Dragons & Debauchery

Today was a big day. Not just any day—one of those rare occasions that made the house feel a little warmer, a little louder, a little less weighed down by the ghosts of the past.

Because today, everyone's favorite Weasley had decided to visit.

Charlie, obviously.

There was something about Charlie's presence that changed the air itself—as if the moment he stepped into a room, the walls breathed a little easier. Maybe it was his gravelly laughter, the kind that came from deep in his chest, warm and unshaken. Maybe it was the way he carried himself, relaxed yet solid, like he belonged wherever he stood.

Or maybe it was just the fact that he was Charlie—the older brother who never judged, who never pried, who simply existed as an unshakable force of nature, as reliable as the dragons he adored.

And today, he had come not just to visit Val, his newest and most cherished nephew, but most importantly—he had come for her.

His baby sister.

Ginny had barely gotten word that he was in town before the front door burst open without a single knock, a gust of cool afternoon air and the scent of leather and smoke and something distinctly Charlie sweeping into the house.

"Oi, where's my favorite ginger?" Charlie's voice boomed, his familiar, mischievous drawl echoing through the hall.

Ginny, who had been curled up on the couch with Val nestled against her chest, barely had a moment to react before Charlie appeared in the doorway, grinning like he hadn't just barged into her home like a hurricane in dragonhide boots.

She didn't even try to fight the grin that spread across her face.

"That's a bold statement in a Weasley family, Charlie," she called, shifting slightly so she didn't wake Val. "Could've at least knocked, you brute."

He snorted, stepping fully into the room, his arms already spread wide in preparation for the inevitable bone-crushing hug. "Please, like I need an invitation to see my baby sister."

Before Ginny could protest, he was already leaning down, scooping her up right off the couch, careful not to disturb the small, sleeping bundle in her arms.

"Merlin's sake, Charlie!" she half-laughed, half-scolded, swatting at his shoulder as he held her tight, rocking her slightly like she was still ten years old. "I have a whole child now, you lunatic!"

"And yet you're still tiny," he teased, pressing a firm kiss to the top of her head before finally letting her go, his eyes flicking down to the sleeping baby in her arms.

His teasing expression melted into something softer, something quieter.

"And speaking of tiny…"

Ginny followed his gaze as Charlie crouched slightly, his large, calloused hands reaching out hesitantly, as if he wasn't sure whether he was worthy of touching something so small, so delicate.

"This is Valerius," she whispered, feeling something tighten in her chest as Charlie gazed down at her son with a reverence she rarely saw in him.

Charlie exhaled slowly, his grin fading into something more thoughtful, more fragile.

"Bloody hell, Gin," he murmured, his fingers brushing gently over Val's tiny fist, so careful, so uncharacteristically delicate. "You made this? I mean—I know how it works, obviously, but…" He shook his head, chuckling to himself, his expression caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.

"We made this," she whispered back, a little choked up despite herself, watching as Val's tiny fingers instinctively curled around Charlie's.

Her big, fearless brother—covered in scars, smelling faintly of smoke, with hands that had tamed dragons—was completely undone by the weight of a newborn's grasp.

She would remember this moment forever.

"Well, fuck me," Charlie muttered, his voice barely more than breath, shaking his head. "He's bloody perfect."

Ginny blinked hard, swallowing down the sudden, overwhelming warmth in her throat.

"Yeah," she murmured, holding Val a little closer. "He really is."

Charlie finally looked up at her again, his grin returning, but softer now, tinted with something deeper.

"You did good, baby sis," he said, and Ginny wasn't sure why that was the thing that made her chest ache the most, but it did.

 Charlie cradled Valerius in his arms as if he were the most valuable thing in the world—which, to Ginny, he was. But seeing her rugged, fearless brother holding her son so carefully, so reverently, made her chest ache in a way she hadn't expected.

It was rare, moments like this. Charlie wasn't delicate. He was a man of dragons and danger, of roaring fires and untamed landscapes. His hands were used to rough scales, to holding the reins of powerful beasts that could kill him in an instant.

Yet here he was, swaying ever so slightly, his large, calloused fingers supporting Val's tiny back and head, his expression filled with something so unfiltered, so raw, that Ginny had to bite the inside of her cheek just to keep from tearing up.

He let out a long, appreciative whistle, shaking his head in what she could only describe as brotherly awe.

"I have to say, Gin—I'm genuinely surprised he's not a black child with ginger hair. That would've been a tragedy."

Ginny gasped, her jaw dropping so fast it was a miracle it didn't hit the floor.

"CHARLES SEPTIMUS WEASLEY!" she screeched, halfway between horror and exasperation, her hands flying to her hips.

He grinned, completely unrepentant.

"What?!" he laughed, his grip on Val still firm but effortlessly gentle. "That's not rude—it's just an observation! You lucked out, sister!"

Ginny gaped at him, utterly scandalized.

"That is an EXTREMELY RUDE and HORRIBLE thing to say, you absolute—"

Charlie snorted, rocking Valerius a little in his arms, completely unbothered.

"It is NOT! Look at him!" he insisted, tilting Val slightly as if to better admire his tiny face. "He's bloody gorgeous. Absolute stunner. You and Blaise really outdid yourselves."

Ginny crossed her arms, still scowling, but a flush of pride warmed her chest despite herself.

"Well, fuck you," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "He's a mixed baby, he's mine, and he's perfect."

Charlie grinned wider, his bright blue eyes glinting with amusement.

"No one said he's not perfect, Gin," he assured her, gently bouncing Val in his arms, watching as his tiny eyelids fluttered. "I'm just saying… God is real."

Ginny let out a short, incredulous laugh, covering her face with her hands.

"You're impossible."

"I'm right, though."

Ginny shook her head, fighting a smile, but Charlie just continued staring down at Val like he'd just witnessed a bloody miracle.

There was something so endearing about it, seeing her rough, dragon-wrangling, whiskey-drinking, wild-hearted brother look at her son like he was the single most precious thing on the planet.

For all the fire and chaos that raged through Charlie's world, this tiny, soft, cooing baby had managed to silence it all. There was something almost sacred about the way Valerius fit into his arms, his impossibly small fingers curling against the fabric of Charlie's shirt, his breath coming in tiny, warm puffs. In this moment, nothing else existed—no dragons, no endless travel, no reckless dangers lurking in the corners of his life. Just this. Just the weight of something precious and fleeting, something he never realized he could want so deeply.

Ginny, watching him with an all-too-knowing smirk, saw it immediately. She leaned back against the arm of the couch, stretching out like a cat basking in the warmth of the sun, and let her voice drip with mischief. "Well, I'm telling on you," she teased, her eyes glinting. "And you know Blaise loves drama even more than he loves me."

Charlie shot her a flat look, bouncing Val slightly to soothe him before grumbling, "So you are in love, finally I see."

Ginny scoffed, but there was no denying the way her cheeks flushed, the way her lips twitched upward despite herself. "I'm not discussing my love life with you," she huffed, though they both knew it was a losing battle.

Charlie merely hummed, watching her closely, as if trying to see past her deflection, past the teasing and bravado, straight to the heart of it. "I'm aware of how Val came to be," he said lightly, adjusting the baby in his arms. "I'm just interested in you. Are you okay? Are you feeling well in your marriage?"

For all her stubbornness, that was the one thing that could shake her, the one question that cut through all her defenses. Ginny took a breath, shoulders easing slightly, and met his gaze without hesitation. "I really am," she said, softer now, more certain. "I love Blaise. He annoys the hell out of me, but I love him more than anything. Beyond measure."

He nodded, satisfied, though the fondness in his expression was tinged with something deeper—relief, maybe, or the quiet reassurance that his baby sister had built a life for herself that made her truly happy. "That's what I wanted to hear," he murmured, shifting Val to his other arm, pressing a soft kiss to the baby's forehead. "I'm so happy for you, darling."

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him, something suspicious flaring in her chest. He was acting… different. Softer. Gentler. Not that he wasn't always good to her, always careful in his own rough, dragon-handler way, but there was something else lurking beneath the surface, something he wasn't saying.

She leaned forward suddenly, pointing a finger at him as realization dawned. "What happened that made your heart soft?" she gasped. Then, all at once, she lit up, her mouth dropping open as she gasped again, dramatically clutching her chest. "OH MY GOD, YOU'RE IN LOVE."

Charlie's entire body tensed as if he'd been caught in a trap, his face immediately twisting into a scowl. "Ginny—" 

She turned toward the staircase, her voice carrying through the house as she bellowed with absolute delight, "PAY UP, ZABINI! I TOLD YOU HE HAS A BOYFRIEND!" The only response was a loud groan from upstairs, followed by Blaise's muffled, exasperated drawl, "Oh, for fuck's sake."

Charlie scowled as Ginny spun back to face him, eyes alight with mischief, rocking on the balls of her feet like she was trying not to break into a full-blown dance of victory. "First of all, you are insufferable," he grumbled, shifting Val as the baby let out a tiny yawn, completely unbothered by his aunt's dramatics. "Second, I never said anything about having a boyfriend."

"You didn't have to," Ginny shot back, arms crossing over her chest. "Your face did all the talking."

He scoffed, but she just tilted her head, watching him like a hawk, and he knew there was no getting out of this. Ginny could smell a secret a mile away, and once she had a hint of something juicy, she sank her claws in and refused to let go. "Alright, fine," he grumbled, rolling his shoulders like he could physically shake off the conversation. "If I tell you anything, you have to swear to keep it to yourself."

Ginny placed a hand over her heart, mock-offended. "Charlie, please. I am the very model of discretion."

A snort of disbelief came from upstairs.

Charlie ignored it.

With a heavy sigh, he shifted Val into one arm, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's… new," he admitted, his voice low, like he was still trying to process the reality of it. "And I don't want Mum finding out before I have a chance to tell her myself."

Ginny grinned, thrilled beyond measure. "So, you're saying if I swear not to tell Mum, I get details?"

Charlie shot her a warning look, but she only raised a brow, silently daring him to deny her. "Fine," he muttered. "But you don't tell anyone else, especially Bill."

"Oh, come on," she groaned, dramatically flopping onto the couch. "Bill's going to find out anyway. He's a bloody curse-breaker, Charlie, his entire job is uncovering things people try to keep hidden."

Charlie's jaw tightened at that, his mind clearly going to places he wasn't ready to discuss, and Ginny immediately softened. She nudged his knee gently. "Hey. If it's serious, you should tell him. You know he loves you."

Charlie exhaled, shaking his head. "I know. And I will. Just… not yet."

Ginny respected that. But it didn't mean she was letting him off the hook entirely. "So? Tell me about him."

Charlie let out a suffering sigh, but the smallest flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips, betraying him completely.

Ginny leaned in, her eyes gleaming with barely contained curiosity, the thrill of gossip sparking in her like a match set to dry kindling. "He better be hot," she demanded, voice brimming with mischief, her fingers twitching as if she might shake the details out of Charlie by force if he didn't spill them fast enough.

Before Charlie could even think of dodging the topic, Blaise appeared at the bottom of the staircase, clearly drawn in by the scent of juicy gossip like a shark catching the whiff of blood in the water. His steps were slow, calculated, but the glint in his eyes gave him away—he lived for moments like these. Ginny turned to him, arms crossed smugly, as if ready to present evidence in court.

Blaise extended a hand toward Charlie, the usual firm handshake of a brother-in-law, but to his genuine surprise, Charlie bypassed formality completely, yanking him into a quick but firm hug. It was a rare thing, Charlie Weasley showing affection beyond a clap on the back, but Blaise knew what it meant. Knew that it wasn't just about him, but about Ginny—about the relief of knowing she was truly happy, truly taken care of.

Blaise smirked as they pulled apart, adjusting his cuffs like he wasn't touched by the gesture at all, like he wasn't secretly pleased to be accepted into the feral Weasley clan. "I'm glad you're here," he said simply, his voice softer than usual. "Ginny missed you so much."

Charlie gave a small smile, one of those rare, unguarded expressions that made him look just a little younger, a little less burdened. "Yeah, I missed her too," he admitted, his voice carrying that unmistakable fondness he always had for his baby sister.

But Blaise wasn't about to let the moment descend into sentimental nonsense. He arched a brow, already sliding into his usual sharp smirk as he settled into an armchair. "But let's be honest, mate. I only came down because I'm nosy as hell and I need to hear all about your love life. So if you don't mind—start talking."

Charlie shot him a mildly exasperated look, but before he could escape, Ginny clapped her hands together, practically bouncing in place. "You heard him! Start! Spill! I need details!"

Charlie groaned, rubbing a hand down his face as if this were some great ordeal, some terribly painful task, but the faint blush creeping up his neck betrayed him. Ginny saw it instantly. Her grin stretched wider.

"He's fit and tall," Charlie began, his voice almost hesitant, as if he was still trying to wrap his own head around it. "And nice. Like, actually nice. Likes me. Took me out for dinner. And I just… I don't know." He exhaled, almost like he was afraid to put it into words, but then he looked at Ginny, at Blaise, and his lips curled into something hesitant but undeniably real. "I'm just happy."

Ginny let out a dramatic, gleeful shriek, immediately grabbing his wrist and shaking it with excitement, like she could rattle more details out of him by force. "OH MY GOD, CHARLIE! Happy? You? That's huge! That's groundbreaking! That's—"

Blaise, leaning back in his chair, watching with amusement, smirked and took a sip of his drink before cutting in smoothly, "—That's adorable."

Charlie glared at him, but it lacked any real heat.

Ginny, still vibrating with excitement, pressed a hand to her chest as if this moment was too much for her delicate heart to handle. "Tell me everything. How did you meet? Who made the first move? How many dates? Have you shagged already?"

Charlie immediately turned red, groaning in frustration. "I am absolutely not answering that last one."

Blaise smirked wider, clearly enjoying this far too much. "Which means it's a yes."

Charlie threw a couch pillow at his head.

After what felt like hours of relentless interrogation, during which Charlie suffered, Ginny thrived, and Blaise regretted every life choice that led him to this moment, the full picture finally came together. Stefan, as it turned out, was not just some random bloke Charlie had met at a pub—no, this was a proper relationship, a solid one, one that had been happening under their noses for a year.

The man lived near Charlie's reserve, conveniently close enough that visits weren't just casual drop-ins but regular, significant, and intimate. He wasn't just some fleeting thing, some experiment or passing infatuation—this was real. Ginny had nearly leaped out of her seat with excitement, clutching Charlie's arm and squealing like a teenager at a boy band concert.

And then came the truly scandalous details.

Stefan was in his mid-thirties, making him just a few years older than Charlie—respectable, mature, established. He was also two hundred and ten centimeters tall, which sent Ginny into a fit of laughter as she tried to imagine Charlie with a literal giant, while Blaise simply stared, processing the logistics.

But it didn't stop there.

No, because Ginny Weasley had no shame, and at some point during her relentless questioning—perhaps emboldened by the wine or simply by the sheer joy of seeing Charlie flustered for once in his life—she had asked the unthinkable.

"So… how big?"

Charlie had choked on his drink, nearly knocking over the entire table in his attempt to escape the absolute mortification. But he had stupidly left her with just enough time to turn to Blaise with mischief in her eyes, and for reasons that made no sense to anyone, she volunteered information that should never have been spoken aloud in any civilized conversation.

"Oh, Merlin, Blaise, he's the same size as you."

There was a moment of dead silence, the kind that only happens right before someone dies, or before a murder is committed. Blaise's expression went from confusion to horror in half a second, Charlie turned the color of an overripe tomato, and Ginny? Ginny was beaming, absolutely delighted with herself.

Blaise, who had suffered through many things in his life, who had endured the war, had killed men, had survived literal torture, had never—never—felt as violated as he did in this moment. His own wife had exposed him in ways he would never recover from.

"Ginevra," Blaise said, voice low, deadly, deeply traumatized, "I'm going to Obliviate you."

"No, you won't," she said cheerfully, taking another sip of her wine. "Because you love me."

Charlie was still red as a beet, covering his face with both hands, muttering curses at the universe for ever allowing this conversation to happen. He had come here for a nice, wholesome visit with his baby sister, not to discover that his potential future husband had something in common with his brother-in-law's cock. (22cm, FYI) 

He would never recover. 

Blaise looked seconds away from throwing himself into the Floo and never coming back. Ginny, meanwhile, was wiping away tears of laughter, because she had broken both of them and it was the highlight of her year.

And as the night continued on, and as Charlie desperately tried to change the subject, and as Blaise plotted revenge, one thing was certain—this was a story that Ginny Weasley Zabini was going to bring up at every single family gathering for the rest of their lives.

~~~~~~

Blaise and Ginny were the first to arrive at the baby shower, making their entrance with an effortless elegance that suggested they were accustomed to grand affairs such as this. But today, they did not come alone. Nestled in Ginny's arms, swaddled in the softest fabric money could buy, was little Valerius, looking every bit the heir to an empire. 

Dressed in a luxurious, heavily embellished, and regal. It features intricate gold embroidery, ruby-red floral patterns, emerald gemstones, and shimmering crystal details on a sheer nude fabric. —a piece no doubt selected by Blaise himself—the infant exuded an almost regal presence. His tiny hands curled into fists as he blinked sleepily at the dazzling transformation of the manor, his dark curls catching the sunlight streaming in through the high-arched windows. He was oblivious to the spectacle around him, blissfully unaware that he was wrapped in layers of delicate charmwork designed to keep him comfortable, safe, and entirely untouched by the overwhelming excitement buzzing through the grand estate.

Ginny, her red hair catching the light in a halo of fiery brilliance, was the picture of maternal grace and quiet amusement as she adjusted the golden trim on her son's tiny robes, smoothing out invisible creases while Blaise stood beside her, his usual air of self-assurance tinged with something softer. 

He was inordinately proud, that much was clear—the way his arm lingered protectively around Ginny's waist, the way he smoothed his fingers over the small curve of Valerius's head, as if the very idea of fatherhood was still something too precious to fully comprehend. But there was no mistaking the way his dark eyes gleamed as he surveyed the room, taking in the extravagant display with silent approval.

The two of them moved through the transformed space like royalty, and in a way, they were. Not in the traditional sense, but in something much older, much deeper. They were power wrapped in silk, bloodlines woven together with love and history, a family forged in the fire of war and rebuilt in the quiet peace that followed.

The arrival of Pansy and Neville, fashionably late as always, was marked by the kind of effortless presence only Pansy Parkinson could command. She did not simply walk into a room—she arrived , with a flair that turned heads and demanded attention without so much as a single word.

At five months pregnant, she was radiant, but then again, she always was. Pansy had never been the kind of woman to let something as trivial as pregnancy dull her shine. If anything, it had only enhanced her, made her even more commanding. Draped in a flowing emerald gown that clung in all the right places and flared at the hem with an effortless grace, she looked less like a woman carrying a child and more like a goddess descending from Olympus, ready to preside over whatever mortals dared to bask in her presence.

Neville, ever the doting husband, remained close at her side, his quiet strength complementing her dazzling confidence in a way that felt perfectly balanced. His hand rested on the small of her back, grounding her even as she swept into the room like a force of nature, her dark eyes scanning the opulent décor with a smirk that suggested she had been expecting nothing less.

She surveyed the space, the intricate details Theo had so meticulously arranged, the sheer magnitude of pink and gold draped over every surface, and let out a dramatic sigh. "Merlin's tits, Nott really did lose his mind over this, didn't he?" she drawled, one perfectly manicured hand settling over her belly as if to emphasize the absurdity of it all. "I mean, we knew he was obsessed, but this is a different level of insanity."

Neville chuckled beside her, though his eyes flicked between Pansy and Luna with a quiet concern only he would have. "You say that like you wouldn't demand the exact same thing for our son," he murmured, and Pansy shot him a glare that was entirely ruined by the amused glint in her eyes.

Ginny, still cradling Valerius, let out a soft laugh. "If you think this is extreme, just wait until her first birthday. Theo might actually commission an entire castle."

Blaise smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored robes. "You underestimate him, love. He's probably already done it."

Luna, lounging gracefully on one of the plush settees, sipped her tea with a serene smile, looking entirely unbothered by the conversation unfolding around her. "You all act as if this is some sort of surprise," she mused, her voice lilting with amusement. "You do realize he would have burned the entire world down if I asked him to, right?"

Pansy shook her head, lips curling into a smirk as she settled beside Luna with the ease of someone who had long since accepted the madness of their lives. "Honestly? That's what makes this entire thing so fun to watch."

And with that, the celebration was in full swing, each arrival adding to the electric energy thrumming through the manor, each moment a reminder that this wasn't just a baby shower—it was the grand unveiling of a future queen, the first glimpse of a legacy that had already begun to rewrite history.

~~~~~~

The moment Hermione and Draco arrived, Ginny felt her entire body go rigid, every muscle coiling with an unbearable tension that had no escape. It was ridiculous, truly—this was Seline's baby shower, a day of celebration, of family and friendship, a moment meant to be filled with laughter and warmth. And yet, all she could think about was how desperately she wanted to launch herself into Hermione's arms and, in the exact same breath, murder Draco Malfoy where he stood.

Because of course he was here. Of course he was standing at Hermione's side, looking smug and untouchable in his perfectly tailored robes, his cool silver eyes sweeping the room with calculated indifference, as if he weren't the singular cause of half the bitterness that festered in her chest. He was always there, wasn't he? Wherever Hermione went, he followed, like some looming, infuriating shadow that had permanently attached itself to her best friend's existence.

And Hermione. Gods, Hermione.

Ginny barely dared to look at her at first, afraid of what she might feel the second she did. But she felt it anyway—the magnetic pull, the familiar ache of longing for something that had been lost between them, the deep-seated need to run into Hermione's arms, bury her face into her best friend's shoulder, and pretend—pretend that nothing had ever changed, that there weren't oceans of unspoken words between them, that the last two years had been nothing more than a fever dream that she could shake off with a single embrace.

But that wasn't reality. That wasn't them anymore.

Now, they stood on opposite ends of the party, stealing glances, hovering in each other's orbit but never quite colliding, both of them waiting—hoping—that the other would be the first to bridge the unbearable distance.

Ginny was a brave girl. She had always been. But bravery meant little when your heart felt like a glass about to shatter, when your pride and your grief waged war against the part of you that simply missed someone.

Unfortunately for her, Blaise Zabini had no patience for emotional theatrics.

Without a shred of subtlety, her husband pressed his hand against the small of her back and shoved—not gently, not suggestively, but with the force of a man who was utterly done with his wife's stubbornness.

Ginny stumbled forward with a sharp glare over her shoulder. "Are you serious?"

Blaise arched a brow, unbothered as he took a slow sip of champagne. "Completely."

That bastard.

But now it was too late. Now she was here, standing directly in front of Hermione, caught in her gravity with no way out.

Hermione, for her part, looked momentarily stunned by the abrupt turn of events. Her eyes—warm brown and just as piercing as ever—widened slightly as she straightened, clutching her champagne flute like a lifeline.

They stared at each other.

The silence stretched long enough to become its own entity, thick and awkward and suffocating, neither of them quite knowing how to break it. And then, at the exact same time, they spoke.

"Hello—"

"Hi—"

They both stopped short, blinking in unison, before Hermione let out a nervous little laugh and gestured for Ginny to go first.

Ginny cleared her throat, shifting awkwardly on her feet. "Hello, 'Mione."

She hated how small her voice sounded. How unnatural.

But Hermione—sweet, beautiful, irritatingly perfect Hermione—only smiled, soft and tentative, as though she wasn't sure whether Ginny would let her closer or push her away.

"Hello, babes," Hermione said, her voice gentler than it had any right to be. Then, as if falling back into something that had once been second nature, she let her eyes sweep over Ginny, her smile growing. "You look gorgeous. And look at Valerius—he's an angel."

Ginny swallowed, glancing down at her son, who was currently squirming against her hip, completely uninterested in the tension that hung between his mother and his godmother. He was busy twisting a chubby fist into the fabric of her dress, his bright, inquisitive eyes darting between the two women as if sensing that something was off.

Ginny forced a smile. "Thank you…" she said slowly, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around Valerius's small frame.

And then—silence again.

Merlin, this was painful.

Excruciating, actually. The kind of social agony that made her skin itch, that had her contemplating the life choices that led her here, standing in this unbearable tension-filled nightmare of a conversation.

Hermione swallowed thickly, shifting on her feet, her fingers curling around the stem of her champagne flute as if it might somehow anchor her in the moment. It didn't. Nothing could. Because here she was, standing between Blaise bloody Zabini and his wife—her former best friend—trapped in a conversational purgatory that had absolutely no graceful exit.

She had tried, really, she had tried. She had come in with the best of intentions, determined to play nice, to keep things civil, to mend the tattered threads of the friendships she had once cherished, but—Gods—had she forgotten how suffocatingly awkward things could get when Blaise was involved.

Maybe it was the way he looked at her, all teasing arrogance and lazy amusement, his dark eyes flickering with a knowing glint that suggested he thrived off making her squirm. Maybe it was the fact that Ginny was standing right there, staring at her as though she were actively committing some kind of high treason by even acknowledging her husband's existence. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because Draco Malfoy was lurking somewhere nearby, and that—that alone—was enough to make her want to run for the hills.

She should have known better than to speak first, but in a desperate attempt to cut through the agonizing silence, she had opened her mouth and—well, things had gone horribly wrong from there.

"Blaise, you look like royalty in that suit…"

The words left her lips before she could fully think them through, and the second she heard them, she regretted everything.

The moment stretched unbearably long, suffocating in its sheer awkwardness.

Blaise blinked.

Ginny stared.

Even the air seemed to freeze around them.

And then—of course—Blaise recovered first, because Blaise Zabini was incapable of shame.

A slow, smug smile unfurled across his lips, his head tilting ever so slightly as he let the compliment sink in, as if basking in it. The bastard.

"Oh, mia cara," he purred, his voice dripping with amusement, "you are a tease." He smoothed a hand down the front of his suit, utterly unbothered by the glaring red flags of this entire interaction. "But, let's be honest—I am royalty, though."

Hermione wanted to die.

She could feel the sheer force of Ginny's glare boring into the side of her skull, could sense the exact moment her best friend's patience snapped. There was a vibe, an almost tangible shift in the atmosphere—and it was not good.

Abort mission. Abort mission now.

"I—" Hermione stammered, already backpedaling like her life depended on it. Her entire body went rigid, her breath catching in her throat as she panicked. "I think I should just… go back to Draco."

It came out too fast, too rushed, too blatantly like an escape attempt, but fuck it, she wasn't above fleeing.

Ginny exhaled sharply, her fingers tightening around her glass, looking seconds away from throwing something, and honestly? Hermione wouldn't have blamed her.

Blaise, ever the menace, simply chuckled. "Running back to your ferret, Granger?" he mused, his tone far too entertained for her liking. "Tsk, tsk. You wound me."

And that was it. That was the final nail in the coffin.

Ginny snapped.

"Fucking ferret," she muttered under her breath, seething, but loud enough for Hermione to hear. "It's all his fault. Everything is his fault."

~~~~~~

By the time they got home from the baby shower, Ginny was absolutely drunk, Valerius was dead to the world in his little party outfit, and Blaise was running on fumes, his social battery long depleted. The evening had been an overwhelming mix of laughter, endless baby gifts, and a level of chaotic energy that only came when you threw together a room full of former war criminals, highly volatile personalities, and enough alcohol to drown a small country.

Blaise, being the responsible one, moved swiftly, scooping their son out of his carrier with practiced ease, cradling the sleeping baby against his chest as he made his way upstairs. Val barely stirred, his tiny body heavy with the weight of exhaustion, his soft curls damp from the warmth of the room. With gentle precision, he tucked him into his crib, smoothing a hand over his back before placing a careful kiss against his forehead. He lingered for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of his son's breathing, before exhaustion pulled him toward the shower.

Meanwhile, his wife was having an entirely different experience upstairs.

Ginny was sprawled out on the floor, giggling drunkenly, her limbs tangled in her dress as she attempted, and failed spectacularly, to get out of it. 

One strap had managed to get stuck around her arm, leaving her looking like a drunkenly gift-wrapped package, while the other hung loose around her shoulder. Her shoes had somehow vanished—one was by the fireplace, the other suspiciously close to the kitchen—and she was laughing at absolutely nothing like she had just heard the funniest joke in the world.

Blaise, fresh from the shower, ran a towel through his damp curls as he stepped back into the living room, only to stop dead in his tracks at the sight of his wife rolling half-heartedly across the floor, still half-dressed, still a mess, still… well, very much his problem.

"Amore," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What in Merlin's name are you doing?"

She snorted, kicking her feet in the air before groaning dramatically. "Dying."

"You're not dying."

"I am."

"You're drunk."

"I am."

Blaise exhaled slowly, kneeling down beside her, already regretting every choice that led them to this moment. He eyed the dress, the way it had halfway surrendered to her struggles, and bit back a smirk. "Do you want help, or should I let you fight your own battle?"

She pouted up at him, her bottom lip sticking out in the way that always made him weak, drunkenly dramatic as she flailed an arm toward him. "Help me, husband. I am but a poor, helpless wife, trapped in the fabric of my own poor decisions."

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head before leaning over her, hands deftly working to free her from the tangled mess of fabric. "You're impossible, you know that?"

She beamed up at him, her fingers clumsily tracing the line of his jaw before her hands gripped the front of his shirt, yanking him down to her level. "But you love me."

Blaise sighed dramatically, brushing a kiss against her temple, inhaling the lingering scent of wine and floral perfume. "I do, unfortunately."

Ginny grinned, finally freed from the dress, throwing her arms around his neck in triumph. "Good. Now carry me to bed. My legs are broken."

"Your legs are fine."

"They are not. They are betrayed by gravity."

Blaise let out a slow breath, shaking his head, but still, he scooped her up, effortlessly carrying her toward the stairs. Ginny giggled, nuzzling against his chest, sighing in contentment.

"Best husband ever," she murmured.

Blaise, utterly exhausted, exasperated, and yet irrevocably in love, smirked as he carried her upstairs, her warmth pressed against his chest, her breath soft against his neck. "You better remember this when you wake up hungover tomorrow, Mrs. Zabini," he murmured, his voice thick with amusement, though he already knew she wouldn't. She'd wake up groaning, cursing the sun, and swearing off drinking forever—until the next time.

But Ginny, still flushed from the baby shower's endless rounds of champagne, still heady with the lazy intoxication of the night, had other plans.

She let out a breathy giggle. "I have plans with you!" she announced, her voice laced with determination.

Blaise huffed a soft laugh as he set her down on the bed, hands already moving to pull the duvet over her before she could make a mess of herself. "You are drunk, mia cara. We can't."

Ginny, utterly unbothered by his protest, propped herself up on her elbows, her smirk entirely too devious for someone who was supposed to be half-asleep. "We will."

"No, we won't."

"Pull your cock out. Now."

Blaise let out a sharp exhale, tipping his head back with a groan as he ran a hand over his face. "Fucking hell… You can't just order me around like that."

But Ginny, in her infinite drunken wisdom and complete lack of patience, had no interest in arguments. She crawled up onto her knees, the drunken clumsiness replaced by something sharp, something insistent, her hands tugging at the waistband of his pajama pants with absolutely no hesitation.

"Slow down, baby," he murmured, reaching for her wrists, attempting to still her movements, but she simply brushed his hands away, her gaze burning with drunken determination.

"You have something that I want," she purred, her fingers curling around the fabric, sliding it down his hips inch by inch, her mouth already ghosting kisses along his abdomen.

Blaise's grip tightened in her hair, his fingers threading through the fiery strands as he pulled her closer, their lips mere millimeters apart, his breath mingling with hers. His restraint was hanging by a thread, unraveling with every second she looked at him like that—drunk and reckless, full of mischief and hunger, completely in control of him without even trying, and fuck, she knew it. She always did.

His voice dropped to a dangerous murmur, his tone filled with dark amusement. "You need to shut up, love."

Ginny's lips curved into something wicked, her breath warm against his mouth. "Or?"

His smirk deepened, his fingers tightening just enough to make her gasp. "Or I'll find something to shut you up."

She hummed, pretending to consider. "Maybe I should yap more, then."

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest, but his patience was already gone. With a sharp tug, he dragged her forward, her body moving exactly how he wanted—his hands guiding, commanding. She followed without hesitation, her pupils blown wide, her lips parted slightly as he brought her to the edge of the bed.

"Open your legs wider. Sit on your heels. Open your mouth."

And she obeyed. Of course, she did. She was his good girl.

His cock was already thick, heavy in his hand as he pressed the tip against her waiting lips, dragging it across her mouth, smearing the wetness there. She didn't break eye contact, didn't flinch, didn't hesitate—just waited, mouth open, breath hot and eager against him.

"Look at me." His voice was thick, full of dark satisfaction. "You want to act like a community whore, then let me fuck you like one."

She barely had time to react before he thrust forward, his cock sliding past her lips, filling her mouth in one deep stroke. A muffled moan vibrated against his length, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure up his spine.

And then he didn't stop.

His grip in her hair tightened as he fucked her mouth, each thrust deep, each movement relentless, forcing her to take him the way he wanted. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, spit dripped down her chin, her throat stretched around him, but she didn't pull away—she only moaned against him, sucking him deeper, eager, desperate, filthy.

"That's it," he groaned, head tipping back for a moment, his fingers flexing in her hair before he looked down again, watching her take him so perfectly, so greedily. "My good little slut. So fucking obedient."

Ginny's nails dug into his thighs, her own arousal pooling between her legs as she let him use her, let him fuck her mouth as brutally as he wanted. She could barely breathe, barely think, but none of it mattered—she loved this, loved how desperate he was for her, how he could never resist her, no matter how much he tried.

He was hers. And she would remind him exactly why.

He finally released his grip on her hair, letting it fall in wild, tangled waves around her flushed face. Mascara streaked down her cheeks, her lips swollen and slick from the brutal way he had fucked her mouth, yet even like this—wrecked, undone, trembling—she still looked like a goddamn angel, a vision sent straight from the heavens just to torment him.

His voice was dark, rough with arousal as he tilted her chin up, his thumb swiping over the corner of her mouth. "Was that enough?"

Her breath hitched, her throat raw, her body shivering, but her answer came in a whisper, soft, pleading, "...no."

A muscle in his jaw twitched, his restraint snapping completely. "No?" he echoed, and before she could say anything else, he grabbed her, flipping her onto the mattress in a single, effortless movement. His palm pressed between her shoulder blades, keeping her pinned, helpless and willing beneath him.

"Then ride my cock, now."

She barely had time to gasp before she obeyed, climbing onto his lap, sinking down onto him in one slow, devastating stroke. A strangled cry left her lips as she took all of him, so full she could barely breathe, barely think.

There was no time to adjust. He grabbed her hips, slamming her down harder, making her take every inch, making her feel exactly how desperate he was. His hand came down hard against her breast, the sharp sting making her gasp, her head snapping back.

"Look at me."

His fingers wrapped around her throat, tilting her face toward him, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her pupils were blown wide, her lips parted, her entire body trembling as he thrust up into her, merciless and unrelenting. She was beyond gone, reduced to moans and cries and the sound of skin slapping against skin.

He had silenced the room, a precaution he always took when he fucked her like this, because her screams would've shaken the goddamn house down otherwise.

And then, without warning, he pulled out completely, leaving her whimpering, desperate, clawing at his shoulders for more.

"Shh, baby," he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement as he dragged her body up against him, his fingers sliding down her spine. "It's not over."

She barely had time to process what was happening before he flipped her again, pressing her down onto the mattress, lifting her hips, spreading her wide. His cock pressed against the tight ring of muscle, slow, deliberate, pushing in inch by inch. And then—

The scream that tore from her lips was pure fucking bliss.

He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that rumbled through his chest, feeling her tighten around him, so fucking tight, so goddamn perfect. He moved slowly, letting her adjust, letting her feel every single inch stretching her open.

Her thighs shook violently, her fingers twisting in the sheets, her entire body surrendering to the overwhelming pleasure, the intoxicating mix of pain and ecstasy. She needed to come. She was on fire, her nerves raw, her body aching for release.

He gripped her waist, his pace shifting, fucking her deep and slow, his own pleasure threatening to consume him.

"Touch yourself, whore," he commanded, his voice rough, low, demanding.

She whimpered, her hand sliding down between her trembling thighs, her fingers finding her neglected clit, massaging in slow, desperate circles.

And that was it.

The moment he saw her completely give in, the moment he felt her start to tremble, he lost the last ounce of his control. His fingers brushed hers aside, taking over, rubbing fast, relentless circles over her swollen clit as he fucked her harder, chasing that final, devastating release.

She screamed his name, her entire body locking up, her thighs trembling violently as she came undone completely, shattering around him in waves of pure, agonizing pleasure.

And then—

He felt it.

The moment she completely broke apart, the moment the pleasure ripped through her so fiercely that she couldn't hold back, she squirted all over him, soaking his thighs, drenching the sheets beneath them.

Fuck.

Blaise groaned, his grip on her hips bruising, watching the way she shook, wrecked and undone beneath him, her body convulsing from the force of her release.

This. This was his fucking weakness. This was the most beautiful fucking thing he had ever seen.

He would never get enough of it, never stop craving the way she completely lost herself when he fucked her like this.

And as she collapsed against the mattress, her body spent, her breaths coming in ragged, desperate gasps, he finally let himself go.

With a deep, shuddering groan, he buried himself inside her one last time, letting his own release claim him completely.

She was his.

And fuck, he was so completely, irreversibly hers.