Sins Written in Blood

TW: Ron's and Lavander's death.

There they were—another routine Sunday brunch with their friends. Except this time, it wasn't routine at all.

Ron had brought Lavender.

The moment they stepped in, Pansy's gaze locked onto them like a predator spotting its prey. Her eyes widened, then narrowed in sheer disbelief. Of all the days to show up looking like that. Lavender's outfit was not just a poor choice—it was a personal attack on brunch fashion itself.

"Absolutely not," Pansy muttered, leaning toward Neville with the kind of scandalized expression one reserved for witnessing a crime. "Is she trying to look like an overripe banana? Because that shade of mustard yellow is offensive." She flicked her manicured nails toward Lavender's dress in disgust. "It's like she lost a duel with a thrift store discount rack."

Neville made a soft, noncommittal hum, but Pansy wasn't done. Oh, she was just getting started.

"And clogs?" she hissed, barely able to contain her horror. "Merlin's saggy left—are those actual clogs? Who in their right mind pairs an expired condiment dress with Dutch footwear? Someone needs to Obliviate this entire outfit from existence."

Ginny, catching Pansy's scathing expression from across the table, smirked. She was already enjoying the roast. "Come on, Pans, maybe she's going for 'quirky.'"

Pansy scoffed, her expression dripping with aristocratic disdain. "If that's quirky, then I'm a Muggle-born. That's not a look, Red, that's a cry for help." She shook her head, genuinely offended. "I've seen house-elves with more coordinated outfits. The Malfoy peacocks dress better than this."

Draco, who had been quietly sipping his tea, smirked but wisely stayed out of it. Blaise, on the other hand, was openly entertained. "I mean, it's bold," he offered, trying to keep a straight face.

"Bold?" Pansy repeated, aghast. "No, Blaise, war crimes are bold. This is blinding. I swear, Ron must have hexed his own eyes shut before leaving the house. That's the only explanation."

Luna, ever the diplomat, tilted her head. "I think it's nice," she said dreamily. "She looks like a sunflower."

"She looks like a sunflower that drowned in pumpkin juice," Pansy shot back. "And was then stomped on by a herd of centaurs."

Ginny snorted so loudly she had to pretend to cough into her napkin. Even Theo, normally the picture of polite indifference, muttered a low, "Merlin's beard," as he eyed Lavender's ensemble.

And then, just when Pansy thought her patience had reached its limit, Lavender flounced toward their table.

"Morning, everyone!" she chirped, radiating oblivious confidence as she took her seat beside Ron. The mustard monstrosity of a dress swayed with her movements, assaulting Pansy's vision with every ripple.

Pansy plastered on the fakest smile known to wizardkind. "Lavender, darling," she purred, her tone dripping with saccharine sweetness, "I adore your outfit. It's just so... daring."

Lavender beamed. "Oh, thanks, Pansy! It's vintage!"

"Ah, yes," Pansy said, her voice smooth as silk. "I could tell. Very... timeless." She took a languid sip of her mimosa, pausing just long enough to deliver the killing blow. "Practically prehistoric."

Ginny collapsed into silent, shaking laughter. Ron, ever the human embodiment of confusion, glanced at Lavender's dress as if only just realizing it might be offensive to all five senses.

Lavender, still smiling, blinked. "Oh, well—"

"I mean," Pansy continued, tone syrupy, "not everyone can pull off looking like an old Hogwarts tapestry. It's a statement, really. What statement, though, I can't quite figure out."

Blaise covered his mouth to muffle his laugh. Neville shifted uncomfortably but made no move to intervene. No one was saving Lavender from this.

Draco, ever composed, casually set down his teacup. "I think what Pansy's trying to say," he drawled, eyes glinting, "is that your bravery truly knows no bounds."

Pansy leaned back, looking utterly pleased with herself as Lavender finally, finally, started to look uncomfortable.

Maybe next time, she'd think twice before showing up looking like a regrettable Potions experiment.

If Draco Malfoy was an enigma, then Lavender Brown was a nails-on-a-chalkboard migraine in human form. Sitting next to her at brunch felt like some cosmic punishment—Hermione would have rather been locked in a room with Peeves, or worse, forced to tutor Crabbe and Goyle in advanced Arithmancy.

Trapped at the table with Lavender's endless stream of frivolous gossip, Hermione felt a familiar, simmering resentment bubble beneath her practiced poise. Draco, for all his arrogance and contradictions, was at least intellectually engaging. Lavender? A walking, talking Witch Weekly column with the emotional depth of a teaspoon.

She let her gaze drift to her china cup, pretending to be utterly captivated by the delicate floral patterns. Merlin, she'd rather be analyzing runes scratched onto a troll's arse than enduring another second of this.

Lavender's voice, shrill and unrelenting, prattled on, each word scraping against Hermione's patience like a dull blade. Every forced laugh, every vapid anecdote about her latest beauty charm or 'accidental' run-in with someone famous, felt like slow, torturous decay of Hermione's remaining brain cells.

She let her mind wander—complex spell theories, the satisfaction of unraveling ancient magical texts, even the adrenaline of battle during the war—all infinitely preferable to this. But no, she was here, stuck in the brunch purgatory of Lavender Brown's company.

And frankly, she'd rather be interrogating Bellatrix Lestrange.

A sudden, sharp pang of hunger dragged Hermione back to reality. She forced herself to take a bite of her food, though the bland taste paled in comparison to the acrid bite of irritation sitting heavy on her tongue. Across from her, Lavender's voice droned on, rising and falling like a particularly grating concerto—pretentious, overdone, and impossible to tune out.

Lavender Brown, a human embodiment of a discount perfume sample, lazily pushed her eggs around her plate, her every movement calculated, every word dripping in saccharine condescension. Thinly veiled barbs laced her compliments, subtle little jabs at Hermione's place among them, a game of social warfare Lavender was far too eager to play.

"Alright, Granger," Lavender drawled, her manicured nails tapping a slow, taunting rhythm against the tablecloth. "Fancy seeing you here. Still scraping by on those modest Ministry wages, or has Malfoy finally started footing the bill? I hear the new Auror uniforms are rather... plebeian."

Her voice was honeyed poison, her eyes glittering with predatory amusement as they raked over Hermione like she was something unfortunate that had stumbled onto her designer rug.

Hermione, ever the picture of grace under fire, offered a saccharine smile that could curdle milk. "It has its adjustments, Lavender. Though I find designing my own home much more rewarding than, say, spending my time on the floo to Witch Weekly for a feature that never quite seems to come." Her tone was sweet—syrupy, even—but sharp enough to draw blood.

Lavender's smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered, tilting her head. "I bet. It must be thrilling to live in such a... historic place."

The insinuation was clear. Hermione felt her grip tighten around her fork, but she refused to take the bait. "Every place has its charm. It's the people who live there now that matter."

Lavender's expression darkened, her lips curling at the edges. "Oh, please, Granger, drop the noble act. You married up, plain and simple. And don't think I haven't noticed the way you've been clinging to Malfoy like a barnacle. It's almost... pathetic."

A slow, simmering anger settled in Hermione's chest, but she smoothed it down, lifting her glass to her lips with practiced poise. "Lavender," she said with a cool finality, "I appreciate your deep concern for my happiness, but perhaps we should find something more engaging to discuss. Like your latest heartbreak? I hear they last about as long as your dye jobs."

Ginny let out an abrupt cough—more of a choked laugh—while Pansy casually stirred her mimosa, not bothering to hide her smirk.

Draco, however, had heard enough.

"Lavender," he interjected, his voice like velvet-lined steel, "I believe this conversation has run its course."

Lavender smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Just curious, Draco. We're all friends here, aren't we?"

"Friends," Hermione thought dryly, stabbing a piece of toast with unnecessary force. If this was friendship, she'd rather spend an evening alone in Knockturn Alley.

But then Draco's expression shifted, his usual cool indifference sharpening into something colder, something lethal. His fingers flexed against his glass before he placed it down deliberately.

His voice sliced through the air like a blade, sharp and deliberate. "I would strongly advise your husband to mind his wandering eyes during the meal," he murmured, his gaze locking onto Ron's with deadly precision.

The air thickened, a weighted silence settling over the table like the hush before a storm. The once lively hum of conversation died—drinks half-sipped, utensils frozen mid-motion. Every breath in the room felt measured, cautious.

Draco leaned back lazily, but his grip on the silver knife remained firm. His fingers curled around the handle with a practiced ease, the blade catching the light as it twirled in his hand with a slow, rhythmic flick. Not careless. Not idle. A message. A warning. A predator deciding whether the hunt was worth his time.

Ronald's face, already tinged with red, lost its color in a slow, humiliating drain. His Adam's apple bobbed with a thick swallow. His eyes darted, as if scanning for an escape, but there was no out. No one dared interfere. Not with Draco Malfoy sitting there, a knife in his hand and murder in his eyes.

"Perhaps," he continued, his voice deceptively light, "you should consider keeping your focus on your plate instead of staring at something you can't have. Because if I catch that filthy gaze lingering on my wife again..." He trailed off, the knife spinning one final time before landing flat against the table with an ominous thud.

The promise of pain hung in the air, thick and inescapable.

Ronald's throat worked as he cleared it, his voice thin, forced. "Look, Malfoy, I wasn't—"

He silenced him with a lazy flick of his wrist, as if dismissing an insect. "Save it, Weasley. I know exactly how you used to look at her. I remember every pathetic, yearning glance, every time you treated her like some backup plan. And here you are again, looking at what's mine."

His voice was low, deadly. Each word laced with poison, sinking deep.

" Some habits die hard ," he mused, tilting his head in feigned thought. "But some creatures? They never change at all." His lips curled into something that was almost a smile. Almost. "A leopard can't change its spots, can it?"

Ronald's fists clenched, but his silence betrayed him. He knew better than to engage. Everyone at the table did.

She placed a hand on his arm—a silent plea. A tether keeping him from fully baring his fangs.

"Draco," she murmured, her voice calm, though the tension in her grip was unmistakable.

His eyes flicked to her, and for a moment, his expression softened. But then, slowly, he turned back to Ron, his amusement darkening into something more possessive.

"She is mine," he said, voice quiet but lethal. "She belongs to me. To look at. To talk to. To touch. She means nothing to you now, and she never will again."

The next words dripped from his lips, a whisper of pure malice.

"I'm the only one who knows how the golden cunt tastes. So get over her. Go home to that whore of a woman you call a wife, and don't ever let your eyes land on mine again."

The weight of the words sank like iron. The world stood still.

Ronald opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Without warning, Hermione stood. In an instant, she grasped Draco's wrist, and with a sharp crack of Apparition, they were gone—leaving only the lingering chill of his words in the stunned silence they left behind.

The tension in the room shattered in an instant.

Pansy, without a second thought, lunged across the table, knocking over glasses and sending a wave of mimosa splashing right into Lavender's stunned face.

"HOW DARE YOU!" Pansy shouted, her voice echoing through the room like a crack of thunder, her eyes blazing with fury.

Luna, always calm but not one to tolerate such behaviour, stood as well, her expression one of disappointment. "This is absolutely disgusting," she said quietly, but the weight of her words hung heavily in the now-silent room.

Ron, looking completely out of his depth, sat there frozen, his face flushed and confused, like a child caught in the middle of a grown-up fight, utterly useless.

Ginny, however, was livid. Her fiery temper, always ready to ignite, flared in an instant. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped, rounding on Ron, grabbing his arm, and yanking him to his feet with a force that surprised even him.

Without waiting for a response, she dragged him from the table, her expression stormy as they disappeared into the next room, leaving an uncomfortable silence in their wake.

Ginny didn't just drag Ron out of the dining room—she ripped him away, her grip ironclad, her entire body radiating fury. The moment the door shut behind them, she spun on him, shoving him back a step with the sheer force of her rage.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Ronald?" she seethed, her voice shaking—not with uncertainty, but with barely contained, explosive wrath. Her chest heaved, her breath coming in sharp, angry bursts as she glared at him like she wanted to set him on fire with her eyes alone.

Ron opened his mouth, but she wasn't finished. Not even close.

"I cannot believe what I just heard. The way you've been treating Lavender? It's beyond disgusting. It's vile. It's pathetic. It's you!"

Ron flinched at her words, his face paling, but he didn't speak. He knew better.

"You have some fucking nerve calling yourself a man," she spat, stepping closer, her fists clenched so tightly her nails dug into her palms. "A real man doesn't treat a woman like she's a piece of trash to be tossed aside when you're bored. And don't you dare act like you don't know what I'm talking about, because I've seen it. We've all seen it!"

Her voice rose, shaking the very walls around them. "She loves you, Ron. And what do you do? Humiliate her? Cheat on her? Make her feel like she's fucking worthless because you're too much of a coward to own up to your feelings?"

Ron's mouth opened again, but she shoved him—hard.

"Don't you fucking look away from me!" she yelled, jabbing a finger into his chest. "You're gonna stand there and listen, because I am not done!"

Her rage was molten, scalding, burning her throat as she continued. "You think you're so bloody clever, sneaking off, flirting with other women, acting like Lavender's just supposed to sit there and take it? You are a coward, Ron Weasley. A spineless, selfish little boy who doesn't have the guts to end things like a decent fucking human being!"

Ron swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably, his face now beet-red—whether from shame or anger, she didn't care.

"You know what really makes me sick?" she went on, her voice trembling with raw emotion. "Lavender might be loud, she might be over the top, but she loves you, you ungrateful, emotionally stunted prick! And this is how you treat her? You ruin her, like she's disposable, like she doesn't matter?"

Her voice cracked, but she didn't stop. "Do you have any idea what it's like for women like her? Like me? We are told to be fucking grateful—to settle, to accept whatever scraps a man throws at us, to put up with your bullshit just because we're lucky enough to have you in the first place."

Her hands trembled at her sides. "Lavender deserves better than some half-assed, pitiful excuse for a husband who treats her like an option while he pines after someone who hasn't given him a second thought in years."

Ron's jaw ticked at that, but she didn't stop. She wouldn't stop.

"What about Hermione, huh?" Her voice was ice now, sharp and cutting. "Are you still in love with her?"

His expression shifted, something flickering behind his eyes—guilt, anger, shame.

"No, I'm not," he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

"Bollocks." She laughed—a harsh, humorless sound. "It's written all over your pathetic face! You need to get a grip, Ron! It's over! It's been over for years!"

She stepped even closer, her presence looming, her voice razor-sharp.

"Hermione is Draco's wife now. The Ministry matched them. Ninety-nine fucking percent, Ronald." She watched the color drain from his face, her words hitting him like a fist to the gut. "Do you know what that means? Soulmates. She was never meant for you. She was never yours."

His fists clenched, his face twisting in rage, but she wasn't finished.

"And Draco—" her lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Draco fucking Malfoy? Oh, he knows. He sees you, Ron. He sees the way you still look at Hermione. He knows you're still pining for his wife, and trust me—he's not going to just let you sulk around like some lovesick puppy."

Her next words were poison, her voice dropping into a lethal whisper. "You are not Draco Malfoy, and you never will be."

The fury in Ron's eyes burned brighter, his fists trembling at his sides.

"He's ten times the man you are, and you fucking know it." She sneered, tilting her head. "He loves her. He would kill for her. He would die for her. And you? You'd fucking whine about it. That's the difference between you and him."

Ron shook, his whole body tensing, but she didn't care. She wanted him to feel this. To hurt.

"Look at yourself," she spat, her voice dripping with disgust. "You're fucking pathetic. You sit there, clinging to a fantasy, while you ignore the woman you're actually married to—the one who actually wants you. The Ministry chose Lavender for you, and you're throwing her away because you still can't let go of something that was never yours to begin with."

She let the words sink in, let them stab deep.

And then, with one final, brutal blow, she delivered the truth.

"You think the world owes you something, but it doesn't. And if you keep acting like this, you'll lose everything. And you'll deserve to."

The room fell silent, the weight of her words pressing down like a thousand bricks.

Ron stared at her, breathless, his expression a mess of anger, shame, and something she couldn't quite name.

Her voice lowered, but the intensity remained. "You don't get to use your past as an excuse to destroy the people who love you, Ron. Either fix it, or fuck off."

She turned on her heel, her heart pounding, the rage still a storm inside her.

But before she left, she paused at the door, looking back at her brother with nothing but contempt.

"And don't think for a second that I'll sit by and watch you ruin another woman's life. Lavender deserves better. You should've been better."

And with that, she slammed the door so hard behind her that the walls shook—leaving Ron alone in the wreckage of her words, drowning in the truth he never wanted to face.

~~~~~~

Pansy's voice dripped with venom as she leaned in, eyes narrowed, her gaze fixed on Lavender. "You have no right to talk about Hermione like that. What's the problem, Lavender? Can't handle being a sloppy second? Can't stand the fact that she's always been better than you? And guess what? She'll always be better."

Lavender's face paled, but before she could respond, Luna gracefully stepped forward, her usual serenity replaced with quiet intensity. "You're not even a sloppy second, Lavender," Luna said, her voice calm but cutting. "You were never more than an afterthought. How can you be jealous of someone as kind and brilliant as Hermione? She's a wonderful person—her goodness radiates."

Neville, who had been silently clenching his jaw, finally spoke, his voice calm but filled with quiet authority. "And an incredible friend. She's everything you'll never grasp."

Before the tension could escalate further, Blaise rose from his seat with a cold, controlled demeanour. His gaze flickered to Lavender, and his voice was low, dripping with disdain. "Brown," he said, his words sharp as a blade, "it's time for you to leave. And if you leave so much as a single champagne stain on my rug, you'll regret it."

His eyes narrowed as he added with a biting edge, "Fucking bitch."

Luna and Pansy were seething, their anger palpable. Luna, usually calm and serene, had a rare storm brewing behind her blue eyes. "How could she ruin a perfectly good breakfast?" Luna said, her voice unusually sharp, her usual tranquillity nowhere in sight.

Pansy, on the other hand, was pacing, fists clenched and muttering under her breath. "That woman has some nerve. I swear, I'm about to go beat that bitch up." She turned toward the door, fully intending to chase Lavender down.

Neville, sensing the danger, quickly rushed over, wrapping his arms around her waist before she could storm out of the room. "Sassy, darling," he whispered soothingly, though he was clearly trying not to laugh at the sight of his furious wife, "let's just go home, okay?"

Pansy, still glaring in the direction Lavender had disappeared, grumbled, "No! I want to hit her!"

Neville, ever the peacekeeper, pressed a kiss to her temple, his tone gentle but firm. "Alright, love. You can hit the plant when we get home."

Pansy huffed, crossing her arms in defeat. "Fine. But it better be a big one."

~~~~~~

The night wrapped itself around him like a shadowed cloak, concealing his every move as he ventured toward his unknown destination. The true purpose of the mission remained veiled in secrecy, a dangerous wager that could alter their fates forever. In the dimly lit room, Theo, Draco, and Blaise stood shoulder to shoulder, the oppressive silence pressing in on them. Their expressions were grim, eyes glinting with steely resolve as they meticulously reviewed the plan one final time. The soft, intermittent flicker of a dying lamp was the only sound that disturbed the stifling quiet, underscoring the weight of what lay ahead.

Draco stood at the centre of the room, his face set in stone, his voice cold and unwavering. The tension in the air thickened as he began to speak, his words laced with a fury simmering just beneath the surface.

"We've gone over the plan," he began, his gaze sweeping across the room. His eyes burned with a controlled fire, sharp and unforgiving. "This isn't just another mission. We are doing this for Hermione. He—Ronald Weasley—crossed a line that no one comes back from. He dared to lay a hand on my wife, dared to abuse her. And now he's doing the same to his own wife. This is one of the things we do not, and will never, tolerate."

His voice grew harder, colder with each word. Draco's jaw clenched as he steadied his breath. "No one harms our loved ones. No one. Not now, not ever. We are not our fathers, bound by their twisted codes of power and cruelty. We've built something stronger—something that isn't controlled by fear but by the strength of loyalty. And we will always protect our family, no matter the cost."

The room was silent for a moment, every man present absorbing the weight of Draco's words, understanding the severity of what lay ahead. The flickering light above cast shadows across their faces, giving them an almost spectral appearance, like silent sentinels poised for battle.

With a unified, almost primal response, they echoed his resolve in one voice.

"To our family."

The words hung in the air, vibrating with the weight of an unspoken vow. It wasn't just a statement of intent—it was a cold, unflinching declaration. This wasn't about mere revenge or some strategic manoeuvre. No. It was about protecting the one thing that transcended all else: family. And anyone foolish enough to threaten that bond would soon discover just how far they were willing to go, just how deep into the abyss they would descend.

Draco's eyes were narrowed to slits, his wand gripped so tightly his knuckles turned white. The dim light of the room seemed to grow darker, the shadows creeping in as if they too understood the gravity of what had just been set in motion. There would be no hesitation. No second chances. No mercy. This was their line in the sand, and no one crossed it without paying in blood.

He stood off to the side, his gaze flickering toward the device in his hand. Its presence seemed to pulse with an eerie energy, a silent reminder that the final step was upon them. His voice was low, almost a murmur, as he finally spoke. "Everything is set. The detonation sequence is primed, timed to perfection. The entire area has been scoped. There's no way out for him."

His words were devoid of emotion, but his eyes betrayed the storm brewing beneath the surface. This was no simple task, not when the target was Ronald Weasley—brother in law, friend to Draco's wife, once an ally in their shared war. But those ties were long severed. Weasley had crossed a boundary that could never be forgiven.

Blaise's expression was unreadable, though his fingers tapped rhythmically on the arm of his chair, betraying a mix of anticipation and nervous energy. His voice was almost too calm, a dangerous edge lacing his words. "We need to be precise. There's no room for error. We end this cleanly, without leaving a trace."

Draco exhaled slowly, his eyes hardening into something sharp and lethal. "No mistakes," he said, his tone final, unyielding. "We do this right, or we don't do it at all. This is the last time we clean up anyone's mess. If we fail, there won't be a second chance."

His gaze shifted between his two allies, both cloaked in the same unrelenting resolve that weighed heavily on his own shoulders. His voice was steady, though a tremor of anticipation ran beneath it. "Agreed. We finish this. We start in thirty minutes."

The silence that followed was oppressive, each man lost in his own thoughts as they readied themselves for the task ahead. This wasn't just about removing a problem—it was a statement, a grim message sent from the shadows. Their target would soon understand that the old rules didn't apply to them. They had created their own, and in their world, betrayal was a fatal mistake.

They stood in the shadow of the Weasley house, the air thick with tension. The night was deathly still, save for the quiet whisper of the wind through the trees. The house loomed before them, unaware of the fate that awaited it. They shared a brief, silent exchange, their eyes reflecting the shared understanding of what had to be done.

His breath was slow and measured as he stared at the window, behind which lay their objective. His fingers brushed the edge of his coat, slipping into the pocket to retrieve the device. It was small, unassuming, but inside it contained a force of destruction that even the most skilled wizards feared: Fiendfyre.

Without a word, he moved with quiet purpose. His hand, steady and unshakable, lobbed the device through the window with a subtle flick of his wrist. For a heartbeat, there was only silence. Then, the air seemed to ignite with a dangerous hum as the Fiendfyre erupted in a blaze of malevolent magic.

The flames tore through the room, hungry and unstoppable, consuming everything they touched. Fiendfyre wasn't like ordinary fire—it had a will of its own, a dark, destructive sentience that sought out its prey. The inferno roared to life, twisting and writhing as it spread, its tendrils devouring the house with a ravenous speed.

They stood in the shadows, watching the fire with grim satisfaction. The heat from the flames was fierce, though none of them flinched. They had seen worse, done worse. This was just another necessary act, another sacrifice to ensure the safety of those they loved.

As the Weasley house began to collapse under the weight of the Fiendfyre's assault, Blaise spoke softly, his words nearly lost in the crackle of the flames. "There's no going back now. We're committed."

Draco's expression remained cold, his eyes never leaving the fiery destruction before them. "There was never any turning back."

Theo, his face half-shadowed by the dancing light of the fire, finally tore his gaze away from the house. His voice was quiet, almost contemplative. "He'll understand now. This was inevitable."

The fire raged on, a violent testament to the cost of betrayal. As the final embers consumed what remained of the Weasley legacy, the three men turned away, their steps measured and deliberate as they walked into the night, leaving behind only the ashes of a once-prominent family.

Their message was clear: In their world, there was no forgiveness for those who harmed their own.

~~~~~~

When Blaise is finally called to stand before his creator, he knows that no charm, no smooth words or quick wit, will save him from what awaits. The weight of every choice he's ever made, every deceitful act, every dark secret he thought he buried, now presses down on him like an iron chain. The guilt he's carried for years clings to him, each moment of weakness and betrayal a jagged scar across his soul. It stretches across twenty-eight pages—each one inked in shame, sorrow, and the unmistakable stain of regret.

Hundred and twelve pages of his transgressions, each entry a bitter reminder of the choices that dragged him deeper into the abyss. He had once convinced himself his actions were necessary, justified even. But as the years passed, the lies he told himself began to unravel. With each new sin, the weight of his guilt grew, consuming him from the inside out. He could never shake the gnawing sensation that he had lost something vital—something good—inside himself long ago.

The first page? It's filled with what he thought were small betrayals. A lie here, a whispered deception there. At the time, it all felt harmless—he had mastered the art of charming his way through life, after all. But sins compound. The more he manipulated, the more the lies became second nature. Friendships turned into strategic alliances. People he once cared for became pawns in his game, their faces lingering in the margins of his mind, haunting him when the night was still.

By the tenth page, the weight of his sins had settled permanently in his chest, an ever-present ache he could never escape. He knew what he was doing, he knew the consequences, but he couldn't stop. The hunger for control, for power, drowned out whatever remaining voice of conscience he had. Each new act of betrayal, each manipulation, etched itself into his soul like a brand, a mark that burned with guilt. For every person he wronged, every bond he broke, there was always an excuse—a reason why he had no choice.

But it was a lie. He did have a choice, and he had chosen wrong. 

The guilt festered, growing heavier with every passing year. 

Page fifteen bears the marks of blood, both real and symbolic. He had always prided himself on staying above the violence, letting others dirty their hands while he remained clean. But his guilt wouldn't let him forget. He may not have pulled the trigger or wielded the knife, but his words, his actions, had led to lives destroyed. He had watched as those who crossed him fell, not with satisfaction, but with a gnawing sense of loss—a piece of himself chipped away every time. He had become complicit, his guilt written in blood.

By the twenty-first page, the betrayals cut deeper than ever. The ones that mattered most. His sins had gone beyond professional deceit; they had struck at the heart of those he once loved. There were no more excuses left, no justifications that could mask the truth: he had hurt those closest to him, and the weight of that guilt crushed him. The faces of the people he loved, of those who trusted him, loomed over him like shadows, unrelenting in their silent judgement.

The final page, for now. The ink here is smudged, as though written in haste—or perhaps desperation. These were the sins he had tried to forget, the ones he buried deep, afraid to look at them too closely because doing so meant facing the truth of what he had become. The weight of his guilt had twisted him into something unrecognisable—a man haunted by his choices, living with the knowledge that he had crossed lines he swore he never would.

When his time comes, when he meets the eyes of his creator, there will be no more shadows to hide in, no more lies to shield him. He will have to confess it all—the deceit, the betrayals, the lives he had shattered, whether knowingly or through neglect. The weight of his guilt will be laid bare, and he will have to face the consequences of every decision he made.

How does a man atone for a list like that? How does he explain why he walked the path of darkness when the light had always been within reach?

Blaise knows there is no easy road to forgiveness, no chance of absolution through words alone. Forgiveness, if it comes, will be a long, painful journey. It will take more than his lifetime to make amends, if that's even possible. His guilt stretches far beyond himself, rippling through the lives he's impacted in ways he may never fully understand.

At night, his guilt becomes his confessor. In the silence of the early hours, when sleep refuses to come, he lies awake, staring at the ceiling. It's in these moments that the weight of his sins feels most unbearable, the silence punctuated only by his own ragged breathing. He thinks of the people he's hurt, the promises he's broken, and the dark path he walked so willingly. He can't escape it—the guilt clings to him like a second skin.

Perhaps that is what awaits him: not fire or punishment, but the endless silence of his soul laid bare. A silence in which the Creator listens, but does not speak, and Blaise is left to fill the void with his confessions, one by one, as the pages of his guilt turn, slowly and inexorably.

When the final page is turned, when the last confession is made, will there be anything left of him to save? Will he find a part of himself worth salvaging in the end?

Blaise doesn't know. But when his time comes, he will face it—because that, too, is part of the price.

The price of his guilt. The price of his choices.

The price of a soul burdened by the weight of its own sins, hoping—against all odds—for a chance at redemption.

~~~~~~

Hermione adjusted her position on the couch, stretching her legs out as the fire crackled softly in the hearth. It was one of those nights that made her grateful for these rare moments of peace—rare because their lives had become anything but simple lately. She glanced over at Ginny, whose presence always brought a comforting warmth into the room.

Ginny lay sprawled on the floor, red hair fanning out like flames against a plush cushion, a plate of pastries teetering dangerously on her lap. The atmosphere was cosy, the familiar scent of herbal tea and buttery croissants wrapping around them like a blanket. Despite the calm, a thread of tension was woven between their lighthearted laughs and anecdotes—an unspoken acknowledgment of the weight hanging in the air.

"How long will our husbands be on this so-called business trip anyway?" she finally broke the quiet, her voice exasperated as she plucked at her croissant, causing a few crumbs to tumble to the floor.

Hermione took a long sip of her tea, glancing at the now half-empty cup. "Draco said it would only be a few days," she replied, a shadow crossing her face as she remembered their last conversation. The intensity in his silver eyes still haunted her, even though he hadn't said much. Just a kiss on her forehead and a soft "I'll see you soon."

She groaned, rolling her eyes. "Blaise has been gone for two weeks. And all I've received are these vague, cryptic owl messages about 'negotiations' and 'unforeseen delays.' Negotiations with whom? The Ministry? Goblins? I swear, he could be anywhere right now." She bit into her croissant with more force than necessary, her frustration palpable.

Hermione placed her cup down, leaning forward slightly. "It's strange," she admitted softly, her eyes distant. "I never thought I'd miss Draco this much. We've had our fair share of ups and downs, but... something about this feels different. More real." She paused, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup as she added, almost under her breath, "I'm so hopelessly in love with him."

Her sharp eyes softened at her confession. She shifted, sitting up to face Hermione. "Love sneaks up on you like that," she mused, her voice quieter now. "One moment you're tolerating them, and the next... well, you realise how much they'd leave behind if they weren't there."

Hermione nodded, lost in thought. "It's not just the grand gestures," she said, her voice tinged with wistfulness. "It's the small things. The way Draco touches my back when he thinks I'm not paying attention. Or how he holds me at night, like I'm the only thing in the world keeping him grounded."

She chuckled softly. "Oh, I get it. Blaise is the same way. Absolute gentleman—well, when he's not being a brooding bastard." She smirked, her eyes twinkling. "And a good fuck, I won't lie. But it's more than that. It's like... I'm the centre of his universe."

Hermione smiled, though there was something strained behind it. She bit her lip as Ginny continued, "It's those little things that really make it. The way they look at us, like we're more than just their wives, like we're their whole world."

As the night stretched on, the inevitable topic of their husbands arose. Ginny, sprawled comfortably on the floor with a precarious tower of pastries on her lap, let out a dramatic sigh.

"How long are they going to be on this so-called business trip?" she grumbled, plucking apart a croissant with deliberate irritation. "Blaise has been gone for two bloody days, and all I've gotten are cryptic owl updates about 'negotiations' and 'unforeseen delays.'"

Hermione traced the rim of her tea cup, a familiar weight settling in her chest. "Draco said a few days," she murmured, but even as she spoke, the memory of his intense gaze and chilling words coiled around her like a ghostly whisper.

Ginny arched a brow. "And you're buying that?"

She hesitated. "I don't know. I never thought I'd miss him this much, to be honest." She let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. "We've had our share of battles, but... it feels different now. More real. I think—no, I know—I'm hopelessly in love with him."

A flicker of something unreadable passed through Ginny's eyes before she smiled. "I suppose that's what love does. It sneaks up on you and makes you realize how much someone means to you, even when you least expect it."

Hermione nodded, fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain. "It's not just about the grand gestures. It's the little things. The way he makes me laugh when I least expect it. The way he holds me before we sleep, like I'm the only thing anchoring him to this world. It's all those tiny details that make me miss him."

Ginny sighed, a dreamy look crossing her features. "Yeah, it's those moments that matter the most. The little things that add up to something beautiful." Then, with a wicked grin, she added, "Blaise is an absolute gentleman. And a fantastic fuck. Also treats me like I'm the center of the universe."

And a murderer, assassin, ex-Death Eater. But then again, who said chivalry was dead?

A comfortable silence settled between them, each lost in the tangled web of love, danger, and the men who walked the fine line between devotion and destruction.

Finally, Ginny perked up. "So, what's the plan while they're away? Any ideas?"

Hermione shrugged, exhaling slowly. "Not really. Just catching up on some reading, maybe some work. But I'm open to suggestions."

Ginny's grin was positively wicked. "How about we binge-watch some Muggle films? I've got a list of classics I need to see."

Hermione laughed, the sound light and unburdened. "That sounds perfect."

As the evening unfolded, their conversation ebbed and flowed effortlessly, laughter and nostalgia weaving through the air like a well-worn melody. They were halfway through Dead Poets Society, comfortably nestled in the glow of the television screen, when the atmosphere shattered.

Without warning, a brilliant silver stag exploded into the room, its ethereal light casting stark shadows against the walls.

"GINNY, RON'S HOUSE IS ON FIENDFYRE. GET HERE AS SOON AS YOU CAN."

The words reverberated through the room like a death knell, freezing them in place. The warmth that had once enveloped them vanished in an instant, replaced by something sharp, something cold and merciless.

Ginny's breath hitched, her face draining of all color. Her fingers dug into the armrest, white-knuckled, as if grounding herself against the impossible reality that had just been spoken into existence. "Fiendfyre?" she whispered, the word barely escaping her lips. Her heart pounded, each beat a sickening drum against her ribs. "That's… that's dark magic. Who the fuck would do something like this?"

Her stomach twisted, bile creeping up her throat. Her mind—sharp, fast, trained for crisis—immediately shifted into survival mode. 

Her brother.

His home.

Swallowed in an inferno of cursed flames.

"We need to go. Now." Her voice, though firm, wavered at the edges, barely holding against the sheer terror clawing at her insides. "Grab anything useful—Floo powder, emergency potions, cooling charms. We don't know what the hell we're walking into."

Ginny moved, the paralysis breaking in an instant. Her hands worked fast, frantic, snatching up a small charmed pouch and shoving in whatever she could get her hands on—fire-resistant salves, a reinforced shielding vial, extra wands, anything.

"Merlin, I swear, if he's hurt—" her voice cracked, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop.

Hermione ran a diagnostic spell on her wand—no malfunctions. Good. Her grip tightened around the familiar wood, the weight of it grounding her for the battle ahead.

Please, let them be alright. Let us get there in time.

With a flick of her wrist, Ginny hurled a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace. The flames roared violently to life, an eerie emerald green licking at the stone like a beast barely held at bay.

The room trembled, as if sensing the weight of the impending storm.

She turned to Hermione, her brown eyes raw with desperation, with a fear she never let herself show. But it was there now—wide open, unguarded.

"Let's go."

They stepped into the fire together, and the world lurched, magic swallowing them whole.

A sickening twist gripped Ginny as they hurtled through space, the void stretching and snapping around them. Fire. Smoke. Destruction.

And an unknown horror waiting for them at the other end.

~~~~~~

The moment her stomach settled, her world detonated.

The house—her brother's home—was unrecognizable, devoured by an inferno that twisted and roared like a living thing. But this wasn't just a fire.

This was Fiendfyre.

A curse. A death sentence.

It did not burn. It consumed. The monstrous flames grew and writhed, taking shapes that were never meant to exist in this world—serpents with gaping, hollow maws, skeletal hounds whose ribcages cracked with each unholy movement, spectral dragons with blazing, molten eyes. They circled the cottage like vultures, their fiery jaws snapping hungrily at the sky, coiling around the wreckage as though savoring their kill.

The air was thick with smoke, charred wood, and something else.

Something worse.

The stench of burning flesh.

Ginny choked.

The taste of ash and death filled her lungs, clogging her throat as she staggered forward, her legs numb beneath her, her heart slamming against her ribs.

Ron's house. Ron's house. RON'S HOUSE.

It couldn't be real. It couldn't be real.

And then, a scream.

Her body went rigid.

Not just any scream.

RON.

A sound that cut through the chaos, filled with pure, undiluted terror.

She ran. She ran before she even realized her feet had moved.

Hermione lunged for her, catching her arm in a bruising grip.

"Ginny—NO—"

Ginny fought like a wild animal, her arms flailing, legs kicking, trying to tear herself from Hermione's grasp.

"LET ME GO!" she shrieked, pure panic ripping through her throat. "HE'S IN THERE! I HAVE TO GET TO HIM—"

Another voice—low, fierce, desperate.

"WE HAVE TO GET THEM OUT!"

Harry.

Harry was there.

His Patronus had led him ahead, his wand blazing as he sprinted toward the house. His face—usually so controlled, so steady—was white with horror. His breath came in short, ragged bursts, his chest heaving as he raised his wand.

"RON! LAVENDER!"

There was no answer.

Only screams.

Ginny tried again to break free, but Hermione held firm.

"YOU CAN'T GO IN! THE HOUSE IS COLLAPSING!"

"I DON'T CARE!"

The flames raged, creeping forward like demonic hands reaching for her brother's soul. The heat licked at her skin, the cursed fire hissing and laughing in that way only dark magic could.

A flicker of movement at the front door.

Her heart leapt.

Ron.

His red hair, smeared with soot. His face streaked with terror.

Lavender was clutching him, her mouth moving but no words coming out—only coughing, choking, shaking.

They were right there.

They could make it.

Hope surged violently in her chest.

And then—

CRACK.

The earth itself seemed to tremble.

A monstrous groan, deep and terrible, a dying thing surrendering to the inevitable.

The roof buckled.

The beams—the same beams she and Ron had painted together when he bought the place—snapped in two, flames swallowing them whole.

The front door collapsed inward.

The house caved in.

Swallowing them.

Swallowing her brother.

And then, fire.

A violent explosion of cursed flames, surging up like a volcano erupting from the core of the earth.

Ginny's scream shattered the night.

"RON!"

She lunged again, and this time, Hermione wasn't fast enough—Ginny clawed her way free, sprinting straight into the burning wreckage.

Harry's arm wrapped around her waist just in time, yanking her back so hard she nearly fell.

"GINNY, NO! THEY'RE GONE!"

His voice—so final, so absolute—

She turned on him, eyes wide, shaking her head furiously. "NO! NO, THEY'RE NOT! LET ME GO—HE'S IN THERE—"

She didn't care about the fire, the collapsing beams, the cursed flames twisting into horrors unseen.

Her brother was in there.

Her brother.

She had to get to him.

A figure appeared in the fire.

For one split second, her breath stopped.

A flicker of red hair. A body moving through the flames. It was him—it had to be—

And then the fire devoured it.

The vision—whether real or some cruel trick of the flames— vanished.

Ron was gone.

The truth hit her like a killing curse.

Her body went limp.

The fire crackled triumphantly as if it had won some twisted game.

And in that moment, something inside her shattered.

She screamed.

Not a word. Not a name.

A sound so primal, so inhuman, it tore the night apart.

Her knees hit the scorched earth, fingers digging into the ashen ground where her brother had been.

He had been right there.

And now, he wasn't.

He wasn't anywhere.

Harry stood like a man carved from stone, his face a hollow ruin of grief.

Hermione—sweet, logical, brilliant Hermione— collapsed beside her, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

There was nothing left to say.

Nothing left to do.

The fire roared, victorious.

The world kept turning.

And Ron never walked out of that house.

It was the night Ginny Weasley lost everything