Silent cries

She sat alone in the garden, knees drawn tight to her chest, arms wrapped around herself as though she could hold herself together by sheer force of will. But the truth was, she was unraveling. The sky was painted in hues of gold and rose, the last remnants of daylight stretching long over the Burrow, but she felt none of its warmth. The sunset was beautiful, but Ron wasn't here to see it.

And somehow, the world had the audacity to keep turning.

It didn't seem real. It couldn't be real.

Ron—her brother, her protector, the loudest voice in every argument, the clumsiest comfort in every heartbreak. The boy who used to shove mashed potatoes in her hair at dinner but also hexed anyone who made her cry. The man who had fought beside her, stood with her, carried her through every war they had ever fought—how was she supposed to breathe in a world where he didn't exist anymore?

She closed her eyes, and there he was.

Grinning at her across a chessboard, his freckled face glowing with triumph.

Calling her "Gin-Gin" just to piss her off.

Laughing—so loud, so alive.

Her throat closed around a sob.

When Fred died, Ron had been the one to hold her up. Now who was supposed to hold her up?

Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. The ache in her chest felt like someone had scooped out a vital part of her, leaving a raw, gaping wound that would never heal. She had lost brothers before, but this—this was different. This wasn't just losing Ron. This was losing half of herself.

"I can't do this," she whispered. Her voice was small, weak—not her own.

Her hands fisted in the dirt, as if she could ground herself to the earth, stop herself from floating away into the pain. But nothing could tether her to a world without Ron in it.

Her family was breaking. Her mother hadn't spoken in days. Her father's shoulders sagged under the weight of yet another grave to dig. George—Gods, George—looked worse than he had when they lost Fred. As if some part of him had always counted on Ron to be the last one standing. And Harry…

Harry wouldn't even look her in the eyes.

She hated herself for not being stronger. She had promised herself she'd hold it together for her mother, for her father, for Harry—but out here, alone in the dying light, she didn't have to pretend.

Tears burned down her cheeks, hot and furious.

"You were supposed to be safe!" The words tore from her, sharp and broken.

"I needed you, Ron!"

"We all did!"

Her voice cracked, the garden swallowing her grief, letting it dissolve into the wind like a cruel whisper.

She remembered him teaching her how to throw a Quaffle, how to tie her shoelaces, how to curse under her breath so their mum wouldn't hear. She remembered sneaking out at night, hiding under his blanket during thunderstorms, whispering secrets into the dark because Ron always made her feel like the world wasn't so scary.

And now he was gone.

It wasn't fair. It would never be fair.

A sob tore through her, violent and ugly. How many more? How many more times would she have to bury a brother? How many more pieces of her family would she lose before there was nothing left?

Her fingers dug into the earth, and she let out a ragged breath.

Ron should be here.

He should be laughing at her for crying. He should be teasing her, calling her dramatic, ruffling her hair like he always did. He should be sitting next to her, nudging her with his elbow and saying, "Oi, Gin, stop being so bloody emotional. I'm fine."

But he wasn't fine.

He was gone.

She tilted her head back, staring up at the first stars beginning to blink to life in the sky. She wondered if maybe Ron and Fred were up there somewhere, watching, rolling their eyes at her.

She let out a breath, a laugh that wasn't really a laugh at all.

"Take care of him, Freddy," she whispered, her voice barely a breath. "Take care of each other."

It didn't stop the pain. It didn't make anything right. Nothing would ever be right again.

But in the quiet of the garden, for just one moment, she let herself imagine a world where Fred and Ron were together. Laughing, teasing, whole.

And somehow, somewhere deep inside her grief, she found a thread of peace. Fragile, trembling—but there.

~~~~~~

One evening, as Hermione and Blaise sat in the dimly lit living room in the Zabini Manor, the oppressive weight of grief hanging heavily in the air, she finally succumbed to exhaustion and fell into a restless sleep. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, the only sound breaking the silence that had settled over the room. Hermione watched her best friend's face, lined with sorrow even in sleep, before shifting her gaze to him.

He sat across from her, his expression unreadable in the shadows cast by the flickering firelight. They exchanged a look over Ginny's sleeping form, a silent understanding passing between them, though it was tinged with an unspoken tension.

After a moment, he stood, his movements careful, as though afraid to disturb the fragile peace. He made his way toward the kitchen, the wooden floor creaking softly underfoot. Hermione hesitated, her mind racing, but then she quietly followed, unable to bear the silence any longer.

The air in the dimly lit kitchen grew suffocating, thick with the weight of unsaid words. The only sound was the faint crackling of the fire in the other room, its dying embers casting restless shadows along the walls. Hermione felt the tremor in her own breath as she forced the words out, her voice brittle but unwavering.

"I know what you and Draco did."

The statement hung between them, heavy as a guillotine poised to fall.

Blaise didn't flinch. His expression remained eerily composed, save for the slight tightening of his jaw. Not surprise. Not denial. Just silence.

The confirmation was there, in the way his fingers curled into the countertop, in the careful control of his breathing.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost contemplative. "Do you?"

Hermione's hands clenched into fists at her sides. "I know Draco was behind it. I know you helped him. You set Ron's house on fire. You killed them." Her voice cracked, her throat constricting around the weight of the accusation.

Blaise exhaled slowly, tipping his head back as if contemplating the ceiling, as if searching for a reaction that would be appropriate. But what was the appropriate response when faced with a truth so damning?

He didn't bother denying it.

Instead, he turned fully, stepping closer, his presence looming. "And what exactly do you plan to do with this knowledge, Granger?" His voice was smooth—too smooth. It lacked remorse, lacked even the illusion of guilt.

The room seemed to shrink around them, the silence thick and suffocating in the wake of her words. The flickering light from the fireplace cast long, jagged shadows across Blaise's face, sharpening the edges of his already unreadable expression.

For a moment, Hermione thought she had struck a nerve.

Blaise exhaled through his nose, his lips pressing into a thin line before he spoke, voice measured but laced with something colder beneath the surface. "You think this is black and white, Granger? That you can weigh morality on a fucking scale and determine who's righteous and who's damned?"

His words cut through the space between them, sharp as a blade. "Let me tell you something about 'protecting your loved ones.' It's ugly. It's messy. It's doing things you never thought yourself capable of, making choices that will haunt you every time you close your eyes." He took a deliberate step toward her, his presence an imposing force of restrained fury. "And it's knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that you'd do it all over again if it meant keeping them safe."

Hermione refused to step back, even as her pulse hammered against her ribs. "Safe?" she echoed, her voice tight. "Ginny doesn't feel safe. She feels shattered. You claim to love her, but what do you think will happen when she finds out the truth? When she realizes you and Draco have destroyed the very people she was meant to call family?"

A muscle in Blaise's jaw twitched. "She won't find out."

Hermione let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound brittle and exhausted. "You really believe that? You really think she won't start putting the pieces together? Ginny is grieving, Blaise, not blind."

His dark eyes flashed dangerously. "She doesn't need to know."

"But I know." Hermione's voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a thousand screams. "And I have to live with it."

Blaise studied her for a long moment, something unreadable passing over his face. Then, slowly, he exhaled and leaned back against the counter, arms crossing over his chest again—not in defense this time, but in calculation.

"Tell me something, Hermione," he murmured, his voice softer now, more insidious. "Did you really come here to make accusations? To condemn me? Or did you come here looking for absolution?"

She stiffened.

"You love him." The way he said it wasn't a question, but a certainty, a quiet, devastating truth laid bare. "And a part of you—no matter how much you fight it—understands exactly why he did it."

The breath hitched in her throat.

"You don't want justice," Blaise continued, watching her with an unnerving calm. "You want reassurance. You want me to tell you that this wasn't your fault. That you're still a good person, despite the blood on Draco's hands." He tilted his head, his smirk slow and knowing. "Tell me, Granger, when you close your eyes at night, do you see the fire? Or do you see him, standing in its glow, waiting for you?"

Her stomach twisted violently, nausea rising in her throat. Because she did see him. She saw Draco in the fire. And she didn't know if he was the arsonist… or the salvation.

Blaise's smirk deepened, as if he'd read every unspoken thought that had just crashed through her mind.

"That's what I thought."

Hermione shook her head, stepping back, needing distance, needing air. "This isn't who I am," she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Blaise merely shrugged. "Maybe not." He reached for a glass of firewhiskey on the counter, swirling it lazily before taking a slow sip. "But it's who you've chosen."

Her breath caught, her whole body tensing at the implication.

"And that's the real question, isn't it, Granger?" He set the glass down, his gaze locking onto hers, dark and unwavering. "Now that you know what he's capable of… now that you know what I'm capable of…" A pause. "What are you going to do?"

Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came.

Because she didn't know the answer.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

The mask of Blaise Zabini—a man of effortless charm and unshakable composure—cracked, just for a fleeting moment. His voice, usually smooth and polished like cut obsidian, hitched with something rawer, something less certain.

"The Malfoys are my family, Granger," he admitted, and for the first time, it wasn't just a statement—it was a confession. A shadow passed over his face, sharpening the edges of his carefully crafted mask, deepening the lines of a burden he rarely let show.

"And in this twisted world," he continued, his voice quieter, heavier, "that includes you—by marriage, by circumstance, by the choices you keep making." His gaze locked onto hers, dark and unwavering, daring her to refute what they both knew to be true. "You're woven into this, Hermione. Whether you like it or not."

Her fury flared in response, bright and unrelenting. "We are not some cold-blooded mafia bound by blood oaths, Blaise!" The words tore from her throat, sharp and shaking. "This isn't about ancient alliances and blind loyalty! We were supposed to be different. Better. We fought to break cycles, not to become them!"

But even as she spoke, her voice wavered—because deep down, a sickening thought clawed at her. Had she already crossed too many lines to turn back?

Blaise tilted his head, observing her with a knowing smirk—one devoid of warmth, heavy with something colder. "Easy, fiery one," he murmured, voice smooth but laced with dark amusement. "You say that, but tell me… how many lines have you already blurred for Draco?"

The words struck her like a curse, and he knew it.

He pushed off the counter, stepping closer, his presence imposing but eerily calm. "You may not want to hear this, but listen carefully." His voice dipped, each syllable deliberate, wrapping around her like a vice. "You bear the Malfoy name now. You stand in the heart of the Sacred 28, tangled in bloodlines and legacies that don't forgive or forget." He exhaled, his gaze unwavering. "And no matter how much you fight it, mia cara, this world doesn't release its own."

She swallowed hard, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Blaise's smirk returned, cruel and knowing. "So tell me, Granger," he murmured, his voice a silk-wrapped blade. "Are you truly here to lecture me on morality? Or are you just desperate to convince yourself that you still have any left?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Blaise arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering behind his dark eyes. "Speaking of Draco," he murmured, his voice smooth, deliberate—a caress laced with something sharper. "What's his public persona these days?"

Hermione hesitated, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her. "He, uh..." she began, cursing herself for the uncharacteristic stammer, "runs a potions supply company across Europe, I believe." The words felt feeble, as if saying them aloud might make them more true.

Blaise exhaled a slow, knowing chuckle, the sound both amused and pitying. "Ah, Granger," he drawled, swirling his wine lazily, "such a neat little fairytale you've woven for yourself." His smirk widened, razor-sharp. "Draco Malfoy, the respectable businessman. A reformed man, washed clean of his past." He leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something almost conspiratorial. "Tell me, do you actually believe that?"

A chill crawled down Hermione's spine, her fingers clenching around the edge of the countertop. "What are you implying?" she asked, forcing steel into her voice, though the tremor in her hands betrayed her unease.

Blaise's smirk darkened. "That potions trade is a well-manicured front," he said smoothly, his gaze gleaming with quiet menace. "A smokescreen for far more lucrative ventures." He lifted his glass, taking a leisurely sip before continuing. "The Malfoy fortune was never built on something as mundane as cauldrons and dragon liver, Granger. It thrives in the kind of shadows that swallow people whole."

She felt her stomach twist, an icy realization settling over her. "You're wrong," she said, but even to her own ears, it sounded more like a plea than a statement.

Blaise hummed in amusement, tilting his head. "Am I?" He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a silken whisper. "Draco has become a force to be reckoned with since our Hogwarts days. The wand he wields in a boardroom is a far cry from the one he uses for..." He trailed off, letting the weight of his silence speak volumes.

The words lodged in her throat, her heart hammering against her ribs. The careful illusion she had clung to—the idea that Draco had left his past behind, that he was merely a businessman and a husband—began to crack, fissures spiderwebbing through the carefully constructed lie.

She wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell Blaise he was wrong, that Draco had changed. But deep down, in the space she rarely dared to acknowledge, she knew the truth.

Draco Malfoy was no ordinary businessman.

And she had been foolish to ever believe otherwise.

Blaise's gaze bore into hers, the silence between them stretched taut, heavy with something unspoken yet undeniable. "You're intelligent, Granger," he murmured at last, his voice deceptively gentle, almost pitying. "But don't let your love for him blind you to reality. The Draco you know is not the Draco the rest of the world kneels before."

A cold dread slithered through her veins, an invisible vice tightening around her chest. The Draco she knew. The man who brought her tea in the mornings, who held her close in the dead of night, who whispered confessions against her skin like prayers. The same man who, according to Blaise, lurked in the shadows, spinning a web of power and destruction beneath the façade of a businessman.

Her voice was barely a breath when she finally spoke. "To do what?"

The weight of the truth pressed down on her like an iron shroud, suffocating. She had thought it was love—twisted, complicated, but love nonetheless. But this? This was something else entirely. Something colder. Something calculated.

Blaise's expression hardened, his usual lazy smirk absent, replaced with something unreadable—something dangerously close to pity. "To control," he said, each syllable landing like a hammer strike. "To eliminate. To build an empire. Draco isn't playing house, Granger. He's playing kings and conquerors."

The breath caught in her throat, her pulse roaring in her ears.

Blaise took a deliberate step forward, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light, his voice a quiet, silken threat. "He's a predator in a bespoke suit, a wolf with a silver spoon. And you, my dear principessa," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, watching the realization dawn in her eyes, "are no longer just his lover. You're a queen on his board. And he will set fire to the whole damn town if it means keeping you in checkmate."

Hermione trembled, not from fear of Blaise, but from the awful, inevitable truth unraveling before her. The man she loved, the man she swore she understood, was not just a reformed aristocrat trying to carve a life away from his past.

No.

This Draco—the one Blaise spoke of—was something else entirely.

Ruthless. Calculating. Unstoppable.

And she had been a fool to think she could ever change him.

Hermione's nails bit into her palms, her hands clenching into trembling fists. "You burned down a house with people inside, Blaise. You make threats, you manipulate. What else would you call it?"

Blaise didn't so much as blink. "I call it survival," he said, his voice as sharp and unyielding as a blade. "You can stand on your moral high ground all you like, Granger, but the world we live in doesn't reward righteousness. It rewards power. Strength. The ability to protect what's yours before someone else takes it."

Her breath hitched, the weight of his words pressing down on her. "And that justifies everything? The lies, the violence, the destruction?"

Blaise's eyes darkened, his expression unreadable. "In this world? Yes." There was no hesitation, no remorse, only certainty. "Because if we don't do what needs to be done, someone else will. And trust me, they won't be nearly as merciful."

Hermione let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound foreign even to her own ears. "Merciful?" she echoed, her voice laced with disbelief. "You call what you and Draco do merciful?"

Blaise exhaled through his nose, his patience waning. "Compared to what others would do, yes," he said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "We're not saints, Granger, but we're not monsters either. We do what needs to be done to keep our world intact. And sometimes, that means making choices you can't even begin to understand."

"No, Blaise." Her voice was sharp now, cutting through the charged silence like a blade. "This is about power. This is about control. Draco isn't protecting anything—he's ruling it. And you? You stand by and call it loyalty."

A flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—crossed his features, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "This is the world we live in, Granger," he said, his tone measured, edged with something almost tired. "A world where lines blur and allegiances run deeper than blood. We make choices—impossible choices—to protect those we hold dear."

"By burning people alive?" she spat, her voice rising with fury. "That's your idea of protection?"

His jaw tightened, the weight of her accusation crackling between them like an unspoken curse. She saw it then, the ghost of doubt flickering in his expression. He couldn't justify the act, not really. But he wouldn't condemn it either. Loyalty—that unbreakable, suffocating bond of the Malfoys and their circle—was too deeply ingrained.

"Draco does what he believes is necessary," Blaise finally said, his voice quieter, heavier. "His methods may be ruthless, but his purpose is not without reason."

"Draco's purpose is control," she countered, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. "He's built an empire of fear and intimidation, and you expect me to just accept it?"

The words tasted like acid on her tongue. Blaise didn't answer right away, and in that silence, she felt the weight of inevitability pressing down on her like a crushing force.

Her shoulders sagged, exhaustion overtaking anger. "This isn't the world I wanted," she whispered, her voice raw with disillusionment. "This isn't the life I wanted."

For the first time, Blaise hesitated. A flicker of something softer, something almost regretful, passed through his gaze. But it wasn't enough. "We don't always get to choose the world we live in, Granger," he said, his voice quieter now, almost—almost—gentle. "The choices we make, the allegiances we forge… they shape us in ways we never intended. But one thing never changes."

His gaze bore into hers, unwavering. "We protect our own. No matter the cost."

The air between them felt suffocating, thick with unsaid words and the weight of a reality Hermione had refused to acknowledge for far too long. The dim glow of the kitchen light barely touched the depth of the shadows lingering in Blaise's eyes, nor did it soften the brutal truth pressing between them.

"And what about Ginny?" Hermione's voice wavered, raw with grief. "Does she know what you've done? What you've become?"

Blaise's jaw tightened, his usual smooth composure hardening into something unyielding. "She knows nothing," he admitted, his voice quiet but firm. "And I intend to keep it that way. It's our job to protect the ones we love, even if it means getting our hands dirty."

Hermione exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping her lips before she could stop it. "Protect?" she echoed, shaking her head. "You killed her brother, Blaise. You burned him alive in his own home. There is no universe where she will ever forgive you."

Blaise didn't flinch. "I know," he said simply. "But I would do it again."

Tears welled up in Hermione's eyes, spilling over before she could blink them away. "Why?" she whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of it all. "Why would you do something so—so irreversible?"

His expression didn't waver, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—something unreadable, something almost resigned. "Because he deserved it." The words were final, spoken without hesitation. "We kept tabs on him for months, Granger. Every move, every interaction. He wasn't subtle—not with you. He locked you in rooms. He controlled you. That wasn't love, and you know it."

Shame and fury warred within her, leaving Hermione feeling utterly exposed. Shame for never telling Draco what had happened, for pretending she could handle it alone. Fury at Blaise, at Draco, at all of them for making choices on her behalf, for deciding that vengeance was love.

She struggled to hold onto the memories—the good ones, the ones that still made Ron feel like someone worth mourning. But they were slipping away, scorched by the fire that had swallowed his house and the truth that had finally burned through her carefully constructed denial.

"But you didn't say anything," she choked out, her voice barely above a whisper.

Blaise let out a slow, measured breath, the weight of unspoken things pressing against his shoulders. "It wasn't my place," he admitted, the edges of his voice rough, jagged. "There are rules in our world, Granger. And when it comes to Draco Malfoy—especially where you're concerned—stepping in? That's a dangerous fucking game. Even if it means standing back and watching things unfold in ways we don't always control."

Hermione's hands trembled as she gripped the edge of the counter. "So you just… stood by? Let it all happen? Because of some unspoken code?"

His face softened, just slightly, but the regret in his expression was fleeting. "It's not just a code, Hermione. It's survival. One wrong move, one misplaced word, and you don't just risk your own life—you risk the lives of everyone you love." His voice dipped, quieter now, almost pleading. "You think I didn't want to do more? You think I don't live with that?"

Her breath came fast and uneven, fury warring with heartbreak. "I thought we were friends," she said, voice unsteady. "I thought you would have cared enough to do more than just watch."

Blaise's eyes darkened, filled with a complexity she wasn't sure she wanted to decipher. "I do care, Granger. More than you know." He took a step closer, his voice lower now, laced with something raw. "But in this life, we don't always get to make the choices that sit well with our conscience. We make the ones that keep us alive."

Silence stretched between them, heavy and final.

"I'm sorry," he murmured at last, though Hermione wasn't sure if he was apologizing for Ron, for Ginny, or for the entire tangled mess they had all found themselves in.

She swallowed back another wave of tears, shaking her head. "No, you're not."

Blaise's lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable once more. "Maybe not," he admitted. "But that's the price we pay, isn't it?"

And just like that, Hermione realized the horrifying truth: Blaise had never been the one she needed to convince. Because somewhere, buried beneath her grief and anger, a part of her already knew—Draco wasn't going to stop.

The devastation around her mirrored the wreckage of her own trust. Ron's betrayal—rooted in his festering insecurities—had ignited a chain reaction more destructive than she ever could have imagined. The past was immutable, carved into her skin like an old wound that would never fully heal. But now, with this truth laid bare, Hermione felt something shift. She could not undo what had been done, but she could decide what came next.

Her breath hitched, her chest tight with unspoken grief. "But taking a life..." she whispered, voice thick with emotion, "it's so... final."

Blaise's expression softened, but only slightly. Beneath the flicker of sympathy, there was steel—a resolve forged in the darkness they lived in. The reality he had long accepted.

"It is final," he admitted, his voice low, deliberate. "That's what makes it necessary. Permanent. There are some lines, once crossed, that leave no room for second chances. Ron crossed that line the moment he laid a hand on you."

Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. The Draco she loved—the man she believed she knew—had been shaped by this same world. A world where power dictated survival, where justice wasn't decided in courtrooms but in the quiet, bloodstained corners of reality.

She searched Blaise's face for regret, for hesitation, for any sign of remorse. She found none. Just cold certainty.

"I know what Ron did," she admitted, barely more than a whisper. "I know he was dangerous. That he hurt me in ways I still can't fully comprehend. But even knowing that…"

"You still can't accept what had to be done," Blaise finished for her, his tone utterly devoid of judgment. "And I don't expect you to. You're not like us, Granger. You have a different kind of strength, a different kind of light. But in our world, light can be blinding. And darkness—" He exhaled slowly, deliberately. "Darkness is where we thrive. We did what was necessary. To protect you. To protect Draco. To protect what we've built."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut as the weight of his words settled deep into her bones. "And Ginny?" she choked out, "How do I ever look her in the eyes again, knowing what you've done?"

Blaise's sigh was slow, heavy. "Ginny's world is different," he said finally. "She doesn't know about the shadows we move in, the lengths we go to in order to keep her safe. And if I have anything to say about it, she never will." He swallowed hard, the first true crack in his composure. "I love her, Granger. More than I ever thought I was capable of. But that love—" His voice faltered, just for a second, before hardening again. "It doesn't absolve me. It just gives me something to protect. Something worth fighting for."

The silence between them was suffocating, thick with unspoken truths. Hermione's mind raced, tangled between the devastation of the past and the uncertain path before her.

Ron had sealed his fate the moment he became her nightmare. That much she could admit. But Draco? Draco, the man she had built a life with? Draco, the man who held her every night, whispered love against her skin, worshiped her as though she were his only religion? Had he really been part of this?

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. "Do you really believe this is the only way?" Her voice trembled. "That this is the only way to protect the people we love?"

Blaise met her gaze, unwavering. "In our world? Sometimes, yes." His voice dipped, quiet but certain. "But Draco? Draco will always do whatever it takes to keep you safe. No matter the cost."

A chill slithered down her spine.

"Burn someone alive?" Her voice cracked. "Who did it, Blaise? You or Draco?"

He leaned back slightly, watching her carefully. If the question rattled him, he didn't show it. Instead, he exhaled a slow breath, his lips curling into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"It was Theo, if you want to be technical."

The floor beneath her might as well have crumbled.

Her fingers trembled. Not Draco. Not Blaise. Theo.

The quiet one. The thoughtful one. The one who had always seemed... detached from this world of blood and power.

The realization sent something sharp through her, something too jagged to name. "Theo?" she gasped, the betrayal stark in her voice.

"Yes, Granger," Blaise said smoothly, as if discussing the weather. "Theodore. Loverboy has his secrets, too. He's good at crafting, after all."

The words hit her like a slap. Theo, the elegant strategist. Theo, the one who always stood at the edge of things, watching. Theo, who held Luna and their son like they were the only things in the world that mattered.

Theo, who set a man on fire.

Her stomach twisted, nausea rising in her throat. How deep did this darkness run? How much had she never seen?

She had feared Draco's ruthlessness. She had braced herself for Blaise's cold, unshakable logic.

But Theo?

Theo had always been the calm one. The one with the softest smiles, the cleverest words. The one with the steadiest hands.

Of course, those same steady hands could light a match.

Hermione's mind spun, grasping for something—anything—that made sense in this twisted reality she had been thrust into. Theo. Theo. The quiet one, the rational one. The one who had always seemed more detached from the darkness that clung to Draco and Blaise like a second skin. And yet… he had been the one to strike the match.

"I can't believe it," she breathed, barely recognizing her own voice.

"You should, Granger," Blaise murmured, his tone laced with a cold amusement that sent a chill straight through her bones. "Everyone has a dark side. Theodore just happens to be more… efficient than most."

Her stomach twisted, nausea rising like bile in her throat. "Why?" she demanded, her voice raw. "Why would he do that?"

Blaise's eyes sharpened, the playfulness vanishing as something darker slid into place. Something final. "Because it needed to be done," he said, each word carrying the weight of a verdict already delivered. "Don't you understand? Ron was a threat. Theo saw that, just as we all did. He knew what had to be done, and unlike you—" he leaned in, his gaze burning into hers "—he didn't hesitate."

She recoiled as if struck, the room around her shrinking, suffocating. "This is madness." Her voice trembled, fury and grief colliding like a storm inside her. "You can't justify murder!"

Blaise exhaled a slow breath, as if she were exhausting him. As if her very resistance was an irritation, a naïve hurdle he had no patience for. "This is the world we live in, cara mia. Hard choices, impossible choices—they're still choices that must be made. Ron crossed a line. Theo made sure he wouldn't cross it again."

Hermione's nails dug into her palms, anger rising like a wildfire she could barely contain. "There had to be another way."

His lips curled, though there was no humor in it. "Perhaps," he allowed. "A slower way. A riskier way. But in our world, we don't get the luxury of hesitation. We do what needs to be done, and we live with it."

Her breath hitched, fury igniting like a live wire under her skin. "You think this is protection?" Her voice cracked with raw emotion. "You think this—this brutality is some twisted act of love? It's not. It's monstrous."

For the first time, something flickered in Blaise's expression. Something dangerous. His voice dropped to a whisper, soft and sharp as a blade. "Don't mistake necessity for cruelty, Granger. What Theo did, what Draco and I sanctioned, wasn't about revenge or pleasure. It was about ensuring that you—all of us—wouldn't fall victim to Ron's sickness ever again."

Her vision blurred with tears, her entire body trembling under the weight of the truth. "And what about Ginny?" she rasped. "What happens when she finds out? You think you're protecting her? You think she'll ever forgive you for murdering her brother?"

For the briefest moment, pain cracked through Blaise's carefully constructed mask. Real, raw pain. But then, just as quickly, it was gone, buried beneath a layer of calculated indifference.

"She'll never know," he said simply. "And if I have anything to say about it, she'll never need to. But even if she did—" His gaze locked onto hers, dark, unrelenting, a battlefield of certainty. "I'd do it all over again."

The confession landed between them like a death sentence.

"Because when you love someone," Blaise continued, his voice steady, final, "you protect them. Even if it means becoming the monster they fear."

A crushing silence swallowed them whole, the air thick with everything that had been said—and everything that still remained unsaid.

Hermione looked at Blaise then, truly looked at him. The man she had once trusted. The man she had laughed with over wine and late-night debates. The man she had thought better of.

Now, she only saw a stranger. A man who had chosen his darkness.

And a part of her knew—Draco had too.

"You're wrong, Blaise," Hermione whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "This isn't protection. This is destruction. And I won't be a part of it."

Blaise's expression hardened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "You already are, Granger," he countered, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. "Whether you like it or not, you're part of this world now. And soon enough, you'll have to decide whether you're strong enough to survive it."

Hermione took a deep breath, her hands trembling at her sides, but her resolve remained unshaken. "I'll survive," she said, her voice steadier this time. "But not like this. Not with blood on my hands."

Blaise studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching hers for something—weakness, doubt, anything to prove his point. But then, to her surprise, he nodded, a slow, almost imperceptible gesture. A quiet acknowledgment. "Then we'll see just how strong you really are, Granger. Because in our world, strength is the only thing that matters."

His voice dropped lower, a near whisper, though its weight pressed down on her like a vice. "Let me ask you something, Granger. What would you do if you knew someone wanted to harm Lysander?"

She stilled. The question hit like a physical blow, cutting through her righteous fury like a knife. Slowly, she turned to face him, her heartbeat thudding against her ribs.

"I…" The word caught in her throat, hesitation clawing at her. She knew exactly what he was asking, and the terrifying part was that she already knew the answer. "I would probably kill them." The admission came out in a whisper, the weight of it suffocating.

Blaise's expression didn't shift, but something in his eyes gleamed—approval, or maybe just the satisfaction of proving his point. He inclined his head slightly, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "Exactly." His voice was quiet, measured. "Sometimes, we have to do the unthinkable to protect the ones we love."

The silence that followed was suffocating, thick with the weight of unspoken truths. Hermione could barely breathe past the realization sinking into her bones.

"What a hypocrite." The thought clawed at her, bitter and undeniable. She had condemned Draco and Blaise, she had screamed at the injustice of their actions. But if someone dared lay a finger on Lysander?

She would burn the whole world down. For any of her friends.

Ron had been a threat. He had hurt her. He had trapped her in the darkest version of herself. And Theo had simply… ended it. She was horrified. She was enraged. But she understood.

Blaise watched the turmoil play across her face, the slow unraveling of her black-and-white morality. "We're not so different, you and I, Granger," he murmured, his voice edged with something that almost sounded like pity. "We both know what it means to protect, to go to any lengths for the ones we care about."

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingers to her temples as if she could block out his words. "What should I do with Draco?" she finally asked, her voice barely more than a breath. "I can't even bear to hear his name right now, let alone look at him."

She expected a mocking reply, some sardonic remark about how her entire world was crumbling because she finally saw the truth. But instead, Blaise simply stood, disappearing into the other room. When he returned, he held a small vial in his hand, the translucent liquid shimmering ominously in the dim light.

Hermione's breath hitched. "Veritaserum?"

Blaise twirled the vial between his fingers, his smirk sharp and unreadable. "If you really want the truth, this is how you'll get it." His gaze flickered over her, assessing. "Or… you could make it a fun drinking game, loosen things up a bit. Your call."

A rush of anger surged through her, white-hot. "This isn't a game, Blaise! This is my life—my marriage!" Her voice was sharp, cutting through the suffocating tension. She stepped forward, her hands shaking as she snatched the vial from his grasp. "Give it to me."

He relinquished it easily, his fingers brushing against hers for the briefest moment. "Be careful what you ask for, Granger," he murmured, his tone oddly solemn. "The truth can be more dangerous than the lies."

The glass was cool against her palm, its weight far heavier than its size. Her breath came in shallow bursts, her mind racing with possibilities.

She had already made her choice.

With a loud crack, she disapparated.

~~~~~~

The rain fell in slow, deliberate streaks against the windowpane, each droplet tracing a path downward like silent tears. The world outside blurred, grey and lifeless, mirroring the hollowness inside her. Ginny sat motionless, knees drawn tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around them as though holding herself together physically might keep her from unraveling completely.

Losing a brother once had been unbearable, but losing him again, feeling that same soul-deep ache all over, this time with the cruel finality of death—it was agony she couldn't contain. The memories, once sharp and vivid, had begun to dull at the edges, slipping through her grasp like sand through trembling fingers. Ron's laughter, his voice, his warmth—fading, piece by piece, leaving nothing but aching echoes in the emptiness he left behind.

The thought made her feel sick.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to remember him as he was—the way he teased her mercilessly as a child, the way he'd softened when she was hurt, the way he stood at her side through every battle, every loss. But even as she clung to those fragments, she knew it was futile.

Death wasn't just about losing someone in a moment. It was losing them slowly, day by day, memory by memory.

The quiet shuffle of footsteps barely registered, but she felt his presence before she saw him. He always found her when the darkness became too much.

He didn't speak right away. He simply watched her, taking in the curve of her spine as she pressed herself against the window, the way her hair, duller now, clung to her tear-streaked face. She was his fire, his brightest star, and to see her like this—dimmed, flickering—broke something inside him.

Without hesitation, he crossed the room, sinking to his knees beside her. "Amore," he murmured, his voice rich with quiet devotion. "You don't have to do this alone. Let me in."

His touch was warm when it settled on her shoulder, grounding her. She stiffened at first but then, slowly, leaned into the contact. She needed him. More than she would ever admit.

"I don't even know how to let you in," she whispered, her voice brittle, barely holding together. "I feel like I let him down. Like I didn't tell him enough how much I loved him. And now, it's too late. I'd do anything—anything—to have that time back."

He inhaled sharply, his chest tightening at the pain laced in her words. She was unraveling in front of him, and he had no way to stop it. But he could hold her together. He could be the arms she collapsed into, the shield against the world she no longer knew how to face.

His fingers trailed up, cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped. "My love, he knew," he said, voice barely above a whisper but filled with unshakable certainty. "Believe me, he knew. People like your brother… they feel love, even when words aren't spoken. And you, Ginny, loved him fiercely. You still do. That doesn't disappear just because he's gone."

Her breath hitched, more tears slipping past her defenses. His words wrapped around her like a balm, but the ache inside her was relentless. She didn't know if anything could truly soothe it.

But he could try.

She didn't have to say a word for him to understand that. He simply pulled her into him, his arms encircling her, holding her against his heartbeat. His lips found her temple in a lingering kiss, a silent promise.

"You are everything to me," he murmured against her hair, his grip tightening. "I would do anything to take away your pain. Anything."

And she knew he meant it.

He had tried everything already—gifts, flowers, letters left on her pillow, small gestures of comfort that might have brightened her days. But what she needed wasn't anything extravagant.

She just needed him.

No illusions, no distractions, just the weight of his presence keeping her tethered to something real. He felt the way she clung to him, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as though afraid to let go. That desperation both shattered him and humbled him.

She didn't know.

She couldn't know.

The things he'd done. The secrets he carried, locked away where even she couldn't reach them. The sins that stained his hands, all in the name of protecting what was his.

And she was his.

He would keep her safe from everything—even from the darkness she didn't yet realize surrounded them.

His own grief, his own ghosts, would remain locked away. For her, he could be clean. For her, he could be pure.

He had perfected Fyndfire, the cursed flame that erased all traces of its creator. A fire that left no evidence, no remains. A fire that no Auror, no investigator, no force of justice would ever trace back to him.

He would never let darkness touch her. Not while he still breathed.

Ginny had lost her brother. But she would not lose herself. Not while he was here to hold her together.

And if it meant burning the whole world down to keep her from breaking, then so be it.

The world outside felt distant, muted, as though the grief that had hollowed her out had dulled even the passing of time. But here, in this fragile quiet, there was only him—her Blaise. Her anchor. Her constant. Her unshakable, unwavering place to land when everything else crumbled. The one who held her when words failed, who never let go, even when she felt like she was slipping away.

She turned her head slightly, the weight of exhaustion pressing against her limbs, but she sought him out anyway. Her fingers found his—warm, steady, solid in a way she desperately needed. She squeezed lightly, drawing strength from his presence, from the way he remained beside her even in the darkest moments.

"Thank you, love," she murmured, her voice barely above a breath, the words fragile yet profound. "For everything." She hesitated, her throat tightening as she swallowed back the raw emotion threatening to spill over. Then, finally, she looked up at him. Red-rimmed eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, yet still so achingly beautiful in her grief. She tried to smile, but it trembled, faltering under the weight of sorrow. "I don't deserve you."

His grip on her hand tightened slightly, his dark eyes flashing with something she couldn't quite name—something fierce, something wrecked, something utterly devoted. The firelight flickered against his sharp features, casting him in soft gold and deep shadow, but nothing could obscure the way he looked at her. Like she was his world. Like he would burn down the heavens and carve them anew if she asked.

"You deserve more than I could ever give you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, quiet but resolute. "But I'll spend my life trying. Because for you, I would do the unthinkable."

Her breath hitched, something inside her cracking at the raw honesty of it. How could he always know exactly what to say? Not with empty reassurances or pretty, meaningless words—but with truth, with promises he meant with every fiber of his being.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she laughed—a small, breathy sound, edged with sorrow but real nonetheless. It wasn't much, but it was something. A glimmer of light in the darkness, a moment where the weight of her grief lifted just slightly.

His lips quirked into the faintest smile at the sound, as if it was the most precious thing he had ever heard. Then, without hesitation, he leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. He stayed there, his lips resting against her skin, breathing her in as though he could somehow absorb her pain, carry it for her, make it his own. If he could, he would. A thousand times over.

They didn't speak after that. They didn't need to. The silence between them was no longer empty, no longer something to be feared. It was a sanctuary, a space carved out of love and loss, where words were unnecessary. He held her, and she let herself be held. And for just a little while, as the fire crackled in the hearth and the shadows stretched across the walls, they weren't two people drowning in grief.

They were just two people—together.

~~~~~~

Grief was a cruel mistress, relentless and unyielding, creeping into the quiet corners of her mind when she least expected it. It struck in the silence between heartbeats, in the dim light of dawn when sleep had abandoned her, in the soft echoes of laughter that would never sound again. It was an invisible weight, pressing down on her chest, stealing the breath from her lungs, reminding her—always, endlessly—that he was gone.

She lived in a world of ghosts now. A world where Ron's voice was just an echo in her memory, where his face only existed in old photographs and the flickering remnants of dreams that slipped through her fingers the moment she opened her eyes. Every day was a battle, an exhausting struggle against the tide of sorrow that threatened to pull her under. And in the quiet moments, when the world was still and the weight of her grief became unbearable, she felt the darkness coil around her like a vice.

Visiting her parents had become a ritual she both dreaded and needed. The Burrow, once a place of warmth and chaos, felt hollow, like a house that had forgotten how to be a home. Molly Weasley, once the unshakable matriarch, moved like a ghost through the kitchen, her hands trembling as she stirred soups that no one had the appetite to eat. Arthur sat in his armchair by the fire, staring into the flames as though he were waiting for something—someone—who would never return.

The absence of Ron was everywhere. In the empty chair at the dinner table. In the dust settling over his old Quidditch gear. In the way Ginny's mother still set out an extra cup of tea before catching herself and quietly putting it away. Their grief was shared, but it was isolating. They were all drowning in the same sea of sorrow, but they had drifted apart, lost on separate islands, unable to reach each other.

And so, after every visit, Ginny returned home with an ache that seeped into her bones, an exhaustion that sleep could never cure. Nights were the worst. The dark had a way of magnifying everything—every regret, every unsaid word, every moment that would never come again. She would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling as though the house was suffocating her, as though the walls knew her pain and pressed closer, suffocating her with it.

But in the midst of all that pain, there was one constant. Him.

Blaise. Her anchor. Her steady, unwavering presence when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

He understood grief in ways that few did. He carried his own shadows, secrets buried so deep that even she could only glimpse them in the way he sometimes fell silent, lost in thoughts he never voiced. But he never let his darkness touch her. Instead, he wrapped her in his warmth, offered her the steadiness she lacked, and gave her a safe place to land when the weight of loss became too much.

He didn't try to fix her pain. He didn't offer empty reassurances or meaningless platitudes. He simply stayed. Held her when she needed holding. Listened when she needed to speak. Gave her space when she needed to be alone, but was always waiting in the background, ready to catch her when she inevitably fell.

Still, when he left on business, she felt the absence of him like a wound reopening. The bed felt colder without his warmth beside her. The house felt too quiet without the sound of his voice, his laughter. She would sit in their shared space, surrounded by the lingering scent of him, closing her eyes and pretending for just a moment that he was still there.

Some nights, she would pick up her wand, tracing idle patterns in the air, conjuring tiny flickering lights to dance before her eyes. Small distractions, little illusions to push back the crushing loneliness. But light and warmth were not the same thing. Not without him.

And then, he would return.

The moment he stepped through the door, it was as if the world shifted back into place. The weight on her chest lifted just enough for her to breathe again. The house felt whole again, no longer just a hollow shell where grief lurked in the corners.

His arms were the first thing she sought, throwing herself into his embrace before he could even speak. He would hold her like he was trying to anchor her back to reality, like he could feel the frayed edges of her and wanted to keep her from unraveling.

"Amore," he would murmur, his lips brushing against her hair. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

And in that moment, she believed him.

His presence was the antidote to her grief—not a cure, not a solution, but a reminder that love still existed in the spaces between all the loss. That while Ron was gone, she was not alone. That she still had someone who would fight for her, who would pull her back from the abyss every time she teetered too close to the edge.

They would sit together for hours, not speaking, just existing in the same space, breathing in the same air, the warmth of his hand on hers grounding her in ways words never could. And then there were the small things—the way he would press gentle kisses to the inside of her wrist as if reminding her she was still here, still loved. The way he would steal glances at her across the room, his dark eyes filled with something too deep, too sacred to name. The way he would tuck a blanket around her shoulders when she fell asleep on the couch, always making sure she was warm.

"I know it's hard," he would say sometimes, voice quiet but steady. "But we can carry it together. You don't have to shoulder it alone."

And for those fleeting moments, she let herself believe him.

Together, they built something unbreakable. A quiet fortress made of whispered reassurances, stolen kisses, and the unwavering certainty that no matter how much she hurt, he would always be there.

He would surprise her with little things—a bouquet of wildflowers, a note tucked into her book, a slow dance in the kitchen when the weight of the world pressed too hard against her. Each act a silent promise: You are not alone. I am here.

She knew he carried secrets. There were shadows in him, things he never spoke of, things he kept hidden even from her. But whatever darkness lurked in his past, whatever burdens he bore in silence, he never let them touch her.

For her, he was light. For her, he would be anything.

And while grief would always linger, intertwined with the love she had lost, it was no longer all-consuming. Because there was still love in her life, still warmth. Still him.