What are friends for

Hermione stepped through the door, her gaze sweeping over the elegantly decorated space, every detail a reflection of the people who lived there. Warmth and refinement intertwined seamlessly, much like its owners. A quiet sense of relief settled in her chest—Ginny looked radiant, happiness evident in the easy way she carried herself, and Blaise… he seemed more at ease than she had ever seen him. A subtle, almost lazy smile played on his lips, a rare sight that spoke volumes.

Before she could say a word, Ginny was already moving, her face lighting up as she rushed forward and pulled Hermione into a tight embrace. "Hermione! Oh, I've missed you so much!" Her voice was thick with emotion, her grip fierce, the kind of embrace that spoke louder than words—one that said I missed you, I needed you, I'm so glad you're here.

Hermione held her just as tightly, a wave of affection washing over her. "Ginny, love, I've missed you too. Far too much time has passed." She drew back slightly, her gaze shifting to Blaise, who stood a few steps away, hands tucked effortlessly into his pockets. His expression remained composed, the picture of cool detachment, but Hermione had long since learned how to read him. There was something softer in his eyes, a quiet acknowledgment of the moment, a warmth most people would miss.

"Zabini," she greeted, her tone laced with dry amusement.

His lips curved into a smooth, knowing smile. "Granger. As always, the pleasure is mine." His voice was velvet—polished, effortless, charming. But beneath the practiced ease, she caught the sincerity in it. There was no tension between them, no remnants of old rivalries—just a quiet understanding of how far they had come.

Hermione let out a small laugh, her eyes flicking between the two of them, noticing how effortlessly they fit together. It wasn't just the way they stood close, but something subtler—the quiet ease between them, the way Ginny leaned toward Blaise without thinking, the way he never pulled away. A swell of pride rose in her chest. Ginny had been through so much, and yet here she was, steady, glowing in a way Hermione hadn't seen in years.

"So," Hermione said, clasping her hands in front of her, her tone light but genuinely curious. "Tell me—how are you? Both of you." She glanced between them, but Ginny was the first to answer.

"Oh, Hermione," she said with a soft laugh, her eyes sparkling. "Everything is… as good as it could be." A faint blush colored her cheeks, warmth threading through her voice. Hermione didn't miss the way Ginny's fingers brushed against Blaise's arm, a casual but telling gesture. And Blaise—he didn't stiffen, didn't move away. Instead, his gaze flickered toward Ginny, something quiet and unreadable passing over his face.

Hermione felt happiness stir inside her, but there was a knowing part of her that lingered on the words Ginny hadn't said. She had known her for too long not to sense when there was more to the story.

"Perfect, you say?" Hermione teased, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "No arguments? No disagreements? Everything's just… perfect?"

Ginny's laughter was light, amused. "Oh, come on, Hermione. You know better than that." She shot a playful glance at Blaise, her lips curling into a conspiratorial grin. "We're not saints. We have our moments, of course. But… it works. We work." She looked back at Hermione then, something sincere and certain in her expression. "And that's what matters, isn't it?"

Blaise let out a quiet chuckle, his voice a low hum of amusement. "Indeed, Granger," he said smoothly. "Perfection is an illusion, but balance… that's real."

Hermione arched an eyebrow, intrigued by his wording. "Balance, huh?" She shot Ginny a knowing look.

Ginny grinned and shrugged. "You know me. I like to keep him on his toes."

Hermione laughed, the warmth of it filling the space between them. "Oh, that I don't doubt."

For a moment, silence settled over them—not awkward, but comfortable, the kind of quiet that only old friends could share. Hermione took a slow breath, letting herself relax into it. She had worried, of course. Worried that Ginny's marriage to Blaise might have been something forced, something difficult, something that dimmed the fire in her. But watching her now, standing so easily beside him, her confidence untouched, Hermione felt some of that worry ease.

Ginny suddenly turned the tables, tilting her head as she studied Hermione. "And what about you? How's life treating you?"

Hermione smiled, but there was something unreadable in her eyes. "Oh, you know—busy as ever. Work keeps me on my toes, and… other things."

Ginny's eyes narrowed slightly, her curiosity immediately piqued. "Other things?" she echoed with a grin. "You'll have to tell me all about that later."

Hermione let out a quiet chuckle. "Of course," she said, before her expression softened. "But for now, I just wanted to make sure you're happy."

Ginny held her gaze, something unspoken passing between them. "I am," she said softly. "Really, I am."

Blaise's hand rested lightly on Ginny's back, a subtle but reassuring touch. "Granger," he said, his voice calm, steady. "You're always welcome here. Don't be a stranger."

Hermione smiled at that, something warm settling in her chest. "I won't. And I'm glad to see you both doing well."

She could feel it—the depth of what they had built together. The silent trust, the unspoken understanding. This wasn't just a marriage for show, or convenience. It was real. It was solid. And as she looked at them, Hermione felt something unexpected bloom in her chest.

As soon as Blaise was out of earshot, Ginny wasted no time. She practically bounced on the sofa, turning to Hermione with a wicked gleam in her eyes. She had been waiting far too long for this—the moment his departure signaled the start of an overdue gossip session. And she wasn't about to waste it.

"But now, more importantly," she said, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper, "tell me about you and Draco."

Hermione arched an eyebrow, feigning indifference as she took a slow sip of her tea. "What about him?" she asked, though the faint smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her amusement.

Ginny groaned, throwing her head back dramatically. "Oh, don't do that!" She shot Hermione an exasperated look. "Come on, how's the marriage? Spill the details."

Hermione swirled her tea absently, as if weighing her words. "Surprisingly… pleasant," she said at last, the softness in her voice catching Ginny's attention.

Ginny narrowed her eyes. "Pleasant?" she repeated incredulously. "You're impossible. Give me something real, Hermione." Then, as if the thought had just struck her, she grinned wickedly. "Wait… is he big?"

Hermione nearly choked on her tea. "GINNY!" she sputtered, her cheeks instantly flaming. "What the hell kind of question is that? And why would I ever tell you something like that?"

Ginny leaned back with a smug smile, arms crossed. "Because it's your duty as my best friend. You owe me the tea, and I don't mean this pathetic excuse for a conversation," she said, nodding toward the teapot.

Hermione groaned, rubbing her temples. "Honestly, Gin, we've only kissed. That's it." She paused, giving her a sharp look. "And even if I did know… you know… that… I still wouldn't tell you."

Ginny sighed dramatically, shaking her head. "Bummer. I mean, the way he carries himself—so confident, so put together—he has to be huge. There's no way a man can have that much swagger without backing it up." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"Ginevra Weasley!" Hermione all but shrieked, gaping at her in horror. "Do NOT talk about my husband like that!"

She burst into laughter, delighted by Hermione's mortified expression. "Oh, come on, you are so boring," she teased, though her voice was light with affection.

Hermione exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "So I've heard," she muttered, but despite her exasperation, a small smile tugged at her lips. She had missed this—Ginny's ability to make her laugh, to push her out of her comfort zone, even when it was wildly inappropriate.

Ginny wasn't done. "I'm just saying," she pressed on, grinning, "you've been married to Draco Malfoy for months. Surely, there's more to the story than just a kiss."

Hermione shifted slightly, suddenly feeling the weight of Ginny's attention. "It's complicated," she admitted with a sigh. "You know why we got married. It wasn't for love. And Draco… he's complicated. I can't just—" She hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's not like I can just jump into his arms and expect everything to fall into place."

Ginny's teasing demeanor softened. "Hey, I get it," she said gently. "You two didn't exactly have a fairy-tale romance before tying the knot. But I've seen you together, Hermione. There's something there. You care about him, don't you?"

Hermione hesitated. Her fingers played with the edge of her sleeve, a nervous habit she hadn't outgrown. Finally, she nodded. "I do," she admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "More than I ever thought I would."

Ginny reached across the table, squeezing Hermione's hand. "And what about him?" she asked. "Does he care about you?"

Hermione swallowed, her mind flashing through the moments that lingered in her memory—the way Draco's gaze softened when he thought she wasn't looking, the quiet concern in his voice when he asked if she was alright, the way he touched her hand absentmindedly, as if it was second nature.

"I think he does," she murmured, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "But it's hard to tell with him. He's so guarded. So… closed off."

"Well, you both are," Ginny pointed out. "Maybe that's why it works. You don't need to rush anything, Hermione. You'll get there."

Hermione nodded, the knot in her chest loosening slightly. "Thanks, Gin," she said softly. "I'm still figuring things out."

Ginny grinned, the mischievous glint returning to her eyes. "Well, when you do figure it out, I expect full details—including that." She winked, her smirk widening as Hermione groaned in protest.

"You're impossible," Hermione huffed, but she couldn't stop the laughter bubbling in her chest. It felt good—this, her—laughing, joking, feeling normal again, even if her best friend had no concept of boundaries.

Ginny leaned back against the cushions, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "That's why you love me."

Hermione sighed, shaking her head with a smile. "That's exactly why."

~~~~~~

The three of them were deep into their third bottle of Firewhiskey, conversation growing looser and louder with each pour. Blaise, his smirk widening as he refilled his glass, eyed Theo with an exaggerated air of curiosity. "So, I hear you're about to become a father, Theo?"

Theo let out a laugh, swirling the amber liquid in his glass with a nostalgic sigh. "Aye, mate. Feels surreal, really. Seems like only yesterday we were sneaking Firewhiskey into the Slytherin common room, and now—Merlin help me—I'm about to be a dad." His expression softened, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Luna, though… she's something else. Glowing like some goddess from a Renaissance painting. Botticelli would've tossed his brushes in frustration trying to capture her."

Blaise snorted into his drink, shaking his head. "Radiant goddess, you say? Sounds familiar." A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink. "Ginny's got that beat any day. I mean, have you seen that redhead recently? She's pure fire."

Theo nearly choked on his drink, spraying Firewhiskey across the table in a wild laugh that earned a disgruntled grumble from a snoring goblin in the booth next to them. "Ginny? Fiery?" Theo wheezed, catching his breath. "Blaise, have you been hit with one Bludger too many? That Weasley menace?"

Blaise leaned forward, his smirk deepening. "Oh, come on, Nott. Don't be daft. Look past the hand-me-down Weasley jumpers for a minute. The girl's got hair like a bloody sunset—no, better than a sunset. Fiery waves that'd put a phoenix to shame. And those green eyes? You can't tell me they don't put your heart through the wringer just looking at them."

Theo shook his head, his laughter bubbling up again. "Alright, alright, Zabini. But I'm telling you, Luna's got a magic of her own—wild, unpredictable, and utterly uncontainable. Botticelli couldn't do her justice, and neither could any sappy line you come up with for Ginny."

Blaise threw his head back, laughing loudly enough to draw a few raised eyebrows from the nearby patrons. "Touché, but we'll see who wins this battle of the muses."

Blaise smirked as he elbowed Theo, his voice carrying across the pub with a teasing lilt. "Look who's finally decided to crawl out of his moody abyss. Draco's been sitting here brooding like a bloody thundercloud. What's the matter, mate? Did your little lioness sink her claws into you? She's a right handful, isn't she? A proper minx."

Draco's jaw clenched, his grip tightening around his glass. His voice came out low, dangerous. "Don't ever talk about my wife like that again."

Blaise merely raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. "Relax, Malfoy, just having a bit of fun," he chuckled. Then, as if finally realizing something, his smirk widened. "Wait—have you actually done anything about it? You're looking a bit… pent up."

Draco exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before muttering, "We kissed. A few times."

A beat of silence. And then Blaise howled with laughter, slamming a hand against the table so hard their Firewhiskey nearly toppled over. A startled pixie, perched on a dusty shelf nearby, let out an indignant squeak and took flight.

"Kissed?" Blaise wheezed, gasping between fits of laughter. "You're telling me that's all you've done? Merlin's bollocks, Malfoy, I thought you were supposed to be the smooth one! You're living with the woman, you married the woman, and yet—kisses? What are you, a fourth-year?"

Theo, shaking his head in mock disappointment, leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink with an air of faux sympathy. "That's just sad, mate. Absolutely tragic."

Draco scowled, but the blush creeping up his neck betrayed him. He stared down at his drink, swirling the amber liquid with a brooding intensity. "You think I don't bloody want to?" he snapped. "Every damn day, I wake up and see her—her hair, her skin, the way she bites her lip when she's concentrating—I'm losing my fucking mind. But if I do anything, if I push too far, she'll hex my bollocks into another dimension. So yeah, I'm stuck with wanking."

Theo snorted into his drink, while Blaise nearly fell out of his chair with laughter. "That," Blaise managed, breathless, "is the most tragic thing I have ever heard. Draco Malfoy—wealthy, handsome, legally wed—and he's still wanking like a desperate schoolboy. Pathetic."

Draco glared at him, his frustration bubbling dangerously close to the surface. Theo, sensing impending doom, raised his hands in a peace offering. "Alright, alright, let's not push him into full meltdown mode. But mate," he added, his voice taking on a conspiratorial lilt, "you need to take some initiative. A well-timed compliment, some candlelight, a little—"

"Don't even suggest the fucking candlelight, Nott," Draco growled, his voice sharp with exasperation.

The way he slammed his nearly-empty glass onto the table made even Blaise momentarily pause. Theo blinked, then, attempting to lighten the mood, gestured to the bar. "Another round, then? Maybe some liquid courage will help."

But Draco was already pushing himself up from the booth, his movements jerky and agitated. "Where do you think you're going?" Blaise called after him, his smirk still firmly in place.

"Air," Draco muttered darkly, shoving his chair back and stalking towards the exit.

The cool night air hit him like a slap, doing little to calm the fire burning beneath his skin. He braced his hands against the wall of the pub, inhaling deeply, trying to steady himself.

Blaise was right. He was being a coward. And that was unacceptable. 

Drunk Italian Blaise had the sharp tongue of a viper and the accuracy of a cursed arrow. Mean, brutally honest, and annoyingly right.

Draco's jaw clenched, but instead of a retort, a strange determination flickered in his eyes. He muttered something about Blaise's "oversized blabbermouth" and stalked out of the pub.

Theo and Blaise remained in the pub, the mood lightening as they continued their discussion. The tension had ebbed away, replaced by a comfortable camaraderie that only alcohol and shared experiences could foster.

Theo, leaning back in his chair with a wistful smile, took a long sip of his Firewhiskey. "You know," he began, his voice softening with affection, "Luna has this way of making everything seem magical. The other day, she surprised me with a picnic in the garden—simple, but it was like stepping into a dream. She's radiant, you know? Sometimes, I look at her and think Botticelli couldn't have painted a more perfect portrait."

Blaise raised his glass in a mock toast. "Cheers to that. Ginny's got her own way of making magic. It's not just the way she looks, though her fiery hair and those emerald eyes could enchant anyone. It's her spirit—she's got this incredible energy that just lights up a room. She's like a whirlwind of passion and kindness. You can't help but be swept up in her."

Theo chuckled, nodding in agreement. "I know what you mean. Luna's like that too. Even when she's just sitting quietly, there's this aura about her that makes everything feel right. She's one of a kind."

Blaise grinned, swirling his drink. "Ginny's always up to something, but it's never boring. She challenges me, makes me see the world differently. I wouldn't have it any other way. Sometimes I think she's got a bit of a cheeky side, though. She can be a handful, but I wouldn't trade her for the world."

His eyes twinkled with affection. "Luna's the same way. She's got this wild streak, but it's what makes her so captivating. And she's so supportive. Whenever I'm down or worried, she's right there with a calming word or a gentle touch. She's my rock."

Blaise chuckled, raising his glass. "Here's to our incredible wives—each with their own kind of magic that keeps us grounded and makes every day an adventure."

Theo clinked his glass with Blaise's, a genuine smile on his face. "To Ginny and Luna—the two most remarkable women we've ever known."

They drank to their wives, their conversation flowing easily as they shared more stories and laughter. The pub's atmosphere seemed to wrap them in a comforting embrace, a sanctuary where they could revel in the love they had for their extraordinary partners.

~~~~~~

He stumbled into their opulent home, the grand foyer bathed in the soft glow of enchanted sconces. His footsteps echoed against the polished marble floor as he leaned heavily against the door, barely managing to shut it behind him. His tie hung loose, his shirt half-untucked, and the unmistakable scent of Firewhiskey clung to him like a second skin.

With a lopsided grin, he threw his arms wide as if addressing the entire mansion. "GINNNYYYY!" His voice boomed through the house, bouncing off the high ceilings, thick with inebriated warmth. He swayed slightly, his balance unsteady, but his expression was alight with drunken affection.

She sighed from her place on the couch, already closing her book and setting it aside. Here we go again. He rarely drank like this, but when he did, it was always a spectacle. Pushing herself to her feet, she walked toward the entryway just as he stumbled into the living room, broad shoulders filling the doorway. Even in this state, there was something effortlessly magnetic about him. And despite herself—despite the chaos radiating off him—her heart softened.

"Oh, Merlin," she muttered, arms crossing as she took him in. "What happened?"

He blinked at her, dark eyes shining with unfiltered adoration. Swaying slightly, he took a deep breath before fixing her with a slow, lazy smile. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with affection, his Italian accent slurring slightly with the remnants of whiskey.

"Sei la donna più bella, più meravigliosa di questa terra, bambola."

Her lips twitched in amusement, but she fought to keep her expression neutral. She had seen this before—the grand, theatrical declarations, the drunken reverence. "Are you drunk?" she asked, though the answer was already written in the unsteady sway of his body and the whiskey-laced grin on his lips.

He let out a deep, booming laugh, his head tipping back as if she had told the funniest joke in the world. "Ah! Ubriaco? Moltissimo!" He threw his hands up in mock surrender, as if the very idea delighted him. His balance wavered, and for a second, it seemed like gravity might win, but she caught him by the arm just in time, steadying his broad frame before he could topple forward.

She sighed, shaking her head as she tucked herself under his arm for support. "Alright, you big oaf, let's get you to bed before you pass out on the floor."

He made a noise of protest, shaking his head vigorously. "No, no, no," he slurred, his voice full of exaggerated determination. He placed a heavy, slightly clumsy hand on her shoulder. "Aspetta… aspetta…" His dark eyes, glassy but filled with emotion, searched her face as if he was seeing her for the first time. "Devo dirti una cosa, amore mio."

She sighed again, though there was no real annoyance in it. "Go on, then," she said, bracing herself.

He exhaled, as if gathering all the words in his spinning head. "Ti amo," he announced with all the confidence of a man delivering the most profound truth in existence. "Amo tutto di te." He cupped her face, his large, warm hands surprisingly gentle. "La tua voce. I tuoi occhi. Il modo in cui mi guardi quando faccio l'idiota."

She bit her lip, torn between laughter and affection. "That does happen quite often."

He ignored her, far too absorbed in his drunken poetry. "La mia vita… la mia vita gira intorno a te," he continued, pausing only to hiccup. His fingers brushed over her cheek, clumsy but tender. "Sei il mio sole. Il mio tutto." 

She swallowed, feeling something tighten in her chest. For all his drunken ridiculousness, there was something painfully sincere in the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world keeping him upright, the only thing that truly mattered.

"Sei il battito del mio cuore," he murmured, voice lower now, rougher. His fingers trailed down her arm, his touch feather-light. "Il respiro nei miei polmoni. Il mio primo pensiero al mattino e l'ultimo la sera."

Her heart clenched, warmth spreading through her chest despite herself.

"You're impossible," she whispered, shaking her head as she reached up to brush a stray curl from his forehead.

He grinned, utterly lovestruck, swaying slightly but holding her gaze with unwavering intensity. "E tu sei mia." (

She huffed, pretending to be unimpressed. "Romantic words won't save you when you wake up with the hangover from hell."

His grin widened. "Ma ne vale la pena." 

She sighed, shaking her head as she looped an arm around his waist, guiding him toward the bedroom. "Come on, before you start reciting Shakespeare in Italian."

He gasped in mock offense. "Shakespeare? Cara, sono molto più romantico di così." 

She rolled her eyes, but as he leaned into her, warm and unguarded, she couldn't stop the small smile that crept onto her lips.

Her face softened at his words, even through the thick haze of alcohol. The slurred speech, the glassy eyes—none of it mattered. Because beneath all of that, beneath the drunken bravado and the unsteady swaying, was something raw and real. His love for her was undeniable, and in moments like this, when his walls were down and all that remained was emotion stripped bare, she could feel it wrapping around her like a warm blanket.

"Okay, baby," she murmured, pressing a hand to his chest in an attempt to steady him—and maybe, just maybe, to steady herself. "We'll talk about how much you love me in the morning, when you're not reeking of Firewhiskey and about two seconds away from toppling over. Right now, let's focus on getting you into the shower and then to bed, alright?"

He shook his head, stubborn as ever, his expression turning almost childishly adamant. "No, baby girl... you don't get it." His hands found her shoulders, gripping them with the exaggerated seriousness of a man who thought he was imparting the wisdom of the ages. "You are everything. My whole bloody universe." His breath hitched, and for a moment, something almost fragile flickered behind his drunken haze. "Without you, I'm—"

He swayed, losing his balance so suddenly that she had to lurch forward to catch him, barely managing to keep him upright.

"You're going to be on the floor in a minute if you don't let me help you," she teased, though her voice was laced with warmth, her grip on him tightening instinctively. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up before you start confessing your undying devotion to the furniture."

But he wasn't done. Of course he wasn't. He planted his feet—wobbly, but determined—and his voice rose with fresh intensity. "I'm serious, Gin. I don't say it enough. You deserve to hear it every day, every bloody minute." His fingers curled slightly against her arms, as if trying to ground himself in her presence. "You're the reason I wake up in the morning. You're the reason I—" His breath hitched again, something heavy settling in his chest. "I fight so hard, even when it's all shite."

Her teasing smile faltered slightly as she looked up at him, really looked at him.

There was something in his voice, in the way he was holding onto her like she was the only steady thing in his world, that made her stomach twist. It wasn't just drunken sentiment. It was truth, unfiltered and laid bare, tumbling from his lips without inhibition.

"Blaise…" her voice was softer now, not teasing, not chiding—just there.

He exhaled, long and slow, his head dipping until his forehead rested against hers. "I mean it," he whispered, the bravado finally giving way to something quieter. "I need you to know that."

She swallowed, lifting a hand to brush his curls back from his forehead, her fingers threading through the soft strands. "I do know that," she murmured. "Even when you're sober. Even when you don't say it."

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say more, but all that came was a deep, exhausted sigh.

She smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before looping her arm around his waist again. "Alright, Romeo, let's get you to that shower before you start composing sonnets."

He grumbled something incoherent but let her guide him down the hall, leaning against her the whole way, like she was the only thing keeping him from falling.

Even drunk out of his mind, he was still the man who adored her—the man who would take on the world for her if she so much as hinted at it.

"I know, baby, I know," she murmured, fingers threading through his curls as she stroked the back of his head. "But if you don't let me get you into that shower right now, you're going to pass out on the floor, and I am not hauling your heavy arse to bed."

A deep, lazy chuckle rumbled against her. "You'd do it, though," he mumbled, his lips barely brushing the skin of her shoulder. "Because you love me."

She rolled her eyes, though the warmth in her chest never faded. "Yeah, yeah, don't push it. Now come on, darling, before you start professing your love to the furniture."

With more effort than should have been necessary, she managed to maneuver him down the hallway and into the bathroom, guiding him onto the edge of the tub. He swayed slightly, blinking slowly as she leaned over to turn on the water, testing the warmth with her hand.

Behind her, his voice softened, quieter now, more unguarded. "I can't believe I got so lucky."

She stilled for just a second before turning to face him. His head was tilted back slightly, his dark eyes hazy but still holding that undeniable sincerity.

"You're too good for me, you know that, right?" he continued, his voice thick with something more than alcohol. "You could've had anyone. Potter, maybe. Hell, he would've tried again if you'd given him a second look. But you chose me."

She crossed her arms, a teasing smirk curling at the corner of her lips. "Are you seriously getting sentimental on me right now?"

He blinked up at her, looking oddly serious for a man who could barely sit up straight. "Yeah. I am." His fingers found hers, warm and solid, pulling her close until she stood between his knees. His grip was loose but insistent, his gaze locking onto hers with startling clarity despite the Firewhiskey dulling his edges.

"I love you, doll," he murmured, voice steady in a way that almost sobered him. "Don't ever forget that. Even when I'm too stubborn to say it. You're it for me. You're my forever."

Her heart clenched, breath hitching in her throat.

This—this—was why she loved him. Beneath the arrogance and the teasing smirks, beneath the lazy drawl and the effortlessly smooth charm, was this man. The one who loved deeply, recklessly, with everything he had.

She leaned down, brushing her lips against his forehead, letting them linger there for a beat longer than necessary.

"I like you too , you idiot," she whispered against his skin. Then, pulling back with a smirk, she added, "Now, let's get you into that shower before you start waxing poetic again."

His grin was slow, lazy, and utterly smitten. "Only if you join me."

She snorted, shaking her head. "Not tonight, Zabini. Maybe tomorrow—if you behave."

He groaned dramatically, but let her help him undress, allowing the promise of a warm shower and a soft bed to finally win over his drunken proclamations of love.

And as the water cascaded over him, washing away the scent of Firewhiskey and the remnants of the night, a smile tugged at his lips. Because no matter how hammered he got, no matter how many times he stumbled, she would always be there to catch him.

~~~~~~

The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over the room. He blinked groggily, his skull pounding with the unmistakable aftermath of Firewhiskey. Unfortunately, his memory was perfectly intact. Every slurred declaration, every dramatic speech, every moment of near-teary sentimentality—he remembered everything.

Beside him, she lay curled against the pillows, fiery hair a tangled mess across the sheets, a serene little smile tugging at the corners of her lips. He swallowed, a slow wave of mortification creeping over him. Merlin, I really said all that, didn't I?

In a weak attempt to maintain some dignity, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Maybe, if he played it cool enough, she wouldn't bring it up.

She stirred, blinking sleepily before turning her head toward him. The second her lips curved into a smirk, he knew he was doomed.

"Good morning, lover boy," she teased, her voice still husky from sleep but laced with unmistakable amusement.

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. Yep. She's bringing it up.

"Good morning, baby girl," he murmured, his voice rough—not just from sleep, but from sheer embarrassment. After a pause, he inhaled deeply and added, as smoothly as possible, "I would like to formally apologize for my behavior last night."

Her smirk only widened. She rolled onto her side, resting a hand lazily on his chest. "Oh, it's okay, darling," she cooed, voice light, feigning innocence. "Nothing happened."

His brow furrowed as he propped himself up slightly, dread pooling in his stomach. "But it did happen," he said, too earnestly, his face warming with the realization. "I remember everything." He groaned, flopping onto his back and staring at the ceiling. "I said… so many things."

Her eyebrows lifted as she barely suppressed a laugh. "Blaise," she repeated, playful but patient, "nothing happened."

He turned his head toward her, eyes narrowing. "You're lying." He groaned louder, dragging a hand down his face. "I remember telling you that you were my... my sun, Gin. My whole bloody universe. Who says that?"

That was it—she couldn't hold it in anymore. Laughter spilled from her lips, bright and unapologetic, filling the room. He peeked at her through his fingers, mortified.

"Okay, fine," she admitted between giggles, "you were a bit sentimental." She grinned wickedly. "A little dramatic."

He let out a suffering groan, throwing a pillow over his face. "I'm never drinking again." His voice came out muffled, but the sheer self-loathing was clear.

She snatched the pillow away, leaning over to brush a lingering kiss against his cheek. "Relax, you idiot," she murmured, rolling her eyes. "You might have been drunk, but I know you meant every word."

His face flushed—half embarrassment, half something far too vulnerable for this early in the morning. Clearing his throat, he tried to school his features into something resembling composure. "Well, yeah, I meant it," he admitted gruffly. "But there's a time and a place for grand declarations of love, and…" He sighed. "Drunk on Firewhiskey wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

She chuckled, eyes glinting with amusement as she nudged him playfully. "I don't know..." she mused, tilting her head as if deep in thought. "I kind of like you when you're all sappy. Makes you a little less…" She paused, tapping a finger against her chin, dragging out the moment just to watch him squirm. "...Zabini."

He narrowed his eyes, half offended, half intrigued. "Less Zabini?" he repeated, skepticism dripping from every syllable.

She grinned. "You know what I mean. Less mysterious. More… lovesick puppy."

He visibly cringed. "Fantastic. Exactly the image I've worked my whole life to cultivate."

She snorted. "Oh, please. You act like being soft is the worst thing in the world."

"It is when you compare me to a puppy," he shot back, rolling onto his side to glare at her, though there was no real bite behind it.

"A very attractive puppy," she amended, grinning wickedly.

He groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "Merlin, just kill me now."

She only laughed, leaning in to press a kiss against his lips. It started light, teasing, but melted into something slower, something deeper. When she pulled back, she let her fingers trace his jaw, her expression softer now. "Don't worry," she murmured, lips still brushing against his. "I like both sides of you."

Something inside him eased at that, the remnants of last night's embarrassment dissolving under the weight of her affection. He kissed her back, lingering a little longer than necessary, as if grounding himself in her warmth.

Still, when he pulled away, the groan returned, along with a long-suffering sigh. "But seriously… I am never drinking again."

She gave him a slow, knowing look, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Mmmhmm."

He frowned. "What?"

"You say that every time," she said, drawing lazy circles on his chest with her fingertips. "And yet, somehow, miraculously, I always find myself carrying your ridiculously heavy arse to bed after a few too many Firewhiskeys."

He huffed, feigning indignation. "I am not ridiculously heavy."

She gave him a deadpan look. "Baby, you're built like a damn marble statue. You weigh a ton."

"Are you saying I should drink less or that you should go to the gym?" he teased, arching an eyebrow.

She gasped, smacking his shoulder. "You ass!"

He grinned, victorious. "See? There's the real Ginny. You were getting too sweet there for a second. I was starting to worry."

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the way she smiled as she tucked herself against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. Enjoy your moment, Zabini."

"I always do, bambola," he murmured, dropping a lazy kiss to the top of her head.

They lay there in comfortable silence, her fingers still drawing idle patterns against his skin, his arm wrapped securely around her. The morning stretched before them, warm and slow, the weight of last night's confessions settling in a way that felt… right.

Eventually, she sighed, tilting her head up to look at him. "Just so we're clear… if you ever get drunk and start waxing poetic about me again, I am recording it."

His groan was immediate. "Gin—"

"—and I will play it at your funeral."

He pulled the blanket over his face in pure suffering. "I hate you."

She grinned, tugging it back down just enough to kiss him again. "No, you don't."