Bridging the Distance

Ginny stood before the mirror, her brow furrowed in concentration as she scrutinized every detail of her reflection. The usual Sunday brunch was more than just a casual gathering—it had become a stage, a silent battleground of unspoken competition and unwritten expectations. Every week, the pressure to appear effortlessly perfect pressed down on her like an invisible weight, and today was no different.

She tugged at the hem of her dress, smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle, before stepping back to reassess. The deep crimson Valentino hugged her figure flawlessly, the rich fabric clinging in all the right places, accentuating the natural elegance she had worked so hard to master. The color deepened the fiery undertones in her auburn hair, which she had spent far too long styling into soft, deliberate waves. Her makeup, though seemingly minimal, had been applied with meticulous precision—just enough to highlight her cheekbones, bring warmth to her complexion, and enhance her sharp, knowing eyes. Polished, refined, effortless. Or at least, that's what she needed it to look like.

From downstairs, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the quiet clinking of silverware, a subtle reminder that time was slipping away. Blaise was already in the dining room, no doubt moving through the final preparations with his usual, almost infuriating, ease. She envied that about him—the way he could remain so composed, so unbothered, even in moments like these. But today, her nerves were humming beneath her skin, and she couldn't quite shake them.

She moved to her vanity, her fingers grazing the collection of jewelry laid out before her. Small, delicate chains, glistening diamonds, timeless gold. She reached for a pair of simple gold earrings before hesitating. Too understated. Today required something more.

She sifted through her collection, searching for the perfect touch—the balance between sophistication and quiet power. When her fingertips brushed against the emerald earrings he had gifted her months ago, she stilled. They shimmered in the soft light, deep green against gold, a sharp contrast to her skin. Yes. These. She fastened them in place, watching as they caught the light, adding just enough decadence to complete the look.

A deep breath. A slow exhale.

Composure.

Despite the calm she forced onto her face, her mind raced ahead, already spiraling into the expectations of the brunch to come. It wasn't just about looking perfect—it was about maintaining control. Holding her ground. Every detail mattered, from the pristine floral arrangements in the dining room to the crisp linen napkins Blaise had folded with his signature precision.

Their brunches had evolved into something of an event—a gathering of their closest friends, yes, but also a carefully curated performance. A way to assert their place, their influence. A test she hadn't quite realized she was still being graded on.

She glanced at the clock.

Still time for one last check.

The table had already been set hours ago, each plate aligned just so, every glass gleaming under the warm glow of the chandelier. But she needed to see it again. Needed to make sure everything was exactly as it should be. The quiet voice in the back of her mind warned her that she was being obsessive, but she ignored it.

Because this wasn't just about brunch.

It was about keeping control.

It was about making sure every piece of her life fit exactly where it was supposed to.

Descending the grand staircase, Ginny moved with purpose, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble. The dining room unfolded before her, bathed in the soft glow of the chandelier, the delicate play of light catching on fine china and polished silver. Her eyes swept over the table Blaise had meticulously arranged—every plate perfectly placed, every glass gleaming, every detail curated with an effortless elegance that made the space feel warm yet undeniably refined. The floral arrangement at the center—a carefully selected burst of color against the muted sophistication of the settings—was a flawless final touch.

Blaise had a knack for these things, for creating an atmosphere that was both inviting and luxurious, for making perfection seem effortless.

"Everything looks perfect," he murmured from the doorway, his voice smooth as silk.

She turned slightly, catching the amused smirk on his lips as he leaned casually against the frame, watching her with that knowing expression—the one that said he had already predicted she would give the table one final inspection.

"Almost," she murmured, her brows knitting together as she reached out to adjust the position of a wine glass by half an inch. "Just… need it to be right."

A soft chuckle escaped him as he pushed off the doorway, closing the space between them with easy, unhurried steps. His hands found her waist, his touch grounding, pulling her gently into the warmth of his side.

"It's already perfect, baby," he said, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her temple. "You don't need to drive yourself mad over every little thing."

She let out a quiet sigh, allowing herself to breathe in his embrace, just for a second. He always made it look so easy—this world, this life, this role she had taken on. But for her, it still felt like she was treading a fine line, always walking the tightrope between belonging and pretending.

"I know," she murmured, pulling back slightly. "I just… I don't want to look like I don't belong. Not today."

His expression shifted, the teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something firmer, something steadfast.

"You belong," he said, his voice rich with quiet certainty. "You've earned your place here. Don't let the ghosts of the past tell you otherwise."

She nodded, trying to absorb the truth in his words, but the weight of old insecurities still clung to her, stubborn as ever. No matter how far she had come, no matter how flawlessly she played the part, there were still moments—like this one—where she felt the specter of the Burrow's humble walls pressing in on her. Where the echoes of who she had been threatened to overshadow who she had become.

And then, the doorbell chimed.

A crisp, clear sound that cut through the lingering doubts in the air.

It's time.

She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and smoothed out an invisible wrinkle on her dress. The mask of confidence slipped effortlessly into place, every practiced motion a testament to how well she had learned this game.

As she stepped toward the door, Blaise's presence remained at her side, steady and unshakable.

This is your life now. Your home. Your place.

With that thought, she opened the door, her smile poised, polished—flawless.

Time to play the part. Time to make this brunch another perfect success.

~~~~~~

Hermione and Draco attended the Sunday brunch that weekend, both impeccably dressed in Valentino, a brand that had somehow become a pureblood staple and a showcase of their status. Pansy, her usual fierce demeanor softened by the elegance of her attire, wore a stunning crimson dress that hugged her curves, a sharp contrast to her dark hair. Beside her, Neville looked equally dapper in a tailored suit that complemented Pansy's ensemble perfectly. It was a visual representation of their partnership, a blend of strength and charm.

Meanwhile, Hermione wore a rich gold dress from the latest collection, adorned with goddess-inspired gold jewelry that shimmered under the sunlight. Draco stood beside her, exuding the dark and brooding essence of Hades himself, his tailored suit accentuating his sharp features. Together, they looked as if they had stepped off a runway, their attire perfectly coordinated and enhancing their striking presence. For a moment, they became the center of attention, a couple seemingly made for each other, even if their union had raised eyebrows among those familiar with their history.

The gathered purebloods nodded in approval, acknowledging the power and beauty the couples represented. Draco's arm wrapped possessively around Hermione's waist, a gesture that conveyed both pride and ownership. Together, they radiated strength and determination, embodying a modern-day Hades and Persephone—bound together against the odds yet standing tall in their individuality.

"Hello, lovebirds! You both look amazing!" she greeted them, her voice cheerful as she approached, her own vibrant outfit a testament to her fiery spirit.

"Finally, some pureblood rubbed off on Hermione," he added with a chuckle as he joined them, his casual air belying his sharp wit.

"Positive influence?" Draco countered, a playful smirk on his lips as he raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps some credit is due to my impeccable taste."

Hermione rolled her eyes, mirroring Draco's smirk. "Oh please, you and your 'impeccable taste.' More likely an intern at Valentino owes you a galleon."

Blaise chuckled, shaking his head. "Regardless of the origin, the results are undeniable. You both look like you waltzed straight out of a magical fashion show."

"Absolutely," she agreed, her eyes sparkling with admiration. "You look like you just stepped off the cover of a wizarding fashion magazine."

Draco glanced at Hermione, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. "See? Even Blaise and Ginny approve."

Hermione couldn't help but smile at the compliment. "I suppose I'll take that as a compliment."

"Definitely," he said, his tone turning more serious. "You both make quite the power couple."

Draco nodded in acknowledgment, a hint of pride in his expression. "Thank you, Blaise. We're just trying to keep up with you and Ginny."

"Oh, please," she laughed, waving her hand dismissively. "You two have that enigmatic couple vibe going on. It's like you were made for this."

As they spoke, Pansy and Neville approached, Pansy's demeanor shifting to match the lively atmosphere. "What are we talking about?" she asked, her voice light yet curious.

"Just admiring Draco and Hermione's impeccable style," she replied with a grin.

"Good luck topping it," Pansy teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I mean, how could anyone compete with the ethereal beauty of Persephone and her brooding Hades?"

Neville chimed in, his voice warm and supportive. "I think you both look fantastic, really. It's great to see everyone so well dressed and happy."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush slightly at the compliments. "Thank you, Pansy. You look absolutely stunning too."

"Cheers to that!" he exclaimed, raising his glass. "Here's to friends who look fabulous!"

As they settled into their conversation, the warmth among them was palpable. Hermione's nerves began to ease, and she felt a sense of belonging wash over her as they all shared laughter and playful banter.

"Who's on the guest list today?" Hermione asked, glancing at Ginny with a hint of curiosity mixed with apprehension.

Ginny scanned the opulent room, her fiery hair catching the sunlight. "The usual suspects, really. Harry and Cho should be here any minute, and Luna and Theo mentioned they'd make an appearance."

A genuine smile broke across Hermione's face. "It'll be good to catch up with them."

"They'll be here soon," Ginny confirmed, glancing at her watch. "Theo mentioned a slight delay, but Luna's fashionably early as always."

Draco's gaze swept the room, his usual stoicism replaced by a relaxed curiosity. "It's good to see some familiar faces again."

"Indeed," Hermione replied, smoothing the emerald folds of her dress. "It has been a while."

Her smile widened, her eyes sparkling with warmth. "Don't worry, Hermione. They'll be thrilled to see you. And seeing you two together…well, let's just say it'll be the highlight of their day."

The air crackled with unspoken anticipation. Hermione and Draco exchanged a silent glance, a promise of support lingering between them.

As if on cue, the double doors swung open, announcing the arrival of Luna. Her signature radish earrings gleamed under the opulent chandelier as she skipped into the room, her radiant smile illuminating her face. "Hello, everyone!" she chirped, her voice like a melody, instantly lightening the atmosphere.

Following close behind was Harry, his familiar scar hidden beneath a shock of messy black hair, and Cho Chang, her raven locks cascading down her back, walking beside him with a shy smile.

Relief washed over Hermione at the sight of her friends. Pushing away the remnants of her nervousness, she rose to greet them with a genuine smile. Harry pulled her into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping her. Years might have passed, adventures shared and scars earned, but the comfort of their friendship remained undimmed.

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine joy. "It's been too long."

"Harry," she replied, squeezing him back just as tightly. "Too long indeed. It's wonderful to see you."

Draco, ever observant, watched the interaction with a flicker of approval in his eyes. He straightened in his chair as Harry turned towards him, extending a hand. "Draco," Harry greeted with a nod, his tone devoid of animosity.

"Potter," Draco replied, meeting his handshake firmly.

A smile broke across Luna's face. "Lovely to see you all together!" she declared, her voice brimming with her usual whimsical cheer. "Now, who wants to hear about the Wrackspurts I found nesting in my attic?"

Laughter filled the air as everyone found their seats around the table. The earlier tension began to dissipate, replaced by the comforting warmth of camaraderie. Pansy nestled comfortably next to Neville, feeling grateful for his steady presence, while Hermione found herself sitting beside Draco, relaxing into the moment. Surrounded by loved ones, both old and new, she felt a spark of hope flicker within her.

As the conversation flowed, Hermione's apprehension melted away with each passing moment. Stories were exchanged, laughter punctuated the air, and Neville, ever the thoughtful one, found himself in a surprisingly animated discussion with Pansy about their shared love for herbology.

"Have you tried those new plant hybrids?" Pansy asked, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "I heard they have some unique properties."

Neville nodded eagerly, his passion shining through. "Absolutely! They're fascinating. I think they could have some incredible applications if we can figure out how to cultivate them properly."

An unfamiliar flicker of pride sparked within Hermione as she observed her friends. Across the table, Theo, ever the jester, broke the comfortable silence. "Ah, so the eagle's nest, the lion's cave opening, and the snake's den, all gathered under one roof, huh?" he remarked, a playful glint in his eyes.

Draco chuckled, a sound rarely heard these days. "Looks like we've almost got all the Hogwarts houses covered, wouldn't you say, Potter?"

Harry, ever the Gryffindor, met Draco's gaze with a hint of amusement. "Just missing a loyal Hufflepuff, Malfoy."

A small smile tugged at Hermione's lips. "Perhaps next time," she chimed in, the playful banter warming her heart.

Ginny interjected with a warm smile. "It's good to see all of you together like this. A Hogwarts reunion, in a way, wouldn't you say?"

Theo raised his glass, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "To Hogwarts, surviving the trials it threw our way, and to the unlikely friendships forged in the flames!"

The friends, united by shared history and a bond forged in the crucible of war, clinked their glasses in a toast. The sound echoed through the opulent room, a testament to the enduring power of friendship, love, and the unexpected connections that bloom in the most unlikely places.

Maybe things weren't perfect, but they were getting there. And for now, that was enough.

~~~~~~

The others had long since left, their laughter and conversations fading into the quiet hum of the house. The late afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows, casting golden streaks across the wooden floors. The scent of coffee and the last remnants of brunch still lingered in the air as Luna and Ginny moved about the dining room, clearing plates and straightening chairs.

Ginny wiped down the table with practiced ease, while Luna, in her usual effortless way, levitated a stack of dishes toward the sink. A comfortable silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the occasional soft clinking of silverware.

"I'm so happy that Harry and Cho could come too," Luna said, her voice light as she directed another plate into the air.

Ginny stilled for just a fraction of a second, her fingers tightening around the edge of the dish in her hand before she forced herself to keep moving. She let out a small, easy laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah, it was really good to see them in person for once. Feels like we've all been playing catch-up through letters lately."

She floated another dish toward the sink, watching as Luna tilted her head slightly, studying her with that ever-curious expression of hers. "Isn't it awkward, though?" she asked, her voice gentle but direct. "Between the two of you, I mean?"

Ginny let out a light chuckle, though the sound was a little too rehearsed, a little too quick. "Between us? No, of course not. We didn't date that long, really, and it feels like a lifetime ago now." She shrugged, her tone carefully measured. "Harry's family at this point. We've been through too much together for things to be awkward."

Luna hummed, sending another plate gliding smoothly toward the counter. "It must be nice, having that kind of bond. The kind that doesn't fade, no matter what."

Ginny turned to her, the warm glow of the setting sun catching in her red hair. "It is," she admitted, a quiet fondness creeping into her voice. "And in a way, I think it's the same for all of us who went through the war. We're all tied together, even if we end up in different places, with different people."

There was a pause, just long enough for something unspoken to settle between them. Ginny glanced toward the door, as if half-expecting to see a familiar mess of dark hair pass by. But, of course, Harry wasn't there. He had already left—with her.

Luna watched her carefully, though she said nothing for a moment. She merely stacked the last of the dishes, her movements slow and deliberate. "Things change," she said eventually, her voice thoughtful. "But that connection doesn't disappear, does it?"

Ginny inhaled softly, her fingers tightening around the towel she had been using to dry her hands. "No," she murmured, more to herself than to Luna. "It doesn't."

She turned back with a smile, bright and practiced, the kind she had perfected over the years. "It's comforting, though, knowing that some things are permanent. That even after everything, we're still here for each other."

Luna met her gaze, her silvery eyes full of quiet understanding. "Like the roots of a tree," she mused. "No matter how far the branches grow, they're still connected to the same foundation."

Ginny let out a breath of laughter, shaking her head. "That's a very you thing to say, Luna." But her smile softened, more real this time. "And yeah, I think you're right."

Luna beamed, her hands now free of dishes, and spun in a slow, absentminded twirl, as if to soak in the warmth of the room. "It makes everything feel lighter, doesn't it? Like no matter what happens, we'll always have each other."

Ginny nodded, pressing the towel into the counter, her thoughts quieter now, less tangled. "Yeah," she said softly. "And I wouldn't trade that for anything."

She meant it. She did.

Even if, sometimes, late at night, when the house was quiet and the world felt still, she found herself wondering about a different path—a path where things hadn't changed, where she still got to be the girl who he had chosen first.

~~~~~~

Ginny stood at the sink, staring out the kitchen window as Luna's words echoed in her mind. Harry's the one who got away. The idea was ridiculous. It was laughable, even. And yet, no matter how many times she dismissed it, the thought clung to the edges of her mind like a stubborn shadow, refusing to be shaken off. Luna had a way of saying things that made you question everything, peeling back reality with a single, seemingly innocent observation.

Harry, the one who got away? She scoffed under her breath, shaking her head at the sheer absurdity of it. They had been kids when they got together, too young to understand love in any way that mattered. It had been fast, intense, and all-consuming, but that didn't mean it was built to last. They had broken up because it made sense, because life after the war had demanded that they move forward rather than cling to something that might have already burned out. They had gone their separate ways, and she had never once looked back.

Or had she?

Her fingers tightened on the edge of the counter, her knuckles whitening. She had spent so long thinking of Harry as just a friend, the boy she had once loved, but had neatly packed away into the past. But now, Luna's words had peeled back something she hadn't realized was still there, something raw and unsettling. For the first time in years, she let herself truly think about Harry not as the Harry Potter, not as the hero or the best friend, but as the boy she had once thought she would spend forever with. The boy she had given her heart to. The boy who had walked away.

She had loved him fiercely. He had been her first real love, her first heartbreak, the first person who had ever made her feel like she was part of something bigger than herself. But that was over. It was supposed to be over. She had moved on, hadn't she?

She thought about Blaise.

His dark eyes, his smooth charm, the way he made her laugh even when she wanted to be angry at him. He was everything Harry wasn't—elusive, sharp, unpredictable in ways that kept her on her toes. But he was also a man of secrets, a man who never quite let her all the way in, no matter how much she reached for him. There were parts of himself that he kept hidden, things he would never tell her, and she had learned to accept it because what they had was good. Because she had chosen him.

Hadn't she?

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the thought away. This was nonsense. Harry wasn't the one who got away. That wasn't how life worked. She wasn't some tragic heroine caught between past and present. She had made her choice, had built a life with Blaise, and she was happy, even if there were days when that happiness felt more like something she was convincing herself of rather than something she felt deep in her bones.

Luna's words wouldn't stop gnawing at her.

The truth was, she had never given herself the space to truly process what had happened with Harry. They had broken up, and instead of mourning it, instead of picking apart the pieces, she had thrown herself into something new. The war had ended, and life had rushed forward so fast that she hadn't had the luxury of lingering in the past. She and Harry had drifted apart not because they didn't love each other, but because the world had demanded it.

And yet, even as she stood here, telling herself that none of this mattered, that it was just Luna planting ridiculous ideas in her head, she couldn't stop herself from thinking about the way Harry had looked at her at brunch.

His gaze had lingered just a little too long, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes.

Or maybe she was imagining it.

Maybe she was trying to find meaning in something that wasn't there.

She let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing her hands over her face. This was ridiculous. She had a husband. A life. A future that didn't include Harry Potter. He had moved on, and so had she. There was no point in entertaining these thoughts, no point in digging up old ghosts when she had spent so much time burying them.

And yet, she couldn't escape the uneasy feeling settling in her stomach, the quiet, insidious question that she didn't dare say out loud.

What if Luna was right?

She and Blaise had a magical core compatibility of 97%. Ninety-seven percent. She reminded herself of that number like a mantra, as if sheer repetition could silence the quiet unrest stirring inside her. Their connection wasn't just good—it was statistically extraordinary. The Ministry's evaluation had labeled them soulmates, an impossibly rare match, the kind that only happened once in a generation. They were bound not just by law, but by magic itself, woven together at a fundamental level that few could ever hope to experience.

And yet, despite the near-perfection of their pairing, Luna's offhand remark gnawed at her like a thorn buried too deep to pull free. Why now? Why, after all this time, did the thought of Harry suddenly resurface, slipping into the cracks of her certainty like water finding its way through stone?

What would their magical compatibility have been?

Eighty-seven percent?

It was a solid number, one that spoke of deep connection but lacked the divine weight of soulmates. It would have been enough, wouldn't it? Maybe not the all-consuming fire she felt with Blaise, but something steady, something real, something built on the foundation of a shared past and a bond that had weathered war. It could have grown into more.

But what if it hadn't even been 87%?

What if their compatibility had been something lower—something laughable? Twenty-eight percent? A number so abysmal that it would have confirmed that what they had shared was nothing more than youthful infatuation wrapped in the high stakes of war. If that were true, then it meant she had been clinging to nothing, romanticizing a love that had never truly had roots, only the illusion of them.

And yet, the thought unsettled her.

Because that wasn't what their relationship had felt like.

Harry had mattered.

Theirs hadn't been a weak or fragile love, doomed from the start. It had been fast and bright, burning with the intensity of something too powerful to last. Maybe that had been their downfall. Maybe they were never meant to endure, only to exist in those fleeting, stolen moments between battle and bloodshed, held together by desperation and the need to feel something in the chaos of war.

And yet, the question haunted her.

What if the numbers had been even higher?

Something impossible.

Something legendary.

Four hundred and sixty-three percent.

The thought was absurd, completely detached from reason, and yet the idea wormed its way into her mind with insidious ease. What if, against all odds, their bond had defied logic, surpassed everything? A connection so rare, so unheard of, that it would have rewritten fate itself? What if they had been meant to be in a way no Ministry law could dictate, no forced marriage could erase? What if their magic had always been calling to each other, but she had never stopped long enough to listen?

She shook her head sharply, as if she could physically rid herself of the thought. This is nonsense. A number was just that—a number. She had made her choice, and the Ministry had confirmed that choice. Blaise was the man she was meant to be with, not because of circumstance, not because of history, but because their magic had chosen each other. The bond between them was undeniable, tangible, real.

And yet, the whisper remained.

What if?

What if the Ministry hadn't intervened? Would she and Harry have found their way back to each other on their own? Would they have rekindled what they lost, grown together, shaped a future that wasn't defined by bureaucracy and laws but by love and choice?

Her pulse thrummed against her skin as she slammed the kitchen drawer shut with more force than necessary. Enough. This was madness, pure and simple. She wouldn't—couldn't—let herself unravel over a single, fleeting thought, over a moment of nostalgia and a whimsical comment from Luna.

Blaise was her husband.

Their bond was written in magic itself.

He was the one she was meant to be with.

And yet, as she stood there, trying to quiet her mind, the words wouldn't leave her.

What if?

Her mind drifted back to the brunch, to the way Harry had smiled at her—that smile. The same boyish grin that had once made her heart race, the one she had memorized in the quiet, stolen moments of their past. But there had been something else, too. A flicker of something deeper, something unspoken. Wistfulness. Longing. Had it been there all along, tucked away behind years of polite smiles and casual conversation? Had she simply missed it, too caught up in her own life to see what was right in front of her? Or was she just imagining it now, letting nostalgia paint the past in warmer colors than it deserved?

"Baby girl?"

His voice, smooth as ever, cut through her thoughts, but there was something off in it. There usually was after one of his mysterious outings. She didn't ask where he had been—she never did. By now, she had learned not to.

"Dinner's almost ready," she replied, keeping her voice steady, making sure it gave away nothing. She turned to face him, forcing a smile as he walked into the kitchen.

He crossed the space between them with the kind of effortless grace only Blaise possessed, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek, his hand warm against her waist. "Smells good. You alright?"

She nodded, too quickly. "Yeah, just... tired."

He studied her for a moment, his dark eyes sharp, unreadable. He knew something was wrong—he always did—but he wouldn't ask. That was Blaise. He never pried, never pushed, never demanded answers. It was something she had once found comforting, the way he let her keep her secrets the same way he kept his. But tonight, she hated it. Because if he did push, if he did demand, maybe she'd be forced to confront the thoughts she was working so hard to ignore.

"Alright," he said simply, turning toward the sink to wash his hands, letting the silence stretch between them.

She exhaled slowly, turning back to the stove. Her grip on the spoon tightened as she stirred the soup, the repetitive motion doing nothing to quiet the storm inside her. 97%. 87%. 28%. 463%. The numbers swam through her mind, each one a possibility, each one pulling her toward a question she did not want to ask.

What if?

She shook her head, gritting her teeth. No.

Harry wasn't the one who got away. He couldn't be.

But as she stood there, her husband only feet away, the man she had chosen, the man fate had aligned her with, she realized something that made her stomach twist.

She wasn't so sure anymore.

~~~~~~

He came home that evening, the weight of the day clinging to him like a second skin, tension radiating from his every step. She was curled up in the study, flipping lazily through a gossip magazine when she heard the creak of the door. Normally, she would have expected his usual smooth, offhanded greeting, maybe a teasing remark about whatever scandalous article she was pretending not to care about.

But tonight was different.

He walked in without a word, carrying a massive bouquet of roses.

Not just any bouquet—ninety-seven roses.

Her brow furrowed as she sat up straighter, her eyes flicking between him and the flowers. The sheer size of it was overwhelming, the deep crimson petals bursting from the bouquet like a sea of blood. The scent hit her almost instantly—too strong, too much—filling the room with something thick, heady, and nearly suffocating.

She didn't reach for them. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, studying him. Ninety-seven. It wasn't a random number. It was their compatibility score, stamped across their marriage contract like a promise neither of them had ever truly agreed to.

"Blaise?" Her voice was calm, measured, but there was something uncertain beneath it.

He gave her a small, unreadable smile and leaned in, pressing a kiss to her cheek before setting the bouquet down on the counter with careful precision. There was something almost ceremonial about the way he placed it, like an offering, a statement, or maybe even a warning.

The sight of them—so perfectly arranged, so intentional—made something coil in her stomach.

Was this romantic? Or was it something else?

Something about it was off.

Almost creepy.

The thought slithered through her mind before she could stop it, insidious and unwelcome. Something's wrong. But she shoved it aside, refusing to let doubt take root. Instead, she moved forward, pressing into him, letting her hands slide up his chest as she kissed him, deep and slow. If she didn't have the words, maybe she could make him feel them instead. Her lips were urgent, searching for reassurance, for the familiarity that had always grounded her. But the second their mouths met, she felt it—the shift.

His lips were warm, familiar, but beneath them, there was tension, a resistance that shouldn't have been there. His grip on her waist was firm, but he didn't pull her closer, didn't melt into the kiss like he usually did. His body was taut, rigid, holding something back. His movements were automatic, practiced, but the passion wasn't there. Something was beneath the surface, something she could feel humming through him like a barely restrained storm.

She didn't know whether to push him, to force the words out of him, or to pretend she hadn't noticed the way he was holding himself back.

But she had noticed.

And it made her pulse quicken in a way that had nothing to do with desire.

He was the one who broke the kiss first, drawing back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes unreadable, searching. When he spoke, his voice was soft—too soft, like something fragile just beneath the surface was cracking.

"You know that you're my everything, right?"

The words should have been reassuring, but they weren't. There was something in the way he said them, something raw, something off.

She nodded, forcing a smile even as her stomach twisted. "I know that, darling."

But Blaise didn't smile back.

He just stared at her, gaze sharp and stormy, like he was waiting for something.

"…Look," he started, his voice lower now, but carrying an edge that sent a chill down her spine. "When I told you I loved you while I was drunk… I meant it. I love you more than life itself, Ginny."

The weight of his words settled between them like lead. There was no teasing lilt in his voice, no trace of his usual effortless charm. This wasn't flirtation. This wasn't casual. This was desperate.

She smiled again, smaller this time, hesitant. "Thank you, darling."

His jaw clenched.

That wasn't what he wanted to hear.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his hands clenching into fists before he exhaled sharply, trying to contain whatever emotion was threatening to spill over. The tension between them grew, thick and suffocating.

"The only person I have ever loved is you," he said, and this time, his voice was different. It wasn't soft or uncertain. It was hard, unwavering, demanding. He took a step closer, closing what little space was left between them, his eyes burning into hers. "And can you honestly look me in the eye and say the same?"

There it was.

The question that had been waiting in the shadows, circling them like a predator, watching, waiting, ready to strike.

Ginny felt the floor tilt beneath her, the air in the room thick and oppressive, pressing against her chest like a weight she couldn't shake off. Her heart pounded, her throat tightening as her mind scrambled for an answer—the right answer.

But the words didn't come.

Not immediately.

Not fast enough.

"Blaise…" she started, her voice soft, almost pleading. She could hear the hesitation in it, knew he could hear it too. She wanted to tell him what he needed to hear, wanted to reach for him, to pull him back from whatever edge he was standing on. But she couldn't lie to him. Not about this.

Because Luna's words had cracked something open inside her.

Because the doubt had been planted, and now it was growing, twisting, coiling around her ribcage like something alive.

Because she didn't know anymore.

And Blaise saw it.

His expression shifted in an instant, something dark flickering through his eyes before his features settled into something cold. Controlled. Deadly.

"That's enough of an answer for me, then," he said, his voice as sharp as a blade. His lips curled into something that almost looked like a smirk, but there was nothing amused about it. It was the kind of expression that sent a chill down her spine, not because she was afraid of him, but because she had never seen it directed at her before.

And then—

"Ginevra."

Her full name.

Spoken like a curse.

Like a warning.

Like something final.

Her stomach dropped.

Ginny reached out, fingers wrapping around his arm, grasping. "Blaise, wait—"

But he ripped his arm away from her touch, his movements sharp, controlled, furious. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen, his steps eerily silent, too silent, his back a wall she could no longer see past.

She stood frozen, her hand still half-raised, her pulse thundering in her ears as the front door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the walls.

The sound echoed in her chest, reverberating through her bones, leaving behind a silence so heavy it felt like it might crush her.

Ginny's mind raced, tangled in a whirlwind of confusion, guilt, and frustration. This isn't what I wanted. She hadn't asked for this—the tension, the doubt, the creeping uncertainty that had taken root in her chest ever since Luna had uttered those cursed words. But now, here she was, trapped between two worlds.

One was the life she had built with Blaise, a life bound by law, by magic, by the undeniable weight of their 97% compatibility. The other was a shadow—a whisper of something unfinished, something unresolved. The ghost of a past she thought she had buried but was suddenly clawing its way back to the surface.

Her gaze drifted to the roses.

97 bloody roses.

The gesture, which had once seemed romantic, now felt wrong, like something had shifted beneath it, turning it into something else entirely. The petals, velvety and deep crimson, looked too perfect, too arranged, as if they were meant to prove something rather than express love.

Something tight coiled in her chest.

She had spent years telling herself she had moved on, that she had chosen right, that the life she had built with Blaise was exactly where she was meant to be. But now, doubt curled around her like smoke, creeping into the cracks she hadn't even known existed.

The scent of the roses was suddenly too strong, filling the kitchen, wrapping around her like an unseen force. The room felt smaller, the walls closer, the silence pressing against her until it was deafening.

And then, like a traitor, the thought slithered in.

Am I losing him?

She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head violently, as if the motion alone could banish the question from her mind. No. No, I'm not. Blaise loved her. Loved her more than life itself. He had told her that, had meant it.

But the words felt hollow now, like an echo bouncing through an empty house.

She swiped at her cheek, surprised to feel the warmth of a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. She wasn't going to cry. Not over this.

But the emptiness of the house, the suffocating weight of the unspoken words between them, made it impossible to ignore.

She stood there, frozen, staring at the space Blaise had left behind. The echoes of his footsteps still seemed to linger in the air, a ghost of him remaining even though he was gone.

How had everything gone so wrong so fast?

With an exhale that felt more like a collapse, she forced herself to move, but it didn't feel real. It felt like she was floating, like her body was working without her, disconnected from her own skin. She reached for the stove, flicking it off, her fingers hovering over the switch as she stared at the simmering pot, watching the steam curl and fade into nothing.

Then, she braced herself against the counter, her legs suddenly weak.

Blaise's voice echoed in her mind. "The only person I have ever loved is you."

And she had hesitated.

The way he had looked at her—the anger, the betrayal—it wasn't something she had ever seen from him before.

And the worst part?

She had no idea how to fix it.

~~~~~~

She paced the kitchen, her thoughts spiraling, circling the same truths she had been trying to ignore. Get it together, Ginny. She couldn't keep pretending that things were fine between her and Blaise, not when the truth was clawing at her from the inside, relentless and inescapable.

Blaise had never been subtle about his feelings. He loved her—deeply, obsessively, unequivocally. She was his world, his center, the thing he cherished above all else. He showed it in every gesture, every lingering touch, every look that told her she was the most precious thing in his life. He adored her.

But she wasn't in love with him.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And that realization was eating her alive.

Did she like him? Yes. God, yes. More than she had expected to when their marriage had first been arranged. He was everything a woman could want in a husband—loyal, devoted, disgustingly handsome, thoughtful in ways that left her breathless. He was all of that and more, and she was grateful for him.

But love? That word sat heavy in her chest, a weight she couldn't ignore.

She wanted to love him. Maybe that was the worst part of all. She wanted to meet his devotion with her own. She wanted to be the wife he deserved, to feel the things he felt so effortlessly. But she couldn't force it. No matter how much she wished she could, she couldn't snap her fingers and make her heart belong to him the way his belonged to her.

And she couldn't keep pretending.

She inhaled sharply, steadying herself. She knew what she had to do.

She had to be honest. The thought sent a wave of nausea through her.

With legs that felt like lead, she moved through the house, each step heavier than the last. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a violent rhythm of dread. This conversation wouldn't be easy. It would be messy, painful—ugly, maybe. But it had to happen.

Because the longer she let this lie fester between them, the more damage it would do.

And Blaise deserved the truth.

Even if it broke him. Even if, deep down, it terrified her to say it out loud.

As she approached his office, she caught sight of him through the slightly ajar door, seated at his desk, his focus locked onto a stack of paperwork. The dim glow of a single lamp cast sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw, the deep furrow of his brow. He looked exhausted—he always did after long days spent buried in work—but somehow, he never let that exhaustion touch her. No matter how drained he was, he always made time to remind her she was important.

For a fleeting moment, she hesitated.

Was she really about to do this? Was she really about to break his heart—right now?

But then the guilt surged up again, thick and suffocating. You owe him the truth, Ginny.

She swallowed hard and knocked softly against the doorframe.

"Blaise?" she murmured.

His head lifted immediately at the sound of her voice, his dark eyes softening ever so slightly as he looked at her. "Hey," he greeted, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "What's up?"

That smile—Merlin, that smile.

It made her stomach twist because she knew what she was about to do would wipe it right off his face.

She opened her mouth, but suddenly, the words she'd rehearsed over and over in her head refused to come out. She wrapped her arms around herself, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"I… I need to talk to you," she said, barely above a whisper.

He arched an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair slightly, sensing the shift in her demeanor. "About what?"

Ginny exhaled shakily, forcing herself to meet his gaze. Her heart pounded in her chest, every instinct screaming at her to turn around, leave, pretend this never happened. But she couldn't.

"I need to be honest with you," she said, her voice trembling. "About us."

Blaise straightened immediately. The air in the room changed in an instant, thickening with something unspoken. The easy smile faded from his face, replaced by something careful, unreadable.

"What do you mean?" he asked, voice steady, controlled.

She clenched her fists at her sides, feeling like the ground beneath her was about to give way. She had to say it. Just say it, Ginny.

"I can't… I can't honestly look you in the eye and tell you that you're the only person I've ever loved."

The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on her like an unbearable weight.

Blaise didn't react right away. He just stared at her, his face unreadable, his expression eerily still. For a moment, she wished he would react—say something, do something—because the quiet was worse. The quiet felt like a storm waiting to break.

And then, very slowly, he pushed his chair back.

Stood up.

Towered over her.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Too calm.

"Am I supposed to be happy about that?"

There was no outburst, no shouting. But the sharpness in his tone—the pure devastation barely masked beneath it—made her flinch harder than if he had yelled.

"Thank you," he continued, voice still chillingly even. "For bringing salt to the wound, Ginevra. I really appreciate it."

She sucked in a breath, stomach twisting painfully. "Blaise, I—"

"No," he cut her off, his tone slicing through the space between them like a blade.

And then—

With perfect, clipped precision, he said, "I'm going to say this with the utmost respect, Ginevra: Fuck. Off."

Her breath hitched.

Blaise never spoke to her like that. Even in his angriest moments, even in the heat of their worst fights, there had always been restraint.

Not now. Now, there was nothing but anger.

Pure, unfiltered rage.

"Blaise, please," she tried again, stepping closer, reaching for him. "Just listen to me—"

Before she could even touch him, his hand flicked up.

The door slammed in her face.

Not by him—not physically—but by his magic.

The force of it sent a rush of air past her, rattling the walls, echoing through the house like a final, damning statement.

Ginny stood frozen, fingers still half-raised, staring at the closed door.

Her heart thundered in her chest. Her hands trembled at her sides. She knew this conversation was going to be hard, but she hadn't expected this.

She pressed her forehead against the wood, her breath coming too fast, too shallow. What had she done?

From the other side of the door, she could hear him.

Pacing.

Muttering to himself, his words too low to make out, but the agitation in them was unmistakable. She could feel it radiating off him.

She had shattered something tonight.

And she wasn't sure if she'd ever be able to put it back together.

The door swung open with a force that made the walls shudder, and there he was, standing in the doorway, breathing hard as if he had been pacing just to keep himself from exploding. His face was a mask of anger and something else—something raw, something that cut deeper than just fury. His jaw was clenched so tightly she thought he might crack a tooth, his hands flexing at his sides like he was trying to physically restrain himself from doing something reckless. But the restraint was slipping, the controlled, composed Blaise that most people saw was cracking right in front of her, and she had been the one to push him to this point.

"You know what really pisses me off?" His voice was low, but the intensity behind it made her chest tighten. There was no need for him to yell. The weight of his words was enough. "The fact that I have been nothing but honest with you, Ginevra."

liar.

She flinched at the way he said her full name, like a curse he was spitting out between clenched teeth. The air between them was thick, heavy with something volatile, something on the verge of shattering. She swallowed hard, trying to steady herself, knowing full well that nothing she said now would make this easier. "Blaise, I didn't mean to hurt you. I just… I had to be honest." Her voice felt small, unsure, and she hated it.

His laugh was sharp, cold, and completely void of humor. He took a slow step toward her, and she resisted the urge to step back, not because she was afraid, but because she could feel the sheer weight of his emotions suffocating the space between them. "Honest?" He let the word linger in the air before shaking his head, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he was biting back something even sharper. "You want to talk about honesty? Fine. Here's some honesty for you, Ginevra. I'AM IN LOVE WITH YOU."

The words should have softened her, should have made her feel something other than this horrible, twisting guilt. But all she felt was dread, because he wasn't saying it as an affirmation of love—he was saying it like a condemnation, like a verdict that had just been handed down, like he was throwing everything he had ever given her in her face, waiting to see if she could match it, if she could even try to say the same.

She opened her mouth, but no words came.

She saw it the moment he realized. His expression didn't crumble, didn't twist in pain, didn't even shift much at all. But his eyes—fuck, his eyes—that was where the devastation settled, dark and stormy, burning with something she didn't know how to fix. He waited, just for a second, as if she might change her mind, as if she might say something that could undo the damage, but when the silence stretched too long, when nothing came, his face hardened, his lips pressing into a thin, unreadable line.

"That's what I thought," he said, and his voice was quiet, but it landed harder than any shout ever could.

He turned abruptly, brushing past her, not roughly but pointedly, his shoulder barely missing hers, and before she could stop him, before she could even fully process what was happening, he was already leaving the room. His footsteps echoed down the hall, heavy, deliberate, full of the anger he was trying so damn hard to contain. She didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't know what to do except stand there and feel the weight of everything sinking in.

She had tried to be honest, but in doing so, she had hurt him in a way she hadn't been prepared for. This wasn't just an argument. This wasn't something that could be patched up with a few words and an apology. No, this was something bigger. This was a crack in something she wasn't sure could be put back together.

Hours had passed since their argument, and each ticking second felt like a weight pressing heavier on her chest. She couldn't leave things like this, not after the look she had seen in Blaise's eyes. It wasn't just anger or frustration—this was something deeper, something that could break them if she let it fester. She had been honest with him, but honesty had come at a cost, one she hadn't been ready for. And now, standing outside their bedroom door, her hand gripping the handle, she hesitated. Giving him space felt like the right thing to do, but silence had never solved anything between them. If she didn't go to him now, she might never find her way back.

Taking a slow, shaky breath, she pushed the door open. The dim light of the bedside lamp barely cut through the darkness, but it was enough for her to see him lying in bed, his back turned toward her. The room was still, unnervingly so, but that wasn't what sent a chill through her. It was the emptiness. The noticeable absence of her things—her clothes, her books, the small trinkets she had scattered around the room.

She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "Blaise… where's my stuff?"

For a long moment, he didn't answer, the silence stretching unbearably between them. Then, in a tone so detached it felt like a slap, he muttered, "In your bedroom. You know, just how we started."

The breath rushed from her lungs like she had been punched.

Her bedroom.

Not their bedroom.

Her chest ached at the finality in his words, at the way he had undone everything they had built without hesitation. He had moved her things out like she was just a guest passing through, as if all the time they had spent growing into this marriage had meant nothing.

"Please," she said, stepping closer, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to stay composed. "Don't do this to me. I'm not going to apologize for not being in love yet, but that doesn't mean I don't care. I'm trying—"

Blaise cut her off sharply, his voice as sharp as a blade. "I can do whatever I want in my room. And if that means I don't want to look at you right now, then that's my damn choice."

His words stung like a fresh wound.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, not in anger but in sheer desperation to make him see. "Please, baby, I'm begging you. Just talk to me. Don't shut me out like this."

"I am talking to you," he said flatly, but there was no warmth, no trace of the man who whispered sweet words against her skin in the dead of night, no softness that had once made her believe they could make this work.

"No, you're not," she argued, the weight of her own emotions making her voice shake. "You're angry, and you have every right to be, but shutting me out isn't going to fix this. We need to talk. We need to figure this out."

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Blaise rolled onto his back, his dark eyes meeting hers, but the coldness in them made her shrink. "What else is there to say, Ginny? What could I possibly add to this one-sided conversation? I told you I love you. I told you you're the only person I've ever loved. And what do I get in return?" He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "'Thanks, Blaise, but I'm just not there yet.'"

She flinched at the harshness in his voice. He was right—she had said those words, and she had meant them, but now, hearing them through his anger, she could see how deeply they had wounded him.

"It's not that I don't care about you," she tried, her voice softer now, pleading. "I do. I care about you more than I ever thought I would. But love… it's not something I can just force."

He sat up abruptly, frustration rolling off him in waves. "Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I don't get that love takes time?" His voice wasn't raised, but the raw emotion in it made her chest tighten. "But damn it, Ginny, I have been nothing but patient. I've been waiting for you to feel the same way I do, and all I'm asking for is something, anything, to show me that I'm not wasting my damn time. That this isn't just a marriage of convenience for you."

Her breath caught, because that—that was what he was afraid of. That all of this, everything they had built, was nothing more than circumstance, a relationship built on obligation rather than something real.

"It's not," she said quickly, her heart pounding. "It's not just a marriage of convenience. I wouldn't be here if it was."

"Then what is it?" he demanded, his voice rough. "What am I to you, Ginny? Am I just the guy who buys you flowers and expensive shit to make you comfortable? Am I just your damn roommate?"

"No!" she cried, the emotion in her chest bubbling over. Tears burned in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "You're more than that, Blaise. So much more."

"Then tell me what I am," he snapped, his voice breaking, his composure slipping away entirely. "Because right now, it feels like I'm nothing to you. Nothing but a placeholder."

Her lips parted, but the words didn't come fast enough, and Blaise saw it—felt it. His expression hardened, the pain in his eyes so sharp it nearly gutted her.

"You're not nothing," she whispered, tears spilling over now, her voice shaking. "You're everything. You're everything to me."

He stared at her, his chest rising and falling heavily, his fists clenched at his sides. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled, his voice quiet, broken.

"Then why can't you love me?"

The silence that followed was unbearable.

She took a slow, unsteady breath, willing her heart to calm, but it was racing, her pulse pounding in her ears. "It's not that I don't want to love you," she admitted, her voice thick with emotion. "I do. But I've been hurt before, Blaise. I've had my heart broken, and it's hard for me to just… let myself feel that way again."

His jaw tightened, but there was something else in his expression now—understanding, maybe. But it wasn't enough.

"I'm not him, Ginny," he said, his voice quieter now but still edged with frustration. "I'm not Potter. I'm not some boy who's going to break your heart and leave you. I'm here. I've been here since day one, and I'm not going anywhere."

"I know that," she whispered, but her voice felt weak, uncertain, and she hated that she couldn't just say the words he needed to hear.

"Then prove it," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ginny looked at him, really looked at him, and she saw just how much he had been holding back, how much he had waited for her to catch up, how much he had given without asking for anything in return. And now, for the first time, she realized just how much that had cost him.