LOVERS- Bliney AU (HP)

Ginny leaned forward, her eyes sharp as she spoke, refusing to let her vulnerability show. "But I'm telling you now—I'm not some trophy wife you can parade around."

Her voice was fierce, but Blaise could see the flicker of uncertainty beneath the surface. The truth was, she had spent years imagining herself as something more than just the girl who helped win a war or the little sister of a famous brother. Part of her, despite everything, craved the idea of being adored, cherished—maybe even "spoiled". But the walls she had built around herself, the fire that defined her, wouldn't let her admit it.

He didn't flinch, meeting her gaze with a calm understanding. He knew exactly what she was doing. Ginny Weasley was tough, independent, and fiery, but there was a part of her that yearned for something more, something softer. He'd seen it in her, the contradiction she carried—the way she pushed against the idea of being anyone's possession, but secretly desired to be valued, to be wanted. 

"I never said you were," he replied smoothly, but his tone had a soft edge. "But if you think I don't want to show you off... then you really don't know me yet, Ginny."

His words sent a strange thrill through her, but she quickly masked it. "I don't need to be spoiled," she muttered, half to herself. 

Blaise raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Is that so?"

He saw right through her, and she hated it. Because while Ginny Weasley was defiant and strong, the idea of being treated like royalty—like she was worthy of luxury—was something that made her pulse quicken. It wasn't about being a trophy; it was about being recognized for her worth.

Blaise had already begun to prove that he understood her far better than she gave him credit for. The gifts arrived almost daily—each more extravagant than the last. He never said anything, never attached any grand speeches to them, but the message was clear. He saw her. 

The first time it had been a box filled with delicate, sparkling jewelry—diamond earrings, an intricately woven bracelet of gold. The kind of jewelry that made she pause, conflicted, because it was beautiful, but it was too much. She hadn't known how to react, so she'd tucked the box away, unsure of what to say to him the next time they spoke.

Then, it was a fur coat, soft as silk, draped across her bed one morning with a simple note in Blaise's elegant script: For when the cold feels too much, mia cara. Ginny had run her fingers through the fur, biting her lip, secretly loving the feel of it but telling herself she wasn't the type of girl who needed fur coats. Still, she found herself slipping it on that night when no one was watching, just to feel the luxury against her skin.

After that came the Valentino dress. It was from his new collection—a sleek, form-fitting number in deep crimson that hugged her curves and made her feel like a goddess when she tried it on in front of the mirror. And then there were the flowers—roses, tulips, lilies—sent in every shade imaginable. Bouquets so large they filled her room with their scent, with colors so vibrant they seemed unreal.

Each gift was like a quiet whisper from him, telling her she was worth it. And no matter how much she tried to reject the idea, she couldn't help but feel it deep in her bones. Blaise wasn't trying to turn her into some obedient, docile wife—he was treating her like a queen.

She wanted to hate him for it. She really did. But how could she when part of her craved that kind of attention, that kind of validation?

"You know," she said slowly, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass, "just because you send me all these gifts doesn't mean I'm going to... soften."

He chuckled softly, leaning in, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a quiet intensity. "Mia cara, I'm not trying to make you soft. I'm just giving you what you deserve."

She scoffed, trying to hide the way his words affected her. "You think I deserve all...this?"

"More than this," he replied, his voice low and sure. "But it's a start."

She felt her breath catch for a moment. This wasn't what she had expected from him. Zabini, the smooth-talking, too-handsome-for-his-own-good Slytherin, was proving to be far more complex than she had anticipated. He wasn't just trying to win her over with grand gestures—he genuinely wanted to show her her own worth.

"And here I thought you'd just want me to stand beside you, look pretty, and keep quiet," she teased, a hint of sarcasm in her voice, trying to regain her footing.

He smiled, shaking his head. "That's not how this is going to go, baby girl. I didn't choose you because I wanted someone who'd fade into the background. I chose you because you're impossible to ignore."

She blinked, momentarily stunned by the sincerity in his words. He wasn't lying. She could tell that much. Blaise Zabini saw her—truly saw her—and that scared her just as much as it excited her.

"So, no expectations then?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, still half expecting the other shoe to drop.

"Just one," he said, his voice dropping lower as he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Don't hide from me, baby girl.I want all of you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Getting ready for her wedding felt like a nightmare rather than the dream she had once envisioned. Ginny stood in front of the ornate mirror, staring at her reflection, trying to calm the storm brewing inside her. Her hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the delicate lace on her dress. She had always imagined this moment would feel magical, but instead, a sense of dread curled in the pit of her stomach.

She needed her mother more than ever. She longed for Molly's reassuring presence, for her steady hands pinning her veil, for her warm voice telling her how beautiful she looked, reminding her that everything would be alright. But no one was allowed to be there except the couple—no family, no friends, just the two people trapped by this cursed law, forced into something that should have been their choice.

The silence in the room was suffocating, and her chest felt tight, a lump forming in her throat. She was scared, terrified even, though she would never admit it aloud. She wasn't supposed to feel this way. Ginny Weasley, the fierce and brave Gryffindor, should be stronger than this. But today, she didn't feel strong. Today, she felt small, uncertain, and alone.

This wasn't how she had pictured it. She had always dreamed of a grand wedding, surrounded by family and friends, laughter echoing through the Burrow's garden, the scent of wildflowers in the air. She had imagined her brothers teasing her relentlessly, Hermione fussing over last-minute details, and her father giving her one of his tender, proud smiles as he walked her down the aisle. And, of course, Harry—waiting at the end of the aisle, his green eyes filled with love and warmth, promising her forever.

But it wasn't meant to be. Harry wasn't the one waiting for her today.

Her chest tightened at the thought. It hadn't been in the cards for them, despite everything they had been through together. The war, the fights, the love they once shared—it wasn't enough to keep them together in the end. Life had pulled them in different directions, and while part of her had accepted that, another part of her—the part that still dreamed of what could have been—ached for the future they never got to build.

She sighed, pushing those thoughts away. She couldn't afford to dwell on what could have been, not when her reality was staring her in the face. Zabini was her future now, like it or not. It wasn't the love story she had hoped for, but it was the one she had been given.

She smoothed her dress again, her fingers trembling as she adjusted the skirt. The gown was exquisite—far more luxurious than anything she had ever imagined wearing on her wedding day. Blaise had spared no expense, of course. The fabric shimmered with every movement, the lace delicate and intricate, the kind of dress that made her feel beautiful even if her heart wasn't in it.

She let out a shaky breath, glancing at the clock. The time was drawing near. Her stomach churned with nerves, but she knew there was no turning back now. She had to do this, had to walk down that aisle—even if every fiber of her being was screaming for her to run.

She wasn't just scared of the wedding, though. She was scared of what came after. The uncertainty of it all loomed over her like a dark cloud. What kind of life would she have with Blaise? Could they make this work, or would they be stuck in a cold, loveless marriage, merely tolerating each other for the rest of their lives?

A soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. She turned, half-expecting to see her mother's face, but of course, it was only one of the Ministry officials there to escort her to the ceremony. No one else was allowed to be there for her—not her family, not her friends. It was just her and Blaise, trapped in this situation neither of them had chosen.

Her heart clenched with the weight of it all. She wasn't ready for this. Not emotionally, not mentally. But there was no choice now. 

She took one last look at herself in the mirror, her reflection staring back at her, filled with uncertainty. This wasn't the Ginny Weasley who had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, the girl who had faced down Death Eaters and survived. This was a woman on the verge of being bound to someone she barely knew, in a future she hadn't asked for.

But she would walk down that aisle. She would do what needed to be done. Because that's what Ginny Weasley did. She pushed through the fear, the uncertainty, and the pain. She always had.

With one final deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and squared her jaw. The fierce determination that had always defined her flared back to life, even in the face of everything.

She didn't need to love Blaise. She didn't need to feel a spark or some grand connection to make it through this. She just needed to survive it, to keep moving forward. Because that's what she did. That's what she had always done.

And as much as it terrified her, she knew she could survive this too.

But deep down, as she took those first steps toward her future, she couldn't help but wonder—what if surviving wasn't enough? What if, this time, she deserved more?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Ministry wedding ceremony felt more like a binding contract than a celebration of love. Ginny stood in a room that was stark and imposing, its stone walls towering above, dimly lit by enchanted orbs that cast a cold, pale glow. There were no flowers, no ribbons, no joyous guests filling the air with laughter or chatter—only silence, broken by the murmuring of Ministry officials shuffling papers and preparing for the binding. A sense of dread filled her chest as she approached the center of the room. She had always envisioned her wedding day with her family around her, her mother fussing over every little detail, her brothers making lighthearted jokes, and her father looking on with proud eyes. But now, standing here with Blaise, she felt more alone than she ever had in her life. There were no loved ones, no Harry, no friends—just the reality of this forced union, cold and inescapable.

In the middle of the room stood a stone altar, its surface inscribed with intricate runes, faintly glowing with ancient magic. It was here that the soul-bonding ritual would take place. The air itself seemed to hum with power, as if the magic woven into this place had been waiting for centuries to lock two souls together. She swallowed hard, feeling a lump of anxiety rise in her throat. She had never been this close to something so ancient, so unyielding. The officiant, dressed in dark Ministry robes, raised his wand and began the formal incantation. His voice echoed through the room, hollow and emotionless, as though he'd done this a thousand times before and would do it a thousand times again. There was no personal touch, no softness to his words—only the dry, methodical steps required to seal the union.

As the officiant spoke, she felt his presence beside her. He looked calm, even as the weight of the moment pressed down on them both. His dark eyes flickered toward her, and for a second, she saw a flash of something—a hint of understanding, perhaps? But before she could decipher it, the moment passed. The officiant gestured for them to join hands. She hesitated before slipping her hand into his. His grip was firm but not harsh, and for a brief moment, she felt a flicker of connection. Then, the magic began.

A golden thread of light materialized between their clasped hands, thin and shimmering, spiraling around them like a ribbon of liquid fire. The magic was old, far older than either of them, and it vibrated with power. As it wound tighter around their hands, Ginny felt a strange tug deep within her chest—a pull that resonated with something beyond her physical self. The thread began to glow brighter, warm but not painful, as it stretched and twisted, wrapping itself around them both, sinking deeper and deeper until it became part of their very beings. Ginny could feel it—an invisible cord linking her to Blaise's soul, a connection she hadn't chosen but one that was now irrevocable.

Her breath hitched as the bond tightened. It wasn't like the romantic connections she had dreamed about when she was younger, or even the soft, growing warmth of a relationship. It was more invasive, more intimate in a way that left her exposed. She could feel Blaise's magic now, brushing up against hers, a strange, foreign presence intermingling with her own. It wasn't painful, but it was unsettling—a reminder that from this day forward, their lives were intertwined. She glanced up at him, searching for some sign that he felt the same disquiet, but Blaise's expression remained neutral, though his hand squeezed hers just a little tighter. Perhaps he was just as overwhelmed, just as trapped.

The golden thread pulsed, a final burst of light engulfing them, before it dissolved into the air, leaving behind an invisible, permanent bond. The magic settled in her chest, like a soft but unbreakable tether, humming faintly with the knowledge that they were now and forever connected. It was a sensation unlike anything she had ever felt before. The weight of it bore down on her shoulders as the officiant's voice echoed through the room, declaring, "By the power of the soul bond, you are bound in life, heart, and soul. From this moment, you are one."

The air stilled as the ritual completed, and she felt a cold shiver run down her spine. There was no applause, no celebration, no joyful cheers to greet their union—only the stark realization that there was no escape. The bond was sealed, and they were tied together in ways that went beyond the physical. Her heart clenched at the thought, her dreams of a grand wedding, of love and laughter, dissolving in the face of this stark reality. She looked over at Blaise, searching for any trace of what he was feeling, but he was inscrutable, his gaze distant and unreadable.

As they stepped back from the altar, she felt a deep ache in her chest. This wasn't the wedding she had imagined. There were no soft vows whispered in the moonlight, no first dance under the stars. Instead, there was just this—the cold, sterile formality of a Ministry ritual that had sealed their fates with ancient magic. And yet, as they walked away from the altar, still bound by the invisible thread that connected their souls, Ginny couldn't help but wonder if, despite the forced nature of this union, they could somehow make something out of it. The bond was real. It was magic. And whether she liked it or not, it was now a part of her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Going home to her new residence felt like walking into a stranger's life. The grandeur of the house, with its looming ceilings and ancient tapestries, made her feel small and out of place. This wasn't her world. It wasn't the Burrow, with its mismatched furniture and the smell of her mother's cooking filling every corner. It wasn't even her flat where she'd lived after Hogwarts, simple and cozy, where she could retreat when the weight of the world pressed too hard. No, this was different—cold, imposing, and far too perfect. The silence inside the house echoed with unfamiliarity, each step she took sinking deeper into the plush carpets, making her feel as though the house itself was trying to swallow her whole.

She didn't like new things, at least not like this. Change was difficult, especially when it was thrust upon her. She just needed a moment to herself, to breathe, to process everything. Without a word, she made a beeline for the liquor cabinet in the sitting room. She scanned the shelves, her fingers brushing over bottles of firewhiskey, gin, and bourbon, before settling on an expensive bottle of wine that looked like it had been aged for decades. She didn't care about the vintage or the quality—she just needed something strong. 

She grabbed the bottle and a glass, then hurried up the grand staircase without another word to Blaise. He watched her go, but wisely didn't follow. Ginny wasn't in the mood to talk, to pretend that this situation was anything other than what it was—a forced marriage, no matter how Blaise tried to dress it up. Her new bedroom, when she entered, was breathtaking, though. Decorated beautifully, it was everything she could have ever wanted. The soft, deep red and gold tones reminded her of her Gryffindor days, the bed large and inviting, draped in rich velvet that felt like it had been made specifically for her. A window seat overlooked sprawling, meticulously kept gardens, their beauty shadowed by her inner turmoil.

But none of it soothed her. If anything, it only made her feel more disconnected. This room, though it was designed with her in mind, wasn't hers. It wasn't the one she grew up dreaming about or the one she thought she'd one day share with the person she truly loved. The weight of that reality pressed down on her, and she set the bottle and glass on the nightstand, pouring herself a generous amount. The rich red liquid swirled in the glass as she took a deep sip, the wine strong and heady, its warmth doing little to settle her nerves.

It was then that she noticed a handwritten note on her bedside table, the parchment folded neatly, her name scrawled across the front in elegant script. She recognized Blaise's handwriting immediately. Part of her wanted to ignore it, to shove it into the drawer and pretend it didn't exist. But curiosity got the better of her, and she reached for it, unfolding the parchment carefully. She braced herself for something formal, something calculated, but what she read instead made her pause.

"Mia cara,

I know this isn't the life you imagined. It's not what I imagined either. But for what it's worth, I want you to know that I don't expect anything from you that you aren't ready to give. This house is as much yours as it is mine. Decorated how you like, with all the space you need. You're free to live here as you wish, to do what makes you happy. I hope one day you'll feel at home here, but until then, I'll give you all the space you need. I'm here, whenever you're ready."

Blaise.

Ginny's fingers tightened around the note, rereading it twice. She wasn't sure how she felt about it. Part of her was relieved that he wasn't pressuring her, wasn't forcing her into the role of a wife she wasn't ready to play. But another part of her—the stubborn, fiery part—was angry. Angry that she even had to be in this situation. Angry that her choices had been taken away. She didn't want his well-crafted words, his carefully chosen kindness. She wanted her freedom back.

She set the note down with a huff, draining the rest of her wine in one go. The liquid burned its way down her throat, but the ache in her chest remained. Throwing herself onto the bed, she stared up at the ceiling, her thoughts swirling. It was a beautiful room, yes, but it wasn't hers. Not really. Not yet. Maybe one day she'd feel comfortable here, but for now, it felt like just another gilded cage. No matter how soft the sheets were, or how carefully Blaise had tried to make her feel welcome, the truth was still the same: she was trapped. 

As the evening stretched on, she found herself feeling more restless. She poured another glass of wine, but it did little to calm her nerves. She missed her family, missed her friends, missed the familiar chaos that came with being a Weasley. This house was too quiet, too pristine, too... lonely.

The tears came suddenly, like a flood she couldn't stop, her chest heaving as she tried to breathe through the overwhelming wave of emotion. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands gripping the sheets as sob after sob tore through her, making her feel small, fragile, and utterly lost. The sobs soon turned into gasps, the air catching in her throat as she tried to calm herself, but it was no use. She was hyperventilating, her vision blurring as the panic took over. Her heart raced, and it felt as if the walls of the grand bedroom were closing in on her, suffocating her in their cold, unfamiliar luxury.

Just as she thought she couldn't catch her breath, the door to her room burst open. He rushed in, his normally composed demeanor replaced with pure concern. His dark eyes, always so steady, were wide with alarm as he crossed the room in long strides. 

"Baby girl, please... Oh, Merlin, please, don't do this to me," Blaise murmured, his voice laced with worry as he knelt down beside her. Without a second thought, he gathered her trembling body into his arms. She didn't resist. In fact, she clung to him desperately, her fingers clutching at his shirt as though he were the only solid thing in her world. The sobs didn't stop, but there was something comforting about being held, about the warmth of his body grounding her amidst the chaos of her emotions.

"It's okay, shh... I'm here. I'm here, baby," he whispered, his hand stroking her hair with the gentleness she didn't expect. His other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, as though he could physically shield her from the pain she was feeling. His presence was like a lifeline, pulling her back from the edge of panic. But Ginny didn't let go. She couldn't. Instead, she practically climbed into his lap, burying her face in the crook of his neck as she cried harder, her tears soaking his shirt.

Blaise didn't flinch. If anything, he held her tighter, cradling her like she was something precious. He shifted, lying back on the bed and pulling her with him so that she was draped across his chest, her small frame shaking against him. His hand never stopped its soothing motion, running through her fiery hair as he murmured soft, comforting words in Italian. 

"Come here, tesoro. Let me help you," he whispered, his voice low and steady, like a lullaby meant to calm her storm. She could barely hear the words, but the tone, the warmth, was enough. 

"Shh... I've got you, Ginny. You're safe. Just breathe, baby. Breathe with me."

Her sobs slowly began to subside, the ragged gasps for air easing as she melted into him, exhausted from the intensity of it all. He continued to whisper sweet nothings, his breath warm against her temple as he held her, making no move to pull away or rush her. He stayed with her, silent and steady, until her breathing evened out and the weight of her exhaustion finally pulled her into sleep. 

She lay there, curled against his chest, the tension slowly draining from her body. His hand never left her back, his thumb drawing slow circles that lulled her deeper into the comfort of unconsciousness. For a while, he just stared at her, his brow furrowed in concern as he watched her sleep, his mind racing with unspoken thoughts. 

He hadn't expected this—hadn't anticipated that beneath Ginny's fierce exterior, there was such fragility. He hadn't wanted this marriage either, but seeing her like this, so vulnerable, something stirred in him. He realized just how heavy the weight on her shoulders must be, how much she had bottled up, and it tugged at a part of him he hadn't let anyone touch in years.

Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to her hair. "You're stronger than you know, Ginny," he whispered, more to himself than to her, his voice barely audible in the stillness of the room. "We'll figure this out together, I promise."

For now, he just held her, content to be her anchor in the storm, letting the soft rhythm of her breathing guide him into the quiet of the night. The grand, empty house no longer felt quite so cold.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was everything but good for Blaise. It was clear Ginny was slipping further away, becoming nothing more than a ghost in their grand, silent home. She drifted through the manor like a wraith, always a step ahead of him, always out of reach. She wasn't just avoiding him—she was shutting him out entirely, treating him like an intruder in her life. Meals were a lonely affair. He'd sit at the long, polished dining table, the seat next to him painfully empty night after night. The plates meant for her were left untouched, the flickering candlelight casting shadows over the pristine silverware.

He tried to bridge the distance between them. Every evening, he'd slip handwritten notes under her door—short messages filled with care, offers to talk, even apologies for things he wasn't sure he'd done. But she never responded. He knew she burned each one in the fireplace. He could hear the faint crackle of flames from behind her door, the paper turning to ash, much like the hope he clung to that they could make this forced marriage work.

He couldn't remember the last time they had exchanged more than a few strained words. He found himself wandering the halls at night, restless and alone in the mansion that now felt far too big for just the two of them. Every time he passed her closed door, the weight of her absence crushed him a little more. He missed her fiery spirit—the woman who had once sparked something deep inside him, who could make him laugh and roll his eyes in equal measure. Now, all that was left was the hollow echo of their broken connection.

And yet, despite the walls she built, he wasn't ready to give up. He knew she was struggling with her own demons, battling the confines of a marriage she hadn't asked for. But he couldn't help but feel the sting of rejection. He wasn't used to being pushed aside. Not by her. He wasn't the type to chase, yet here he was, feeling like a fool as he tried, over and over, to reach her. Each step forward met with cold resistance.

"How long can this go on?" he wondered, staring into the flickering fire in the drawing room late one night. His mind raced with ideas—plans to break the icy silence between them, to find a way back to the Ginny he remembered from those fleeting moments of warmth. But nothing seemed right. Nothing seemed enough. It was a strange thing to feel so helpless, Blaise Zabini—smooth, unflappable, always in control—now completely unraveled by a woman who wouldn't even look him in the eye.

The worst part was, he wasn't sure if she would ever stop seeing him as the enemy, as a symbol of everything that had gone wrong in her life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco was lounging on one of Blaise's leather couches, nursing a drink, when the conversation took a more serious turn. His usual smirk was in place as he eyed his friend, clearly amused by the tension that hung in the air like a thick fog.

"Listen, mate," Draco began, leaning forward slightly, "I don't know what's going on with you and Red, but it's obvious she can't stand the sight of you. I know the feeling. Hermione looks at me like I'm something she scraped off her shoe."

Before Blaise could respond, the door creaked open, and Ginny swept into the room, looking disheveled and exhausted. Her skin was pale, her red hair limp, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Draco didn't miss a beat.

"Oh, Ginerva, you look like absolute shit. Ever heard of going outside? The sun's this bright thing in the sky that does wonders for your complexion."

Blaise's expression darkened instantly, his eyes flashing with a protective anger. "Do not talk to my wife like that," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "She's feeling unwell, you inconsiderate fuck."

Ginny, barely acknowledging Draco, turned to Blaise with a flicker of something—maybe gratitude, maybe surprise. "You heard him, ferret," she snapped, her voice icy. "Now fuck off."

Without waiting for a response, she walked away, her shoulders tense as she exited the room quickly, leaving the door swinging slightly in her wake.

Draco blinked, watching her go with mild interest, then rolled his eyes. "Well, that was unnecessarily dramatic." He drained his drink before turning back to Blaise. "Anyway, where were we? Ah, yes. Hermione looks at me like I'm one of the curses her parents are too polite to use. I swear, it's like living with a dementor."

Blaise sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples, frustration evident in every line of his body. "Your wife hates you because your aunt tortured her," Blaise muttered. "Let's not forget that little detail. Bellatrix really left her mark."

Draco winced, but shrugged in an almost indifferent manner. "Fair point. But that was years ago. We're all adults now, aren't we? Shouldn't we be past all that? I mean, I've apologized, tried to make amends. But it's like nothing's enough. She's always so damn cold."

Blaise raised an eyebrow, giving Draco a withering look. "It's not that simple, and you know it. Hermione's never going to forget what happened. You've got a long road ahead of you." He sighed heavily, staring at the glass in his hand before setting it down on the table with a clink. "As for me, I'm not exactly sure why Ginny hates me. I've been trying... I really have. I've been patient. I've given her space. But it's like... I'm invisible to her. She doesn't even talk to me."

Draco smirked, an edge of sarcasm coloring his voice. "Maybe you should've tortured her too. Seems like that's what it takes to get noticed these days."

Not even funny.

Blaise shot him a glare. "You're hilarious, Malfoy. Truly. But this isn't a joke. Ginny's not just avoiding me—she's shutting me out completely. No matter what I do, it's like I'm not even in the same room. And it's driving me mad."

Draco leaned back, crossing his arms with a contemplative look. "Well, maybe it's not about what you're doing. Maybe it's what you're not doing. Ever think of that? Women are complicated. They need gestures, words and communication. Honestly, mate, you should know that by now. You've got the looks, the charm, but maybe you're not giving her what she needs on a deeper level."

Blaise shook his head, staring into the distance. "I don't know how to get through to her. She's in so much pain, and I don't know how to fix it."

Draco's expression softened, just for a moment. "Maybe it's not your job to fix her. Maybe you're just supposed to be there. Give her time. Let her come to you when she's ready."

Blaise sighed again, leaning back in his chair. "Easier said than done."

"Trust me," Draco said with a bitter laugh. "I know."

Draco sat sprawled across the armchair in Blaise's sitting room, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, eyes gleaming with a wicked idea. "You know, I've been thinking… I'm planning to take Hermione on a honeymoon. Can I use your Italian estate?"

Blaise looked at him, eyebrows raised, but shrugged. "Sure, go ahead. Knock yourself out."

Draco leaned forward, the smirk deepening on his face. "You really should do the same, though. Take Ginny somewhere. She's bound to thaw eventually, right?"

Blaise snorted. "You think I'm just going to pack her up and whisk her away to Italy? The woman won't even speak to me, Draco."

Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. "I wasn't talking about Ginny, mate. And just so we're clear, you're not taking my wife anywhere. Not even on a day trip."

Blaise chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Merlin, Malfoy, how can you be so bloody possessive? It's revolting."

Draco's expression hardened, his voice dropping to a serious note. "I've been in love with Hermione for years. Do you honestly think I'm going to let you or anyone else come near her? Even speak to her? She's mine. End of story."

Blaise raised his hands in mock surrender, the tension in the air thickening. "Relax, I don't want Granger. But I've got to ask, is that how you're planning to win her over? Treating her like a bloody possession? Seems like a surefire way to get hexed."

Draco scoffed. "It's not about treating her like a possession. It's about making sure no one else gets a chance. I've spent too many years watching her from afar, seeing her with other men. This marriage—this forced marriage—was a blessing in disguise. I'm not going to screw it up."

He studied his friend for a moment, then sighed. "You're hopeless, you know that? But whatever, mate. Back to my problem: should I take Ginny on a honeymoon or not?"

Draco tilted his head, thinking for a moment. "I mean, the idea's not terrible… but she barely acknowledges your existence. You've got bigger problems. Maybe start with dinner. You know, something simple before you drag her off to a foreign country."

Blaise raised an eyebrow. "You think she'll agree to that?"

Draco chuckled darkly. "I don't know, mate. Throw her a bone. Girls like things that make them feel pampered. Look at Pansy, she's head over heels for Neville because he bought her a bloody dog. Maybe you should consider a similar strategy."

He rolled his eyes, not amused. "I'm not giving Ginny a dog just to get her to sit at a table with me."

Draco shrugged. "Hey, worked for Longbottom. But fine, go with dinner. Wine, candles, the whole romantic bit. Ginny's not exactly the type to melt over flowers, but you might win her over with food. At least, it's a safer bet than showing up with a poodle."

Blaise smirked, shaking his head. "I'm sticking to the dinner plan. The last thing I need is a dog running around, pissing on my Italian rugs."

Draco laughed, setting his glass down. "Smart choice, Zabini. Just don't mess it up. If Ginny doesn't start warming up to you soon, you'll be in deeper trouble than I am with Granger."

Blaise let out a long breath, running his hands through his hair. "Trust me, I know. I've got to figure out how to get through to her. Maybe dinner is a good start, but hell if I know what to do after that."

Draco stood up, clapping Blaise on the shoulder. "You'll figure it out. And if not… Well, there's always the dog."

As Draco walked toward the door, Blaise chuckled, shaking his head at the absurdity of the situation. "If you hear barking in my house, Malfoy, you're never setting foot in my Italian estate."

Draco waved him off with a smirk. "Yeah, yeah. Good luck, lover boy."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blaise stood outside Ginny's door, mentally rehearsing what he was going to say. The clock on the hallway wall ticked loudly in the silence. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit jacket, tapping his foot as the seconds turned into minutes. After exactly 28 minutes of waiting—yes, he was counting—her door finally creaked open.

She stood there, her hair tousled, face fresh but fierce. She raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest, clearly unimpressed with his persistence.

"What do you want, Zabini?" Her tone was sharp, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

He offered her a charming, disarming smile, something he'd perfected over the years. "Mia Cara," he began smoothly, "I'd love for you to go get ready. We have an engagement to attend."

She blinked, obviously not expecting that. "An engagement?" she repeated, suspicion lacing her voice. "To where?"

Blaise kept his expression enigmatic, hands sliding casually into his pockets. "It's a secret," he teased, his tone light but firm enough to indicate he wasn't leaving without her.

She narrowed her eyes, her brain working to try and figure out what he could possibly be up to. Ginny wasn't the kind of woman who liked surprises—at least not when they were sprung on her by a man she barely spoke to. She wasn't sure if he had ulterior motives or if this was just another one of his lavish gestures, designed to sweep her off her feet. Either way, she wasn't ready to make it easy for him.

"Look, I'm not in the mood for some extravagant dinner party with people I don't care about," she huffed, turning slightly as if she might shut the door on him right then and there.

Blaise's hand darted out, not forcefully, but just enough to keep the door from closing. His eyes softened, and the playfulness in his voice ebbed away. "It's not that," he said, more earnestly than before. "I just… thought it might be nice. For us."

She paused, biting her lip as she stared at him. He wasn't pleading, but there was a sincerity in his tone that caught her off guard. This wasn't about a public show or flaunting his wealth. This was about something else—something personal. Her hesitation lingered in the air between them.

"Come on, Ginny," he coaxed gently, his voice almost a whisper now. "Let me take you somewhere. No strings attached, I promise."

She studied him for a moment longer, and something in his gaze—something genuine—made her relent, though not without giving him a hard time first.

"You know, for someone who's supposedly all charm and elegance, you sure know how to drag a woman out of her room with no warning," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

Blaise smirked, letting the tension ease. "Is that a yes?" he asked, hope creeping into his voice.

She exhaled, annoyed with herself for agreeing so easily. "Fine," she said, but pointed a finger at him, eyes narrowed. "But if this turns out to be some ridiculous ploy to show off, I'm hexing you where you stand."

Blaise laughed softly, a real laugh this time, and nodded. "Deal."

She sighed, shaking her head as she retreated into her room to get ready. He had no idea how long it would take her, but he'd already waited 28 minutes. What was a little longer?

As he stood there, the anticipation gnawed at him. This wasn't just about an event or an engagement. It was his attempt to reach her, to break through the walls she had built around herself since their forced marriage. He wanted to show her something different—something genuine. He'd meticulously planned the evening, making sure it was something that would resonate with her, something that spoke to her soul rather than her social expectations.

Time dragged on, and he found himself pacing outside her door, nerves creeping in. What if she hated it? What if she hated him? The thought crossed his mind more often than he liked to admit. Blaise wasn't used to this—this uncertainty, this vulnerability. Women usually adored him, melted at his touch. But Ginny? She was different. She was fire and thorns, a whirlwind he had no idea how to navigate.

When the door finally opened again, his breath caught in his throat. Ginny stood there, dressed in something elegant yet simple, her red hair tumbling in soft waves down her back. She looked like herself, no frills, no unnecessary glamor—just her. And somehow, she was even more beautiful for it.

Blaise swallowed, finding his voice. "You look… breathtaking," he said softly, the usual suave tone gone, replaced by something much more earnest.

She gave him a half-smile, her eyes darting to the side, embarrassed by the compliment. "You better not make me regret this, Zabini," she muttered, but there was no bite in her words.

He offered her his arm, and with a quick glance at him, she took it, feeling an odd flutter of nerves in her stomach. As they left the house together, Ginny couldn't help but wonder where exactly he was taking her—and what the night had in store.

But for the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to feel the faintest glimmer of curiosity. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't going to be so terrible after all.

The dinner was set in one of the most luxurious private dining rooms Ginny had ever seen. A sweeping chandelier hung overhead, its delicate crystals sparkling in the soft, ambient light. The walls were lined with dark, polished wood, accented by intricate carvings and gilded edges that seemed to catch the light from every angle. The long dining table was dressed in pristine white linen, with deep red roses in silver vases serving as the centerpiece. It was intimate yet opulent, a space designed for both conversation and indulgence.

He led her to her seat, pulling out her chair in a gesture that felt more genuine than his usual flair for dramatics. She hesitated for just a moment before sitting down, her eyes sweeping over the room once more, trying to steady herself in this unfamiliar setting. She was used to grand events—the Ministry galas, Quidditch awards, even the Weasley family gatherings could be chaotic—but this was different. It felt personal, like it was tailored specifically for her.

Blaise sat across from her, his dark eyes watching her closely, though not in an overbearing way. More like he was trying to gauge her reaction to everything, hoping for some kind of sign that this was the right move. A waiter appeared almost instantly, placing a glass of deep red wine in front of her and another in front of him. The scent of the wine wafted up to her, rich and bold, a vintage that was no doubt older than she was.

She took a small sip, allowing the flavors to settle on her tongue before glancing up at Blaise. "You really went all out, didn't you?" she said, her voice soft but teasing.

He smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips. "I thought you deserved something nice," he replied, his tone sincere but casual, as though this sort of extravagance was no big deal.

She raised an eyebrow, setting the glass down. "And what exactly do you think I deserve?"

"For starters, a proper evening out," Blaise said, leaning back in his chair, his posture relaxed. "Somewhere that isn't filled with people we don't care about, and something that's just for us."

She tilted her head, studying him for a moment. There was something different about him tonight. He wasn't trying to impress her with his usual cocky bravado or overwhelming charm. This was simpler, quieter. Maybe it was because he knew she wasn't easily swayed by his usual tricks, or maybe he was actually trying to connect with her in some real way. Either way, she couldn't help but appreciate the effort.

The waiter returned with the first course, a delicate dish of seared scallops, artfully arranged on a bed of something green and fresh. She wasn't sure exactly what it was, but it looked delicious. She picked up her fork, glancing at Blaise again before taking a bite. The flavors exploded in her mouth, and she had to stop herself from letting out a pleased hum.

"So," he began after a moment, breaking the silence, "what do you think?"

"About the food?" she asked, stalling for time.

He chuckled. "About everything. The dinner. The night. This… arrangement we find ourselves in."

Ginny set her fork down, taking a deep breath as she tried to gather her thoughts. She wasn't used to being this candid, especially with Blaise, who she'd mostly avoided since their forced marriage. But now, sitting across from him in this beautiful, intimate setting, it felt like the right time to be honest.

"I don't know," she admitted, her voice quieter than she'd intended. "It's been… strange. I always thought, if I got married, it would be on my terms. It would be with someone I chose, someone I loved. Not like this."

He didn't interrupt her, letting her continue at her own pace.

"And you… you're not who I expected. I thought you'd be this arrogant, unbearable prat who would want to control everything. But you've been… different."

"Different how?" he asked, his tone gentle.

She met his eyes, surprised to find genuine curiosity there. "You're not trying to suffocate me. You've given me space, time. You're not treating this like some sort of business transaction, and I appreciate that."

Blaise took a sip of his wine, considering her words before he spoke again. "I know this wasn't what either of us wanted. But it's the hand we've been dealt, and I figured there's no point in making it worse by being a complete arse."

Ginny let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "You're surprisingly self-aware for a Slytherin."

"I prefer the term 'pragmatic,'" he said, a teasing glint in his eyes.

The tension between them seemed to ease a bit, the atmosphere becoming less formal, more relaxed. They continued to eat, the courses flowing seamlessly from one to the next: delicate soups, fresh salads, and rich entrees, each dish more impressive than the last. The conversation ebbed and flowed as well, touching on lighter topics—Quidditch, mutual friends, family—before dipping back into more personal territory.

By the time dessert arrived—a decadent chocolate soufflé with a dollop of whipped cream on the side—Ginny found herself genuinely enjoying the evening. She hadn't expected to feel comfortable, let alone… intrigued by Blaise. He was more than the smooth-talking playboy she'd thought him to be. There was depth there, a quiet intelligence that he didn't always show to the world.

As they shared the soufflé, Blaise leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. "Can I ask you something?"

She glanced up at him, her spoon halfway to her mouth. "Depends on the question."

He smirked. "What do you really want from this… marriage?"

The question caught her off guard. She set her spoon down, staring at him for a moment as she tried to figure out how to answer.

"I'm not sure," she admitted, her voice soft. "I thought I wanted… I don't know, something simple. A family, maybe. Stability. But now, I don't even know if I want that anymore."

Blaise nodded, as if he understood. "I've never really wanted the traditional life," he said, his tone thoughtful. "I always thought I'd be happy just… doing my own thing, not tied down to anyone. But now that I'm here, with you, I think maybe I was wrong."

Ginny blinked, surprised by his candor. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that maybe this could be something more than just an arrangement. Maybe we could actually make this work, if we both try."

She stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She wasn't sure if she was ready to admit it, but a part of her—however small—was beginning to wonder if he might be right. Could they make this work? Could this marriage, which had started out as a forced union, become something more? Something real?

"I don't know," she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "But… maybe."

Blaise smiled softly, reaching across the table to take her hand. "That's a start."

They sat there in silence for a while, their hands entwined, the warmth of the evening settling around them. For the first time since their marriage, she felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something she hadn't expected.

As the night wound down, he stood and offered her his hand. "Shall we?" he asked, his voice warm and inviting.

Ginny hesitated for a moment before taking his hand, allowing him to lead her out of the dining room and into the night. The world outside was quiet, the stars twinkling above them like tiny diamonds in the sky. And for the first time in a long while, Ginny felt a sense of peace. Maybe the road ahead wouldn't be so bad after all.

As they left the restaurant and stepped into the cool night air, Ginny felt his hand slip into hers, the gesture so unexpected that she almost pulled away out of reflex. It wasn't like him to be so openly tender, and it definitely wasn't like her to allow it without a quip or sarcastic comment. But tonight felt different. There was a strange kind of warmth in the silence between them, something unspoken that neither of them wanted to ruin with words.

The quiet of the night enveloped them as they walked, and for the first time in what felt like ages, she didn't feel the need to rush, didn't feel the usual weight of her emotions pressing down on her. There was an awkwardness, yes—a slight stiffness in the way they moved, both too aware of the other's touch—but there was also comfort in it. The feel of his hand, warm and steady around hers, was grounding in a way she hadn't expected. It was nice.

They walked slowly, almost deliberately, as though neither wanted to arrive too soon. The rhythmic sound of their footsteps against the pavement filled the air, and every now and then, his thumb would brush softly against the back of her hand, sending a small, electric shiver through her. She couldn't help but steal a glance at him, catching the way his jawline was illuminated in the moonlight, the sharp angles of his face softened in the evening glow. He looked relaxed—more relaxed than she had ever seen him. Maybe even content.

For a moment, she wondered if this was how things were supposed to feel between a husband and wife—this quiet, tentative closeness that wasn't perfect but wasn't terrible either. She had never imagined walking home hand in hand with Blaise Zabini, of all people, yet here they were, and it wasn't as awful as she thought it might be. In fact, it felt... right, in a strange, awkward kind of way.

When they finally reached their home, the imposing manor that still felt more like a stranger's house than her own, Ginny hesitated at the door. He let go of her hand then, but slowly, like he wasn't quite ready to break the contact. She could still feel the ghost of his touch lingering on her skin, and it unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

"Well," she said, breaking the silence that had stretched between them, "that was... not terrible."

He chuckled, his dark eyes gleaming in the low light. "I'll take that as a compliment."

She smirked, shaking her head. "Don't get used to it."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "You know, Ginny, it doesn't have to be this awkward between us. We could... try."

She met his gaze, searching for something in his expression—something that would give her a reason to believe him. And for once, she found it. There was sincerity there, a vulnerability she wasn't used to seeing from Blaise.

"I don't know," she whispered, though her heart had already started to soften.

"You don't have to know right now," he replied, his voice gentle. "But we can start somewhere. Even if it's just holding hands."

She blinked, surprised at how easily the idea settled in her chest. Holding hands—such a small thing, and yet it felt like the beginning of something bigger. Something that, for the first time, didn't feel so impossible.

"Alright," she said quietly, nodding. "Let's start there."

And with that, they stepped into the house, side by side. The awkwardness wasn't gone, but it wasn't so heavy anymore. Maybe, just maybe, this awkward, tentative thing between them could grow into something more. Something that didn't have to feel like a burden or a mistake, but something real.