Lifelong Bond

Late into the night, the warm glow of the dying embers in the fireplace flickered against the walls, casting restless shadows across the room. Ginny lay tangled in the sheets, shifting in and out of sleep, a strange restlessness gnawing at her stomach. Something felt off. She could feel it in her bones, in the way the air in the room suddenly felt too still, too thick.

And then the flames roared to life, flaring emerald green with a violent intensity that sent a cold shiver down her spine.

"Blaise! Get to St. Mungo's, now!"

Draco's voice shattered the quiet, sharp and panicked, a sound so raw, so wrong that it made Ginny sit up instantly, her heartbeat hammering in her ears. She barely had time to process before the next words hit her like a curse to the chest.

"Hermione… she—she attempted to overdose."

Everything stopped.

The room, the air, the very breath in her lungs.

Ginny's hands flew to her mouth as her vision blurred, her body going completely numb. For a brief, terrible moment, she thought she had misheard—thought her mind had twisted the words into something else. But then Blaise was already moving, slipping out of bed in a rush, his movements urgent, his body tense. That was when she knew.

She hadn't misheard.

She sucked in a gasping breath, but it was as if there wasn't enough air in the room, as if the walls were closing in on her. No. No, no, no, no, no—

Her Hermione. Her Hermione.

Ginny screamed. It was strangled, broken, a sound ripped from the deepest part of her soul. "NO—NO, NOT HERMIONE!" She clutched at Blaise before she could even think, her nails digging into his arms as if she could physically hold onto him and make this nightmare disappear. "Blaise, she wouldn't—she wouldn't—" Her voice cracked, her breath coming in frantic, shallow gasps.

His arms were around her in an instant, crushing her against his chest, holding her together while she fell apart.

"Shhh, shh, love, it's going to be okay," he murmured, pressing his lips against her temple, but his voice wasn't steady. She could hear it, the tremor beneath his words, the lie.

It wasn't okay. It was never going to be okay again.

Ginny sobbed, her body convulsing, shaking so hard that she wasn't sure she could stand. "I—I can't breathe—Blaise, I can't—"

Fuck.

He pulled back, cupping her face, forcing her to look at him, his forehead pressed against hers. "Breathe, baby girl. Just breathe. In… and out. Come on, with me."

She tried, Merlin, she tried, but every inhale was ragged, every exhale jagged, panic clawing at her throat like a noose tightening around her. This isn't real. This can't be real.

He pressed his hand against her chest, right over her racing heart. "Breathe."

She clenched her eyes shut, focusing only on him, on the rhythm of his breathing, the weight of his hands steadying her. Slowly—painfully slowly—the worst of the panic receded, but the terror still pounded inside her skull, refusing to let go.

When she finally opened her eyes, she was still crying, her face wet, her hands trembling.

"I need to go with you," she pleaded, her voice a broken whisper.

But he was already shaking his head. "No, love. You need to stay here. You're in no condition—"

"DON'T TELL ME THAT!" she screamed, the sheer desperation in her voice making his expression darken. "I NEED TO SEE HER! I NEED TO—"

"Ginny," he cut her off, his hands tight around her arms, his eyes filled with something desperate and pained. "Please. I need you to trust me right now. I'll go. I'll be with her. But you have to stay."

She shook her head violently, tears streaming, her breath coming out in shallow pants again. "No—no, Blaise, please, please don't do this to me, I can't just sit here while—"

"I won't let you see her like that, Ginny."

The finality in his voice sent a fresh wave of horror crashing into her.

She broke.

Collapsed into him, fisting his shirt, her body wracked with silent sobs. "Please… please make sure she's okay," she begged, her voice nearly inaudible, almost childlike in her despair. "Please."

His jaw clenched so tight she swore she could hear his teeth grind. "I will," he swore, his voice harsh, sharp. "I'll take care of everything. I swear it."

She was still crying when he pulled away, pressing a final kiss to her forehead, lingering there as if he could pour all of his reassurance into that one moment.

And then he was gone, disappearing into the emerald flames, vanishing before her eyes.

And for the first time in her life, Ginny had never felt so alone.

Her knees buckled, and she crashed onto the bed, clutching her arms around herself. The silence was deafening, pressing down on her chest, thick and suffocating.

Hermione tried to kill herself.

The thought was so foreign, so impossible, that her mind refused to fully wrap around it. No. No, this was a mistake. This was—this was—

A guttural sob tore from her throat.

Hermione. Her Hermione.

She gasped, clawing at the sheets, curling into herself, rocking back and forth as the agony swallowed her whole. She wanted to run, to scream, to do something—but all she could do was sit in the darkness, drowning in the horrible what-ifs.

What if she doesn't make it?

What if Blaise doesn't come back?

What if I lose them both?

The hours stretched into eternity, and still, she waited, her entire body trembling, her mind a war zone. She clung to his promise like a dying woman, but deep in her gut, she knew.

Something was terribly, horribly wrong.

~~~~~~

The sharp scent of antiseptic burned Blaise's nose as he stood in the dim corridor of St. Mungo's, the sterile air thick with tension. The hospital was a restless beast, filled with hushed whispers, hurried footsteps, and the occasional distant cry of someone in pain. But none of that mattered. All of it faded into the background as he took in the sight before him.

Draco Malfoy, usually so composed, so controlled, was falling apart.

He was hunched over in a chair, his body folded in on itself like a man who had been gutted and left for dead. His shoulders trembled with the weight of his silent sobs, his hands fisted in his hair, as if trying to rip out the pain from his skull. He made no effort to hide it—no attempt to pull himself together. And why should he? This wasn't a moment for pride. This was love, raw and undignified, bleeding out of him in broken breaths and desperate gasps.

Blaise had never seen Draco like this before, not even in the worst of times.

A thick lump formed in his throat as he took a hesitant step closer, the sound of his own heartbeat loud in his ears. He wanted to say something—anything—but what words could possibly matter in the face of this? What comfort could he give a man who had built his entire world around someone, only to watch that world crumble before his very eyes?

Draco had killed for her.

Not just metaphorically. Literally.

Blaise remembered it too well. The way Draco had stalked through the forest that night, jaw clenched, eyes burning with the kind of fury that could level empires. He remembered the sound of Greyback's final, guttural scream before Draco plunged a blade through his throat, ending his miserable existence with a cold, precise efficiency. He had been a man possessed, driven by a love so fierce it left no room for mercy.

And now, that same love had undone him.

The realization clawed its way into Blaise's gut, heavy and unrelenting. Love wasn't just some pretty thing poets wrote about—it was power. It could make a man unstoppable, could turn him into something more than he was. But it could also destroy him, leave him hollowed out, gasping for breath in a hospital corridor with nothing left to hold onto but grief.

He exhaled sharply, steeling himself before speaking. "Draco."

His voice barely rose above a whisper, but it was enough. Draco lifted his head, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Blaise's. He looked wrecked—his skin pale and drawn, his usually pristine appearance now disheveled, his tie loosened, his hair sticking up in wild tufts as if he had dragged his fingers through it one too many times.

And his expression…

It was that of a man who had lost everything.

Blaise swallowed hard, suddenly unsure if he could do this.

"What if she doesn't make it?" Draco's voice was barely a breath, but the pain in it made Blaise's stomach churn. His friend—his brother—was looking at him like he expected an answer, like Blaise had some divine insight that could change the course of fate.

But Blaise wasn't a god. He was just a man standing in the eye of a storm, watching as the world threatened to tear apart someone he cared about.

"She's strong," he said, though the words felt pathetic in the face of Draco's torment. "You know that. She's a fighter."

Draco let out a hollow laugh, running a shaky hand over his face. "A fighter?" he echoed bitterly. "She wasn't fighting, Blaise. She gave up. And I—" He broke off, shaking his head violently. "I should've seen it. I should've known she was struggling." His voice cracked on the last word, and he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes as if trying to force back another wave of emotion.

Blaise hesitated, before sinking into the chair beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. "You didn't fail her, mate," he murmured. "Loving someone doesn't mean you can read their mind. It doesn't mean you can fix everything."

Draco let out a ragged breath, his hands falling limply to his lap. His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. "But what if my love wasn't enough to save her?" His voice was wrecked, filled with a kind of agony that only a man on the verge of losing everything could know.

And fuck, Blaise felt that.

Because hadn't he been wondering the same thing? Hadn't he been questioning the strength of his love?

He thought of Ginny. Of her tear-streaked face, her trembling hands clutching at him, begging him to make sure Hermione was okay. He had spent so long believing that love was a game of strategy, a battle of control and power. But looking at Draco now, Blaise understood—this wasn't a game. This wasn't something you won. Love was madness. It was pain. It was putting someone else's life above your own and hoping like hell that it was enough.

"Love is everything," Blaise said, his voice firm despite the tightness in his chest. "It's what makes you stay, even when it hurts like hell. It's what makes you fight, even when you feel like you've already lost."

Draco exhaled sharply, his whole body trembling. "I just want her to be okay," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I can't—" He let out a shaky breath. "I can't imagine a world without her."

Blaise clenched his jaw, forcing back the knot in his throat. "Neither can I," he admitted. "But she's still here, mate. She's still here, and as long as she is, you don't stop fighting for her."

Draco stared at him for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, slowly, his expression shifted—not into relief, not into peace, but into something closer to determination. He nodded, more to himself than to Blaise.

"I need to be better for her," he said, his voice steadier now. "I need to make sure she never feels that alone again."

Blaise met his gaze and nodded. "Then tell her. Show her. Every damn day."

For a moment, they sat in silence, side by side—two men bound by love, by pain, by the weight of what could be lost.

And Blaise made a silent vow to himself.

When he returned home, he would hold Ginny a little longer. He would whisper words he hadn't dared say before. He wouldn't let another day pass without reminding her that he saw her, that he loved her, that she mattered. Because if tonight had taught him anything, it was that love, left unspoken, was love left to rot.

And he would never, never let her feel as lost as Hermione had felt.

Not if he could help it.

~~~~~~

Blaise arrived home in the dead of night, his body dragging with exhaustion, every muscle aching under the weight of the night's events. The emotional toll of the hospital visit clung to him like a second skin, suffocating, inescapable. As he stepped inside, the soft glow of a single lamp illuminated the living room, casting long shadows across the walls.

And there she was—pacing.

Ginny's movements were frantic, her hands twisting together, her fiery hair a tangled mess from hours of running her fingers through it. The moment she saw him, her breath hitched, her wide eyes filling with pure, unfiltered relief. She didn't pause, didn't hesitate—she launched herself at him, her arms locking around his neck with a force that nearly knocked the breath out of him.

"Oh, gods, Blaise," she gasped, her voice breaking as she buried her face in the crook of his neck. Her entire body was trembling, the fear she had been holding in finally unraveling as she clung to him.

He wrapped his arms around her just as tightly, holding her like he could physically shield her from the storm raging inside her mind. He could feel the way her worry had curled itself inside her like a steel wire, wound so tight that it was a miracle she hadn't snapped.

"She's okay, amore mio," he whispered into her hair, his voice low and steady, anchoring her, grounding her. He ran a soothing hand up and down her back, feeling the way her breath hitched against his chest. "Hermione is stable. The Healers are confident she'll wake up soon."

She jerked back slightly, her hands gripping his shoulders so tightly that it almost hurt. Her tear-filled eyes searched his, desperate for reassurance, for something solid to hold onto. "You swear?" she rasped, her voice raw with emotion. "She's really okay?"

"I swear," he murmured, cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down her flushed skin. "She's strong, love. She's going to pull through."

Ginny let out a sharp, shuddering breath, her chest rising and falling rapidly as the tension she had been holding onto finally started to crack. "I was so scared," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I couldn't stop thinking about her. The thought of—" She choked on the words, shaking her head violently, refusing to speak the nightmare out loud.

"I know," Blaise said softly, pressing his forehead against hers. "I was too."

She exhaled sharply, trying to steady herself as she pulled him closer, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like she needed something—anything—to tether her to reality.

"Theo and Pansy," she murmured after a moment, her voice hoarse. "Were they there?"

He nodded, tightening his arms around her. "Yeah. They went back to their penthouse to grab some things, but they're moving into Hermione's cottage for now. They don't want her waking up alone."

"That's good," she whispered, her breath still uneven as she rested her forehead against his chest. "She needs to be somewhere that feels safe. Somewhere that feels like home again."

"She will be," Blaise assured her, dropping a lingering kiss to the top of her head. "We're going to make sure of it."

For a long moment, she just stood there, wrapped in his arms, her mind still struggling to process the weight of the night. She had spent hours spiraling, imagining the worst, every scenario more terrifying than the last. The sheer panic of nearly losing Hermione had dragged her into a darkness she hadn't known she was capable of feeling.

But now—now—hearing that Hermione was stable, that she would wake up, that she still had time—the crushing weight in her chest finally, finally eased.

She looked up at him, and for the first time since their marriage, something inside her shifted—something she had locked away, buried beneath layers of doubt and resistance. She had spent so long telling herself she wasn't in love with him, that she couldn't be, that she had never even stopped to consider the possibility that it had already happened. But now, wrapped in his arms, his warmth and steady presence surrounding her like an unbreakable shield, she felt it.

It wasn't just gratitude or relief. It was something more—something deep, something undeniable.

The words slipped out before she could stop them, soft and vulnerable, carrying a weight she hadn't realized they held.

"Thank you so much for being there with her, love."

The word hung in the space between them, heavy and delicate all at once. It wasn't forced. It wasn't habit. It was real.

Blaise stilled, just for a fraction of a second, his breath catching ever so slightly as the meaning behind the word settled in his chest. Love. She had never called him that before. Not like this. Not with feeling. His heart skipped a beat, a sharp contrast to the slow-burning hope that spread through him like fire catching on dry wood.

He had waited for this moment—ached for it.

A slow, tender smile curved his lips, one filled with warmth, filled with the kind of devotion he had always held for her. "Anytime, my love," he murmured, his voice deep, full of emotion, full of her.

And then he kissed her, slow and reverent, as if this was the first time, as if she was something fragile, something to be cherished. There was no rush, no desperation—just them, wrapped in a moment that felt heavier than the weight of all their past doubts. He poured everything he felt into that kiss, hoping she could feel it, hoping she knew.

When they finally pulled apart, he brushed his thumb over her cheek, his touch lingering, as if he couldn't quite bear to let go of her just yet. "Come on, let's get you to bed," he said softly, his fingers lacing through hers as he gently led her toward the bedroom. "You need rest. I'll tell you everything in the morning."

She hesitated for a moment, her grip tightening around his hand. What if something happens? What if she wakes up alone?

"But what if—" she started, her voice small.

"She'll be fine," he interrupted gently, running his fingers soothingly over the back of her hand. "She has Draco. And she has us. She's not alone."

Ginny swallowed hard, nodding even though the worry hadn't completely left her. He guided her toward the bed, and the moment she sat down, she realized just how exhausted she truly was. Her body felt heavy, her limbs aching from the weight of the night's emotions.

She let out a soft, shaky sigh as she sank into the mattress, but even as the exhaustion pulled at her, she kept hold of his hand, unwilling to let him go.

Blaise noticed. He always noticed.

With the same tenderness he had always shown her, he pulled the blankets over her, tucking her in as though she were the most precious thing in the world. There was no grand declaration, no demand for her to say anything more. He just was—there, unwavering, solid in the way he had always been.

As she watched him move, something clicked inside her, something she had been too stubborn, too scared, to see before.

She had spent so long believing that love was supposed to be something big, something all-consuming and immediate, something that knocked you off your feet like a storm. But maybe she had been wrong. Maybe love was quieter. Steadier. Maybe it wasn't a flash of lightning but the slow, warm glow of a fire on a cold night.

Maybe love was this.

Blaise.

The way he had shown up, without hesitation, not just for her but for the people she loved. The way he had comforted her when she felt like she was falling apart. The way he kissed her not with hunger, but with care, with devotion.

Maybe love wasn't something she had to find. Maybe it had already found her.

As he climbed into bed beside her, she turned on her side, reaching out hesitantly, her fingers resting lightly against his chest.

He glanced down at her touch, surprise flickering in his dark eyes. She had never been the one to reach for him first. She had never let herself.

But tonight, she did.

She searched his face, seeing the patience, the quiet hope, the love in his gaze, and something inside her softened.

"I didn't know," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "I didn't know how much I needed you until tonight."

Blaise's throat bobbed, his expression shifting, something vulnerable passing over his features. He took her hand, lifting it to his lips, pressing the softest kiss to her knuckles, his voice deep, steady.

"I've always been here," he murmured against her skin. "And I always will be."

Her chest tightened, and before she could stop it, a single tear slipped down her cheek. But this time, it wasn't from fear. It wasn't from uncertainty.

It was from realization.

She might have been falling in love with him all along. She just hadn't let herself see it.

She snuggled closer, her head resting over his heart, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of it as it lulled her into something she had never truly felt before. Safety. Peace.

And as sleep began to claim her, she let herself say the words she had been too afraid to speak before.

"I love you."

The words were so soft, barely even there, but he heard them.

His arms tightened around her instantly, as if he had been waiting forever to hold her this close, to finally hear those words from her lips. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his own heart feeling lighter than it had in months.

"I love you too, doll," he whispered back, his voice filled with something that felt like the beginning of forever.

~~~~~~

A sharp, insistent knocking shattered the fragile quiet of the night, jolting them from a sleep laced with exhaustion and unease. Draco stirred first, blinking away the haze of half-formed dreams as his fingers instinctively sought his wand, a reflex carved into him by years of war. The knocking came again, more urgent this time, a discordant intrusion in the hush of their secluded world.

With a questioning glance at Hermione, he rose, muscles tense with apprehension. He moved toward the door with silent precision, wand poised. Hermione followed closely, her own grip tightening around her wand.

"Who in Merlin's name could be knocking at this ungodly hour?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He shook his head, a sliver of unease threading through his features. "Stay behind me, love," he murmured, his voice steady despite the disquiet gnawing at his gut.

He cracked the door open just enough to see, and relief rushed through him like a sudden exhale. Standing in the moonlit doorway were Pansy, Blaise, and Theo, their expressions etched with concern.

Pansy rolled her eyes, though the flicker of worry in her gaze betrayed her. "For Salazar's sake, you two look like you've just seen a Dementor."

Blaise smirked, though his usual dry amusement was softened by something more genuine. "Apologies for disturbing your beauty sleep, but we thought it was time for a little intervention, wouldn't you agree?"

Theo, the quietest of the trio, surprised them both with an uncharacteristically broad grin. "Figured we shouldn't let you lovebirds hoard all the trauma. Sharing is caring."

Draco exhaled, a mixture of exasperation and gratitude in his voice. "You lot have impeccable timing, as always," he muttered, stepping aside. "Come in. But next time, send a bloody owl first."

A faint smile tugged at Hermione's lips, the first in what felt like days. As she stepped back to let them inside, she arched a brow. "It's good to see you all. But why exactly are you here?"

Pansy shrugged, her bravado wavering just enough to reveal something more genuine. "News travels fast, Granger," she said, voice softer than usual. "We heard. And we were worried."

Blaise nodded, his gaze flickering between Draco and Hermione. "We've all danced with our own demons," he admitted gruffly. "And sometimes, the only way to keep from drowning is to let someone pull you back."

Pansy reached out, squeezing Hermione's hand—an offering of solidarity, no words needed. "Like it or not, you're family now. And we protect our own."

What a charming little band of the emotionally maimed.

The pre-dawn gloom gradually gave way to the golden glow of morning, casting long streaks of light across the cottage floor. The hours passed in a strange, comforting rhythm—clinking teacups, murmured reassurances, laughter that bubbled up unexpectedly between the cracks of old wounds.

Memories unfurled like old parchment—mischief made and secrets whispered, battles fought and scars left unseen. Their shared history wove itself into something unbreakable, a tether binding them not just as survivors, but as something more: a family forged in war and tempered in love.

As the sun climbed higher, stretching its light into forgotten corners, Hermione felt a shift. The weight that had threatened to consume her felt just a little lighter, steadied by the hands that held her up. They weren't alone in their darkness.

And together, they'd find their way back to the light.

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.

~~~~~~

She arrived at Hermione's cottage the moment Draco sent word that it was okay. The second she stepped over the threshold, she felt the suffocating weight of the last few days ease—just slightly. The cottage was warm, intimate, and familiar, a stark contrast to the cold sterility of St. Mungo's. The scent of dried lavender and chamomile lingered in the air, remnants of the enchanted herbs Hermione kept in her kitchen, and the creak of the wooden floors beneath her feet felt like a long-overdue embrace. This place had always been a sanctuary, a space filled with quiet comfort and Hermione's quiet strength.

Her eyes immediately found Hermione curled up on the couch, wrapped in a thick, knitted blanket that swallowed her small frame. She looked better—less fragile than she had in the hospital—but there was still something in her eyes, a quiet sort of weariness, a shadow of the battle she was still fighting.

"Hello, my love," she said softly, stepping further into the room.

Hermione looked up at her, and though her lips curved into a small smile, it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hello, Gin." Her voice was stronger than before, but the sadness in it was undeniable.

Ginny lifted the bag in her hands, her attempt to bring even the smallest sliver of joy back into the space between them. "I brought your favorite movies and an obscene amount of popcorn. Thought we could have a little movie night, just like old times," she said, keeping her voice light, hopeful. She needed Hermione to feel even the smallest bit of normalcy again.

Before Hermione could answer, Crookshanks padded into the room with his usual slow, graceful gait, his golden eyes alert as he took in the sight of Ginny. The second he recognized her, his ears perked, and in an instant, he bounded toward her, tail high, purring as if she were the only person in the world.

"Hello, old man," she murmured, scooping him up with practiced ease. The second he was in her arms, he headbutted her chin, his purring growing louder with every passing second.

Ginny pressed a kiss to his fur, feeling the deep rumble in his chest vibrate against her own. "Have you been keeping my best friend company?" she asked, stroking between his ears.

He meowed in response, his large paws kneading at her arm, as if he sensed the tension in the air and wanted to absorb some of it himself. Ginny smiled, rubbing under his chin before carefully placing him beside Hermione. He curled up at her feet without hesitation, his large, watchful eyes fixed on them both as if standing guard.

She settled beside Hermione, placing the bag of movies and popcorn on the coffee table before turning to face her properly.

"How are you feeling?" she asked gently, her voice losing all traces of playful pretense. "And don't give me some brave, rehearsed answer. You can tell me the truth."

Hermione hesitated, her fingers absently running through Crookshanks' thick fur. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, like she was afraid saying it out loud would make it more real. "I'm... better," she admitted, but there was something hollow in the way she said it. "But everything still feels... off, you know? Like I'm here, but not really here." She gestured vaguely around the room. "Like I'm floating through all of it."

Ginny's heart clenched. She reached for Hermione's hand, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze. "That makes sense, love. You've been through hell. It's going to take time." She stroked her thumb over Hermione's knuckles, grounding both of them. "But you're not alone. You have Draco, Theo, Pansy. And you have me—always."

Hermione nodded but kept her gaze downcast. "I just thought… I thought coming home would fix everything," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I don't feel fixed. I don't know when I'll feel normal again."

Ginny squeezed her hand tighter. "You don't have to rush that," she said firmly. "You shouldn't rush that. Healing isn't linear, Hermione. You're allowed to take your time. And even if it takes longer than you want it to, you're already moving forward. You came home. You're here. That's a start."

Hermione finally looked up, and for the first time since Ginny arrived, she saw something flicker behind her tired eyes. A small crack in the wall she had been holding up.

"Thank you, Gin," Hermione whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "For being here. For everything."

Ginny gave her a small, warm smile. "Of course. You'd do the same for me."

Wanting to lift the mood even just a little, she shifted on the couch and rifled through the bag of movies. "Right, we need something that requires zero emotional energy," she declared. "No dramas. No tragedies. Just pure, brain-melting comfort." She pulled out one of Hermione's favorites and held it up. "How about Pride and Prejudice? You can swoon over Mr. Darcy while I stuff my face with popcorn."

For the first time in days, Hermione let out a small, genuine laugh. "That sounds perfect."

Ginny grinned and slid the DVD into the player, then settled back beside her, letting Hermione lean into her side as the opening scene began to play. Crookshanks stretched lazily across their laps, his purring filling the space between them.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the weight in the room began to lift. Not completely, but just enough.

~~~~~~

Ginny stepped into the house, and for the first time in a long time, the familiar warmth of home did nothing to soothe her frayed nerves. The weight of the day sat heavy on her chest, pressing down on her like an invisible force, suffocating, relentless. She had spent the entire evening holding it together, trying to be strong for Hermione, but now that she was here, in the safety of her own home, she could feel the cracks starting to split wide open.

Blaise, who was rarely home this early, lounged on the couch in the dimly lit living room, a book in one hand and a glass of scotch resting on the table beside him. He looked effortless as always—sharp, composed—but the second he heard the door close and saw her standing there, something in his expression shifted. His dark eyes scanned her face, reading her like an open book, and before she could even force out a greeting, he had already abandoned his book and was crossing the room toward her.

"How was it, my love?" His voice was gentle, but there was a quiet intensity beneath it, a concern he didn't bother hiding.

The moment she heard his voice, something inside her snapped. All the emotions she had bottled up, all the worry, the helplessness, the sheer agony of watching Hermione suffer—it all came crashing down at once. Before she could stop herself, her chest tightened, her breath hitched, and the sobs broke free.

Blaise was there in an instant, catching her as she stumbled forward, his arms wrapping tightly around her. "Hey, hey, baby," he murmured, his voice a low whisper against her hair. His hands ran slow, soothing circles over her back, grounding her as her body shook against his. "Come here. Tell me what happened."

She buried her face in his chest, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, but the words were trapped in her throat, tangled in the raw mess of her emotions. It took her a long moment—several deep, uneven breaths—before she managed to force them out.

"She's suffering," she choked out, her voice fragile, trembling. "She's hurting so much, Blaise, and I don't know how to help her. I don't know how to make it better."

His hold on her tightened, and though his expression remained unreadable, she could feel the way his body tensed, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly. He hated seeing her like this—this vulnerable, this torn apart. But more than that, he hated that there was nothing he could do to take the pain away.

"You don't have to save her, Gin," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You're already doing what matters most. You're there. You're showing up for her, loving her, reminding her she isn't alone. That's what she needs right now."

She shook her head, her sobs muffled against his chest. "It doesn't feel like enough," she confessed, her voice breaking. "It's like she's drowning, and I'm just standing there, watching her sink."

Blaise exhaled slowly, pulling back just enough to cup her face in his hands. His thumbs brushed over the damp trails of her tears, his gaze steady, unwavering. "I know it feels like that, love," he murmured. "But healing isn't a straight path. It's messy. It takes time. Hermione has to find her own way back, but she will. And when she does, it'll be because of people like you—people who refuse to let her go, even when she feels lost."

She sniffled, her breath still shaky, but his words settled something inside her, even if only slightly. She hated this—hated feeling powerless, hated that all the love she had to give couldn't magically fix Hermione's pain. But maybe he was right. Maybe love wasn't about fixing things—it was about showing up, about holding someone's hand through the dark even when you couldn't lead them out of it.

"I just wish I could do more," she whispered.

Blaise tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You're doing more than enough," he said, his voice firm, certain. "Don't doubt that for a second. You are the best friend she could ask for, and right now, that's exactly what she needs."

She let out a shaky breath, leaning into his touch, allowing herself to sink into the warmth of his hands, his presence, his unwavering steadiness. The storm inside her hadn't fully calmed, but he was anchoring her, holding her together when she felt like she might come undone.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice hoarse. "For always knowing what to say."

A small smile ghosted across his lips as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a moment before pulling back. "That's what I'm here for, love. Always."

For a while, they just stood there in the quiet of their home, wrapped in each other, the weight of the day still pressing down on them but just a little more bearable now that they were together. His heartbeat was steady beneath her cheek, a rhythm she focused on, letting it soothe her.

Finally, she pulled back, looking up at him with tired, red-rimmed eyes, but a small, grateful smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

Blaise chuckled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary. "Good thing you don't have to find out." His voice was soft, teasing, but his eyes told a different story—one filled with nothing but love.

She managed a small laugh, though it was weak, still tinged with the weight of everything that had happened. But it was a laugh nonetheless, and it felt good to have that small moment of lightness amidst the darkness.

"Come on," he said gently, taking her hand and leading her toward the couch. "Sit with me for a bit. You need to rest."

She followed him, grateful for his steady hand as they settled on the couch together. She leaned into his side, her head resting on his shoulder as she let out a deep sigh. The exhaustion of the day was finally catching up to her, but being here, in his arms, made her feel safe. It made her feel like everything might eventually be okay.

"I just want her to be happy again," Ginny murmured, her voice barely audible. "I want Hermione to be herself again."

He pressed another kiss to the top of her head, his arms wrapped tightly around her. "She will be," he assured her quietly. "It'll take time, but she'll find her way back."

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to believe him, even if just for a moment.