed in focus, a stack of official-looking documents in front of him. The scent of parchment, ink, and the faint trace of his cologne filled the air.

She stood in the doorway, pretending to look for something—giving him just enough time to see her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him freeze.

His quill hovered mid-sentence, his fingers tightening around it as though he'd forgotten how to move. His sharp, intelligent gaze swept over her like a man who had just realized he was losing a battle he hadn't even known he was fighting.

For a fraction of a second, his composure cracked. His jaw clenched. His tongue flicked over his lips like he was fighting every primal instinct screaming at him to react.

Then, just as quickly, he forced himself to look back down at his parchment, feigning indifference.

Except he wasn't indifferent at all.

Because that was when she heard it—the unmistakable sound of glass slipping from his grip.

A sharp clink against the wooden desk, then a crash as his half-full tumbler of bourbon shattered across the floor.

Her smirk was instantaneous.

She turned just in time to catch the aftermath—Blaise standing there, stiff, furious at himself, staring down at the mess like it had personally offended him.

The ever-composed, unshakable Zabini had just completely lost his cool.

Delicious.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her voice drenched in mock innocence. "Everything alright, Zabini?"

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his voice rougher than usual when he finally muttered, "Fine."

He crouched, collecting the shattered remnants of glass with a little too much force, his long fingers moving swiftly—almost as if the faster he cleaned up, the faster he could pretend it never happened.

Ginny watched him, bemused, tilting her head. "You should really be more careful," she mused, the corners of her lips twitching.

He didn't answer. Didn't even look at her. But the tension in his shoulders—the barely restrained frustration pulsing through his frame—told her everything she needed to know.

Oh, she was winning this. And she was just getting started.

For the next several days, she kept the pressure on.

A skimpy tank top here. A pair of obscenely short pajama bottoms there. Just enough to keep him teetering on the edge—enough to keep him staring for a second too long before snapping his gaze away, enough to make his fingers twitch like he was this close to doing something about it.

And the best part?

He never called her out on it.

Not once.

Which meant he knew exactly what was happening, and he was choosing to suffer through it.

And oh, did she make him suffer.

One evening, she walked past his study again, wearing nothing but a silky, barely-there nightgown.

No bra. No concern.

She felt his gaze before she even saw him.

The sound of ice clinking against glass. The deep, controlled inhale. The way the air seemed to thicken around them.

She didn't look back. She didn't have to.

She could feel him watching. Could sense the way his grip on his glass must have tightened, the way his resolve must have cracked just a little more.

And that? That was victory.

She smirked to herself, disappearing down the hall.

This was her house now, too.

And if she was going to be stuck here, she might as well make it fun.

Besides, she wasn't just playing for her own amusement.

Every shattered glass. Every clenched jaw. Every subtle, lingering glance he tried to suppress.

They were all little victories.

And with each one, she was getting closer to breaking through that careful, practiced mask of his.

After all, two could play this game— And Ginny Weasley never lost .

~~~~~~

Blaise had reached his limit.

For days, she had been toying with him, pushing him to the brink of his self-control, knowing exactly what she was doing. She sauntered around the house in barely-there fabric, flashing wicked smirks and coy glances, her every movement a deliberate act of seduction and defiance.

And he had played along. Let her have her fun.

But tonight?

Tonight, the game ended.

His patience snapped like a frayed thread as he stormed through the manor, his footsteps sharp and purposeful against the marble floors. Without hesitation, he shoved open the door to her room, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a force that sent a sharp crack echoing through the air.

Steam billowed out from the adjacent bathroom, thick and fragrant with the scent of lavender and rose.

And there she was.

Draped in nothing but water and bubbles, lounging in the oversized clawfoot tub like a goddess in her temple.

Her eyes went wide, her body instinctively tensing as she scrambled to cross her arms over her chest.

"What the hell are you doing, Zabini?" she snapped, her voice laced with shock and indignation. "Get out!"

But Blaise didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't even breathe.

His eyes were black as night, filled with an intensity that made her stomach twist.

"Get out?" he repeated, his voice low and lethal, dripping with sarcasm. "Not like you've left much to the imagination, baby girl."

Ginny's pulse hammered, but she refused to let him see her squirm.

Instead, she lifted her chin, brazen as ever, and smirked. "You're welcome," she drawled, her voice thick with mock sweetness.

And that was it. That was the final straw.

His jaw tightened, his entire body thrumming with restraint. He raked a hand through his curls, pacing along the edge of the tub like a predator deciding whether or not to pounce.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" he asked, his voice rough, almost dangerous.

She raised an eyebrow. "Should I not be?"

His eyes burned into her. "You think it's fun?" he said, his voice just a fraction louder now. "Walking around in nothing, making me hard all day, fucking with my head?"

Her smirk didn't waver. "Maybe I do."

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "Is that what this is to you? A joke?"

Her amusement faltered for just a second, but she refused to back down. "Why? You having a hard time keeping up?"

He stopped pacing.

Stopped breathing.

The room crackled with something dark, something molten, as he turned to face her fully.

And in that moment, Ginny realized she had just made a very, very big mistake.

Because she had been winning. She had been in control.

But now?

Now, Blaise Zabini was done playing.

He took a slow step closer, his voice soft but laced with a quiet warning.

"I've been patient."

Another step.

"I've given you space."

Another.

"But this?" He gestured to the bubbles barely covering her body, his gaze heavy, unapologetic. "This is not the way to make things easier."

Her breath hitched.

For the first time since she'd started this, she wasn't sure if she was in control anymore.

His presence was overwhelming, towering over her, wrapping around her like a vice. His gaze flicked over her—not just drinking her in, but analyzing, calculating.

He was so close now.

She could feel the heat of him, the raw tension radiating off his body in waves.

Her pulse skipped.

"You want to play games?" he murmured, crouching down beside the tub until his face was just inches from hers.

She swallowed, but held her ground. "Maybe I do."

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk.

"Fine," he murmured, his voice like a dark promise. "But don't act surprised when I decide to play back."

A shiver ran down her spine.

The undeniable pull between them, the tension that had been simmering for weeks, was now on the verge of breaking.

And she wasn't sure she wanted to stop it.

He stood to his full height, staring down at her, his voice quiet but edged with finality.

"I'm done pretending I don't want you."

And just like that, the game was no longer hers to control.

He turned sharply, heading for the door, but just before he stepped out, he glanced back over his shoulder.

"I'll be downstairs," he said, his voice a challenge. "If you're done with your game, you know where to find me."

And then he was gone.

Leaving only the ghost of his words, the warmth of his presence, and the unrelenting thrum of something dangerous and electric in the air.

She sat there, stunned, breathless.

Her bathwater was still warm. The steam still curled in the candlelight.

But the second he left the room, it was as if all the warmth had vanished.

And for the first time, she wasn't sure if she had pushed him too far.

Or maybe, just maybe—

She had finally gotten exactly what she wanted.

She finished washing up, her hands still trembling, though whether from frustration or something far more dangerous, she wasn't sure. The conversation—no, the fight—still buzzed in her veins, leaving her unsteady, breathless.

She took her time making her way downstairs, smoothing a hand over her dress as if it could somehow rein in the chaos still swirling inside her. She wasn't shaken. She wouldn't let him see that he had affected her. She was in control here.

But when she reached the dimly lit living room, she knew immediately that Blaise had been waiting for her.

He lounged far too casually, draped across the armchair as if this was just another evening, as if they hadn't just torn each other apart upstairs with words that cut sharper than knives.

But his eyes—those dark, piercing eyes—were locked onto her the moment she stepped inside.

"Ginerva," he greeted, his voice smooth as silk, laced with amusement. "Why is it that you refuse to talk to me, yet insist on taunting me?"

She smirked, arms folding across her chest in defiance. "Because it's fun."

His eyebrow quirked, his gaze raking over her as if she were the most interesting puzzle he had ever encountered. "Fun?" he mused, his tone deceptively light. "It's not fun for me. In fact, it's getting quite boring."

And then, just as easily as he had been playing along, his expression shifted. The teasing amusement vanished, leaving something cold and unreadable in its place.

"Tell me," he said, his voice calm but deliberate, "are you racist?"

Her jaw dropped, caught so off guard that she stumbled over her breath. "WHAT?" she nearly yelled, her body snapping upright in sheer disbelief.

He didn't move, didn't even blink. "Is that why you don't like me?" His voice was calm, unnervingly controlled. "Because I'm not exactly the pureblood ideal?"

A beat of silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

And then—she laughed. A sharp, incredulous bark of amusement that broke through the tension like glass shattering. "Merlin, no, you idiot!" she managed between breaths, shaking her head. "You think that's it?"

She stepped closer, eyes gleaming with a wicked sort of amusement, before flashing him a grin so sharp it could cut. "If anything, I'm quite fond of your chocolateness—if you know what I mean."

He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Got it," he murmured, his lips twitching despite himself.

But Ginny wasn't done. Just as quickly, her expression darkened, the playfulness vanishing. The humor in her eyes was replaced with fire.

"No, that's not it at all," she continued, her voice dipping dangerously low. "You're a Death Eater."

The words dropped between them like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.

"That's why I hate you."

For a moment, there was nothing. No smirk. No comeback. Just silence.

His face barely changed, but something flickered—just for a second—in his gaze. Something dark and haunted.

When he finally spoke, it wasn't with his usual smooth arrogance.

"That's fair," he admitted quietly, his voice stripped of all bravado. "But people change. I'm not the same person I was."

Her throat tightened.

Because she wanted to believe him. But belief was dangerous, wasn't it? It meant letting her guard down.

It meant accepting that maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong about him.

And she wasn't ready for that.

"We'll see," she said simply, before turning on her heel, her heart hammering in her chest.

But before she could escape, he was suddenly there.

His chair scraped violently against the floor as he stood, his voice rising, cutting through the silence like a whip.

"Ginevra, stop!"

She froze, her back stiffening, but she didn't turn around.

"We need to have this conversation!" His frustration was palpable, but there was something else in his voice—something raw, something desperate.

"I need you."

Her breath hitched.

"I need you to talk to me, to be my partner."

She took a single step forward, still refusing to face him.

And that was when he snapped.

"We have a 90% match on our magical core evaluation for fuck's sake!" he burst out, his voice cracking with emotion. "Do you even know what that means? We're supposed to be soulmates!"

At that, she whirled around, her eyes blazing.

"And you know who has 99.8%?" she spat, her voice trembling with fury and something dangerously close to heartbreak. "Hermione and the Ferret!"

The words hit like a curse, slamming into the air between them.

"How do you feel about that?"

Blaise stilled.

But Ginny wasn't finished.

"His auntie tortured her!" Her voice broke, raw with emotion. "What a lovely story for them to tell their kids one day, huh? About how the woman he loves was Crucioed by his own family."

His throat tightened. He hadn't forgotten. How could he?

It was all of them. The sins of their past, the names they bore, the bloodlines they carried. They would never outrun it.

"And you think I don't carry that weight?" he said, his voice low, strained. "You think I don't regret every damn thing? I'm not proud of it. But I'm trying. I'm trying to make this work.*"

She stared at him, her breath unsteady.

"But why?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Why are you even trying?"

And then he was closer. Not touching, not pushing—just there.

"Because I can't pretend this doesn't matter to me." His voice was softer now, aching. "You matter. I need you to see that.*"

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her heart pounding against her ribs.

She wanted to fight him. Wanted to push him away. But she couldn't.

Because in that moment, he wasn't a Death Eater.

He wasn't the arrogant, too-handsome, too-smug bastard who had tormented her with gifts and stolen glances.

He was just Blaise.

And for the first time, that terrified her.

A breath passed between them, thick and heavy.

And then, out of nowhere—

"I want to kiss you."

The words tumbled from her lips, shocking even herself. His eyes widened, completely caught off guard.

She had stunned Blaise Zabini into silence.

And that? That was satisfying.

"What—?"

Before he could even think, she grabbed him by the collar, yanked him down to her level, and crashed her lips against his.

It was fire, and it was rage, and it was everything unspoken between them.

And when she pulled away, her breath shaky, she gave him a smirk so sharp it could cut.

"I've always wondered what it's like to kiss a Death Eater," she mused, voice dripping with mockery and defiance.

Before he could even form a response, she turned on her heel and walked away.

He stood there, stunned, wrecked, and absolutely breathless.

Bloody. Fucking. Hell. Ginny Weasley was going to ruin him.

~~~~~~

He raked a hand through his curls, his fingers trembling slightly. Merlin, he was so utterly and completely screwed. No—fucked, to be exact.

Ginny had officially taken up permanent residence in his mind, and there was no escaping her. It wasn't just infatuation, wasn't just the slow, creeping realization that he wanted her—it was an obsession, an all-consuming storm that he hadn't seen coming until it was too late. He couldn't even pinpoint when it started. Had it been the moment she stormed into his life with fire in her eyes, daring him to think he could control her? Had it been when she looked at him over the dinner table like she was trying to decide whether to kiss him or kill him? Or had it been that goddamn kiss?

Hell, that kiss.

It haunted him. He could still taste her, still feel the imprint of her body against his, still hear the way her breath hitched when he deepened it. The fire in her touch, the way she matched him in every possible way—Ginny Weasley was not a woman who yielded. She met him head-on, demanded more, made him want more.

I'm fucked.

He groaned inwardly, leaning against the nearest wall, dragging a hand down his face as if that would somehow wipe away the thoughts of her that clung to him like a curse. He hadn't even tried to stop thinking about her. Why the hell would he? She had become the axis around which his mind revolved, and it was getting dangerous.

Each night, she invaded his dreams, vivid and undeniable. She was everywhere—her laughter echoing in his ears, the softness of her skin just within reach, the phantom warmth of her body pressed against his. He dreamt of stolen moments, whispered confessions in the dark, her voice calling his name like a prayer, like a curse. And the worst part? He didn't want to wake up. Because the morning meant reality. And in reality, she wasn't his.

Yet, somehow, he still wanted her to be.

But this wasn't just about wanting. No, this was deeper, more dangerous. She didn't just tempt him—she unraveled him, dismantled every piece of the carefully built life he had constructed for himself. He was a man who thrived on control, on precision, on knowing exactly how to bend the world to his will. But her? She bent for no one. And somehow, that only made him crave her more.

And now? Now she was playing with him. The little games, the teasing glances, the way she moved around the house, practically daring him to lose his composure. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she was enjoying every second of it. She walked past him with nothing but silk clinging to her skin, left doors open just long enough for him to catch a glimpse, let her fingers brush against him when they passed each other in the hall—tiny, insignificant gestures that had him losing his goddamn mind.

Focus, Zabini, he told himself, but it was useless. He was past the point of return, drowning in her, and he wasn't even sure he wanted to fight it anymore.

"I'm so fucked."

His own voice echoed in the stillness, a confession to the empty room. When had this gotten so bad? Maybe it was that night at Malfoy's, when she walked in wearing that dress, looking like she owned the world and didn't give a damn who knew it. Maybe it was when she brushed past him in the hallway, the scent of her perfume lingering long after she was gone. Or maybe it was when she kissed him like she wanted to burn the world down around them.

He had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of detachment. Blaise Zabini didn't get attached. He didn't need. And yet, here he was, standing in the dark, aching for a woman who had no idea how thoroughly she had wrecked him.

He'd never wanted anything more in his entire goddamn life.

He stepped through the heavy doors of his grand, silent estate, the weight of the night pressing down on him. His jacket was soaked—not with rain, but with the blood of another job completed, another life extinguished under the cover of darkness. The smell of iron clung to him, the remnants of magic still crackling at his fingertips, and for the first time in a long time, he felt it.

Not the satisfaction of a mission well executed. Not the rush of victory.

Just... tired.

The house was quiet, eerily so, its opulence lost on him as he strode through the dimly lit corridors. The grand chandeliers, the antique paintings, the marble floors—none of it mattered. Not when the shadows clung to him like old ghosts, whispering reminders of who he was, what he'd done. He had long since accepted that his hands would never be clean, that his name would never be free of the weight it carried.

But tonight, as he walked through the suffocating silence of a home that had never quite felt like his, all he could think about was her.

Ginny. His wife. His problem. His undoing.

She wasn't here—he knew that. And yet, he found himself walking toward her room anyway, as if some part of him expected to see her waiting there. As if she should be here.

He let out a sharp exhale, raking a hand through his curls. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the still-throbbing ache in his knuckles from earlier, or the way his ribs protested every time he breathed too deeply. Or maybe—Merlin help him—maybe it was the fact that he had spent every single moment of his day thinking about a woman who was meant to be nothing more than a contract, a formality, a name on parchment.

Instead, she was everything.

He stopped outside her door, hand hovering over the knob. He should walk away. He should go to his own room, clean up, forget about her.

But he wouldn't. Because the truth was, he didn't want to forget.

And that? That was the most dangerous thing of all.

He had always prided himself on control, on his ability to compartmentalize, to separate duty from distraction. His mind was a fortress, his emotions locked behind walls so thick that nothing—not fear, not guilt, not desire—could penetrate them.

Until her.

Lately, she haunted him. Not just in the quiet moments, not just in the spaces between missions when he allowed himself a breath of normalcy, but in the thick of it. During his assignments, when his wand was raised, when his focus should have been razor-sharp. When his target's final breath was leaving their lips, and instead of cold detachment, all he could think about was her. The way her hair gleamed in candlelight, the sharp bite of her sarcasm, the way she challenged him without fear. The sound of her laughter echoed in his mind at the most inopportune moments, shattering the focus he had spent years perfecting.

This was a problem. A weakness. And Blaise did not do weakness.

Yet, here he was, pacing his study, the weight of his past and the inevitability of his future pressing down on him. He knew it was time. He had spent too long dodging her questions, avoiding her sharp eyes when she looked at him like she knew, like she saw through him in a way no one else ever had. He wasn't a man who explained himself. He never had to be. But for her? For the woman who had somehow taken root in his soul, unwelcome but impossible to ignore?

He would tell her everything.

A memory projection hovered in the center of the room, flickering like an old film reel. He had spared no detail. It was all there—his past, his choices, the moments that had forged him into the man he was. The things that haunted him at night when even he couldn't pretend to be untouchable.

The door creaked open behind him. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. He felt her before he saw her, an unmistakable presence, like heat before a fire.

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with wary curiosity. "What's this?" she asked, her voice carrying that familiar blend of defiance and challenge.

He turned to her, expression unreadable. "An explanation," he said simply. "How I became a Death Eater."

For the first time since she had entered the room, her posture stiffened, the teasing edge in her voice vanishing. "I didn't think you'd ever actually tell me."

Blaise exhaled slowly. "I wasn't going to. But you deserve to know."

Something flickered in her eyes—wariness, perhaps even the beginnings of trust. But she said nothing.

He lifted his wand, and the projection shifted. The image of his seventeen-year-old self appeared, standing before a group of masked figures. Even in the memory, his expression was carefully schooled, his face a mask of indifference. But he remembered that night vividly. He remembered the cold grip of fear clawing at his insides as he faced the man who was supposed to be the most powerful wizard of their time.

Voldemort stood at the center, his pale, snake-like features illuminated by the flickering torchlight.

She inhaled sharply. Even now, even in a memory, his presence was suffocating.

"This was the night I took the Mark," he said, his voice emotionless, detached. "I was raised with expectations, Mia cara. My mother cared about wealth, status, power. Voldemort was rising, and to her, it was an opportunity—a way to ensure our name remained untouchable. I was given a choice."

Her gaze didn't leave the projection, but she spoke, her voice tight. "You mean an ultimatum."

His lips twitched, but there was no humor in it. "Refusal wasn't an option. You either joined, or you died. I thought—" He hesitated, as if saying it aloud made it more pathetic. "I thought if I joined, I could find a way out later. That was my first mistake. Thinking there was an exit once you were in."

The projection shifted. The next image showed a younger Blaise, sitting alone in a dimly lit room. His forearm was exposed, the fresh Dark Mark still angry and red against his skin. His fingers hovered over it, his expression unreadable.

"I hated it," he said quietly. "From the start. But once you take that Mark, you belong to them. Every mission, every order. You don't ask questions. You just follow."

Her gaze remained fixed on the scene, watching as memory-he rolled his sleeve down, his shoulders tense with quiet fury.

The images continued—flashes of missions, of faces, of the lives he had taken. His mother's approval. The silence that followed every kill. The hollowness that no amount of wealth or power could fill.

Then, the final scene.

He stood over a man, wand raised. The man's face was twisted in terror, his hands trembling as he begged for his life. The memory played without sound, but the agony in the man's eyes was deafening.

She flinched but didn't look away.

He lowered his wand, and the projection disappeared. Silence stretched between them.

Finally, she spoke, her voice rough. "And now?"

He met her gaze. "And now, I live with it."

Another silence. This time, heavier.

She turned away slightly, running a hand through her hair. "Why tell me this?" she asked, her voice quieter now.

"Because you deserve to know what kind of man you married," he admitted, his voice low. "And because you've made it clear you hate me for it. I don't blame you."

She didn't deny it. But she also didn't confirm it.

She sighed, rubbing her temples as if trying to process everything she had just seen. "I don't know what you expect me to say."

"I don't expect anything," he said simply.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I—" She stopped, looking at him then, really looking at him. "I need time."

Blaise nodded. It was the only answer he had expected.

She took a step toward the door but hesitated.

"The worst sin," she said quietly, her voice trembling, "is that you've destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing."

His throat tightened, but he said nothing as she left.

He was used to silence. But for the first time in years, it hurt.

"This was the turning point," he said quietly, watching the memory of himself hesitate before casting the curse. "I realized I had become exactly what they wanted me to be. A killer. A weapon. I'd convinced myself it was just survival, but it was more than that. I had become everything I despised."

Liar . 

The projection faded, and the room fell into a heavy silence. Heturned to look at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "I've done things that can't be undone. Things I'll never be able to make up for. I don't expect forgiveness. I don't even expect you to understand. But I need you to know—" His voice wavered slightly, something uncharacteristic for him. "—I'm not that man anymore. I'm not just a Death Eater, not just a killer."

Liar.

She stared at him, her arms uncrossing as she stepped closer, her expression unreadable. "Why now?" she asked quietly. "Why show me all of this now?"

"Because I need you to see me," he said, his voice rougher now, raw. "I need you to know that I'm not hiding anymore. If we're going to be stuck in this together, you deserve to know who I am. All of me. The good and the very, very ugly."

Liar .

She glanced at the now-empty projection, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I didn't think you were capable of feeling remorse," she admitted.

"You're not wrong," he said with a hollow laugh. "I've buried it for years. But you... you bring it to the surface, and I hate it. But I need it. I can't keep living like this. Not with you in my life."

She swallowed, her throat tightening as she tried to process everything he had shown her. The weight of his words and his past hung in the air, suffocating, yet something about his vulnerability, his willingness to expose the darkest parts of himself, tugged at her.

"You've done horrible things, Blaise," she finally said, her voice shaking slightly. "But... I see you. I see who you are now, and maybe that's what scares me the most."

He took a step closer, his gaze locked on hers, his heart pounding in his chest. "Then be scared," he whispered. "But don't walk away."

She looked at him for a long moment, the weight of his past and the complexity of their present crashing together in her mind. She knew this wasn't something that could be forgiven overnight. Maybe it could never be forgiven. But she saw him now, truly saw him—and that was a start.

Without a word, she nodded, her eyes still holding his. And in that silence, something shifted between them, a fragile understanding, an unspoken truth. He had bared his soul, and now, it was up to her whether she would destroy it or protect it.