LOVERS- Bliney AU (HP)

Blaise arrived home late again, his body weary and blood still clinging to his clothes, hidden beneath his coat. It was always the same—a dark, twisted routine. He didn't flinch anymore at the sight of blood on his hands; it had become as much a part of him as breathing. But Ginny could never know. She could never see the darkness that shadowed his every step.

That's why, every time he returned from a mission, he brought her something. A token, a distraction, anything to keep the guilt at bay. Tonight, it was a necklace—a delicate silver chain with a moonstone pendant. In her eyes, it was just another gift, another spontaneous gesture from a husband trying to win her favor. In his eyes, it was payment. A way to cope with the faces that haunted him in the dead of night.

He walked into the house, feeling the familiar tension that built inside him after a mission. The silence was unnerving, but also his only refuge. She was likely upstairs by now, unaware of the bloodstains and the screams still ringing in his ears. He hung his coat in the entryway, careful to wipe his hands clean before entering the living room. He couldn't let her see even a trace of the man he truly was.

Taking a deep breath, he moved toward the stairs, his steps heavy but determined. In one hand, he clutched the small velvet box containing the necklace, in the other, the weight of his secrets pulling him down.

Not a Death Eater anymore—but something far worse. An assassin, a killer, a ghost who walked in the shadows. Blaise's hands were no longer marked by the Dark Mark, but by something far more damning: blood, invisible to all but him. His profession was chosen for him when Draco Malfoy, the heir to the Sacred Twenty-Eight, ascended to power and solidified his place as the head of that prestigious, ruthless circle. Blaise had been the natural choice to follow, second in command, trusted not for his loyalty but for his efficiency.

There was no turning back. The missions came with precision. Names on lists, targets marked for elimination, political rivals, traitors to the old ways, anyone who posed a threat to the power structure they had meticulously built in the shadows. Blaise executed each one with a chilling detachment, his every move calculated, swift, untraceable.

No wand, no magic most of the time. Just cold, brutal efficiency. The skills he had honed over the years were lethal—stealth, combat, poisons, and weapons that never left a trace. His victims never saw him coming, and by the time they did, it was already too late.

And yet, every time he came home, it felt as though the weight of his sins grew heavier. His house—no, their house—was supposed to be a sanctuary. But every step he took inside those walls felt like a betrayal. Ginny could never know the truth, could never even suspect. As far as she was concerned, he was still just Blaise Zabini, the charming, wealthy man she had been forced to marry. She didn't know that he carried the burden of every life he had snuffed out, and the lengths he went to keep that part of himself locked away.

Tonight was no different. Another name crossed off the list, another life extinguished. This one had been messier than usual—a high-profile figure, someone who could have turned their entire world upside down if he had been left alive. Blaise's hands still shook as he removed his gloves, the dried blood cracking along his knuckles. He didn't bother with magic to clean himself up. He wanted to feel the grime, the filth of what he had done, before stepping inside.

As he stepped inside, his eyes scanned the quiet halls. The ticking of a clock was the only sound that greeted him. He removed his coat and gloves, carefully hanging them up. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though he were trying to delay the inevitable. He couldn't face her tonight, not after what he had done. Not with the blood still fresh on his soul.

But he had to keep up appearances, keep the illusion intact. He pulled the small velvet box from his pocket—a gift, a distraction, something to remind her that he was still the man she thought he was. A necklace tonight, a delicate piece with a sapphire that matched her eyes. She would smile when she saw it, maybe even kiss him, and for a fleeting moment, Blaise could pretend that he wasn't a monster.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He had chosen this life. Or maybe it had chosen him. Either way, there was no escape.

With the gift in hand, he ascended the stairs, the silence thickening with every step.

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

Blaise had always been a man in control—of his surroundings, his emotions, and his deadly precision. But when it came to her, that control slipped through his fingers like sand. It was becoming unbearable. With each passing day, he grew more desperate for her, more consumed by the need for her touch, her presence, her acknowledgment. He had known desire before, but this—this was something else. It wasn't just lust. It was a gnawing hunger, a thirst that wouldn't be quenched no matter how many battles he fought, no matter how many lives he extinguished in the shadows.

He needed her.

His mind twisted over the way she avoided him, her silence louder than any words could ever be. She was in the house but somehow felt a million miles away. She didn't scream, didn't throw things or argue like she used to—no, that would've been better. Instead, she was indifferent, a ghost in their home. She barely looked at him, and when she did, it was as if he wasn't even there.

And it was killing him.

He caught himself staring at her door some nights, aching to knock, aching to do something to make her open up to him. But he didn't. Because every time he thought about approaching her, he remembered that he wasn't the man she thought he was. He was worse. He wasn't even sure if she would still want him if she knew what he had done, what he continued to do. But it didn't matter, did it? She didn't even want the version of him that she knew.

And that thought—that fear—twisted in his chest, suffocating him.

He found himself lingering outside her room for longer each night, waiting for any sign that she might call to him, might invite him in. It was pathetic, really, this once-proud man reduced to pacing like a lovesick fool. But at this point, pride meant nothing. It had all crumbled in the face of his desperation for her.

He knew he should walk away, that he should give her space. But the more she distanced herself, the more he wanted her. It was as if she was the only thing tethering him to the world, the only thing stopping him from drowning in the darkness that followed him like a second skin. He needed her to see him, to acknowledge that he wasn't just a monster, that he could be more—for her.

Gods, he wanted to beg.

Just to be near her. Just to have her look at him, see him, touch him. He imagined dropping to his knees in front of her, burying his face against her stomach, clinging to her like she was his lifeline. He would give anything, everything, for her to kiss him again like she had that night—the one kiss that haunted his every waking moment. It had been so brief, so fleeting, but it had shattered him in ways that nothing else ever had.

"Ginny," he whispered into the empty space of his room, her name a prayer he was too ashamed to say aloud. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, as if that would somehow ease the ache there.

He wanted to knock on her door. To go in, to confess, to lay himself bare before her and let her see everything—all the darkness, all the guilt, all the desperation. He wanted her to see the real Blaise Zabini, the one who was slowly losing himself, the one who would kneel at her feet and beg for just a glance, just a touch.

But he didn't. He stayed rooted in place, the weight of his own cowardice and desire keeping him frozen. Because no matter how much he wanted her, no matter how much he needed her, the truth was he didn't deserve her. And deep down, he knew that.

Still, the thought lingered in his mind as he stood outside her door, fists clenched at his sides: Would she hate him less if she knew just how much he needed her?

Would that change anything? Would she look at him differently if she saw the broken man hiding beneath the cold, unfeeling exterior? Or would she turn away completely, leaving him to drown in the guilt and the blood that stained his hands?

Blaise swallowed hard, chest tight, as he turned away from her door, forcing himself to walk back to his own room, his mind still haunted by the ghost of her kiss and the lingering hope that maybe, one day, she would see him for what he truly was—broken, desperate, and hopelessly in love with her.

Blaise sat at the dining room table, watching Ginny from across the room as she casually poured herself a glass of wine. The dim lighting of the evening made the room feel smaller, more intimate, but the emotional distance between them felt vast. His mind was still haunted by the ghost of her kiss—a kiss that had seared into his memory and left him yearning for more. It wasn't the kiss itself that had undone him; it was the hope it sparked. A fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, one day, she would see him for what he truly was—broken, desperate, and hopelessly in love with her.

He was utterly fucked.

How could he be in love with someone who could barely stand the sight of him? Someone who avoided him as though his very presence was a constant reminder of everything wrong with their situation? The truth was brutal, and yet he couldn't deny it: Ginny Weasley had burrowed her way into his soul, and now he was trapped in a prison of his own making.

He wasn't just in love with her. He needed her. Desperately.

But how could he get close to someone who wouldn't even look at him? He'd tried grand gestures, subtle offerings, and everything in between, but nothing worked. She'd remain distant, impenetrable. Every smile she directed his way, rare as they were, felt more like a tease than an invitation.

Tonight, though, things were different. She seemed... more at ease. They'd reached an unspoken agreement to have dinner together, though the meals were often quiet and strained. But there was something about the way she carried herself tonight, something softer, less guarded.

And so, Blaise made a bold move.

He walked over to the table, sliding into the seat right next to her instead of his usual spot across from her. It was a gamble, and his heart pounded in his chest. Would she pull away? Get up and leave the room? He braced for the sting of rejection.

But she didn't.

Ginny looked at him, surprise flickering in her eyes, but she didn't pull away. That, in itself, was a victory. He could feel the warmth of her presence beside him, the subtle scent of her hair drifting toward him. It was intoxicating. Every nerve in his body screamed to reach out, to touch her, to feel some connection, no matter how small. But he restrained himself. He couldn't push her. Not now. Not after all the walls she had built to keep him out.

Instead, he remained still, his hands folded in his lap as he fought the urge to do something—anything—that would make her acknowledge him.

"Is there something you want?" she asked, her voice soft but guarded.

The question took him by surprise, and he turned his head slightly to meet her gaze. Her eyes weren't cold, but they weren't exactly welcoming either. Still, it was something. It was a step forward.

"I just wanted to be near you," Blaise admitted quietly. His voice felt raw, like it had been scraped from the bottom of his soul.

Ginny blinked, her expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not unbearable. Then, she sighed, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. She didn't respond to his words, but she didn't move away either.

That was enough for him, for now.

He kept his presence calm, his proximity subtle. He didn't push. He didn't demand. Instead, he let her take control of the situation, let her dictate how much she was willing to give him. It was agonizingly slow, but Blaise was patient. He would wait as long as it took.

A few minutes passed before she spoke again, this time without the usual edge to her voice.

"I don't know what you want from me," she said, staring down at her plate. "But I'm not ready for... whatever this is. Not yet."

Blaise swallowed hard. He'd expected that, but hearing it out loud still stung.

"I understand," he murmured. "I'm not asking for anything, Ginny. I just... I just want you to know I'm here. Whenever you're ready."

She nodded, but the tension in her shoulders remained. She wasn't convinced yet, not fully. But she hadn't left. She hadn't shut him out completely.

They ate the rest of the meal in relative silence, the clinking of silverware the only sound in the room. Blaise could feel the weight of every unspoken word between them, the distance that still remained. But at least they were sharing the same space. That had to count for something.

After dinner, Ginny stood and walked toward the door, pausing for a brief moment before glancing over her shoulder.

"You don't have to try so hard, you know," she said, her voice quieter than usual. "Just... give me time."

Blaise nodded, feeling something crack open inside him, something fragile and hopeful. He watched her disappear down the hallway, her presence lingering long after she was gone.

He was still haunted by the ghost of her kiss, but now, there was a new ghost in his mind—her words, soft and hesitant but filled with possibility.

Time. She was asking for time.

And for the first time in a long while, Blaise felt like he had something real to hold on to.

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

Ginny's emotional struggle was becoming harder to ignore. She couldn't deny the strange flutter in her chest every time she saw Blaise. She had hated the situation from the beginning, but now something had shifted, and it was messing with her head.

She found herself drawn to him—his quiet intensity, the way he moved, how his eyes seemed to pierce through her defenses without him even trying. It was maddening, really. She didn't want to feel this way, especially not for someone like him.

But every time he left her gifts, every time he spoke softly or did something thoughtful, she felt herself thawing just a little bit more. It wasn't the lavishness of the gifts that moved her, but the fact that he seemed to understand her in ways she wasn't prepared for.

He wasn't the monster she had wanted him to be. Instead, he was making it harder for her to keep up her walls, and that terrified her. She hated the way her body betrayed her, how her pulse quickened when he came close, or how she'd catch herself thinking about him when he wasn't around. There were nights where her mind would wander, picturing what it would be like to let go, to stop fighting against him and, maybe, give in to the connection that was undeniably growing between them.

But the worst part? She liked him. And not just in passing moments of weakness. She liked Blaise. His clever remarks, his undeniable charm, and the way he seemed to watch her like she was the most important thing in the world.

This realization made her feel conflicted, almost guilty. She still wanted to hate him for the way this marriage had been forced upon her, for how he represented everything she'd once resented. Yet here she was, finding excuses to be near him, to tease him, to pretend she wasn't developing a deep, unsettling affection.

She hated that she was losing control over the situation—and over her heart.

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

Ginny hesitated for a moment as she stood in the doorway of his bedroom, her hand resting on the frame. The room was dimly lit, casting soft shadows that made everything feel more intimate. He was already getting ready for bed, his shirt off, the warmth of his skin catching the faint light as he moved with a graceful ease she couldn't ignore.

He turned toward her, his dark eyes softening with surprise and something else—hope, maybe. "The gods must have answered my prayers," he said, his voice low and teasing, but there was an undeniable sincerity beneath it. "You've come to our room?"

Ginny looked down, suddenly feeling vulnerable, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. "I'm lonely," she admitted softly, the words barely more than a whisper.

Blaise's face softened even more, and he crossed the room to her, not hesitating for a second. "Baby girl," he murmured, his hand gently brushing her arm, "you can always talk to me. I'm here for you, anytime. You just call my name, and I'll appear. No matter where I am or what I'm doing." His thumb lightly traced her skin, grounding her in a way that felt oddly comforting.

She swallowed, her defenses melting a little more under his gentle touch. "Thank you," she said, her voice quiet but sincere. It was strange to feel this close to him, to be so open about her feelings, but at that moment, it felt right.

Blaise stepped closer, his presence warm and inviting. "Please," he said softly, his tone almost pleading, "stay with me tonight. I've missed you."

She hesitated for only a second, her heart pounding in her chest. The idea of staying with him, of not retreating to the cold isolation of her own room, felt like the next step, a small leap toward something more.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Without another word, he led her to the bed, pulling back the sheets. He was careful, as if he were handling something delicate, something precious. She slipped under the covers, and he followed, lying next to her but not crowding her space, giving her room to breathe.

But the warmth of his body, the safety of his presence, was undeniable. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she shifted closer to him, her head resting against his chest. She could hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat, a calming rhythm that eased her nerves.

His arm wrapped gently around her, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on her back. "I'm glad you're here," he whispered into her hair, his breath warm and comforting.

She closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the moment, into the quiet comfort of being held. She hadn't expected to feel this way—to feel safe, wanted, maybe even loved. But here, in his arms, the weight of her loneliness seemed to lift, just a little.

And for the first time in a long while, she didn't feel so alone.

Blaise pulled her closer, his arm tightening around her as if afraid she might slip away. The warmth of his body next to hers was soothing, but it was the way he held her, like she was something precious, that made her heart flutter in a way she hadn't expected.

"Good night, trezoro," he whispered, his voice soft and affectionate, the nickname rolling off his tongue like it belonged to her.

She smiled, her cheek resting against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. "Good night... cutie," she muttered, her voice laced with a hint of playfulness, surprising even herself.

Blaise let out a low chuckle. "Haha, this is the first time you've given me a nickname."

Ginny smirked, not opening her eyes. "Moment of weakness," she teased, but there was a lightness in her tone that hadn't been there before.

His hand moved in slow, lazy circles on her back, and though his touch was gentle, the sincerity in his voice when he spoke next was unmistakable. "Thank you, Mia cara. That means more to me than you know."

She was silent for a moment, feeling the gravity of his words sink in. She hadn't expected this—this softness between them, this connection she was starting to crave. It felt dangerous, but in the quiet of the night, with his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, it also felt inevitable.

"Can I have a good night kiss?" he asked, his tone playful but edged with a hint of genuine hope.

Ginny snorted softly, unable to help the smile that tugged at her lips. "In your dreams, Zabini."

His grin widened, even though she couldn't see it. "In my dreams, you give me more than just a kiss, baby," he quipped, the teasing lilt in his voice making her laugh despite herself.

She nudged him with her elbow. "oh, shut up. You are a good kisser, though," she admitted, almost reluctantly, like the words were being pulled from her against her will.

He tilted his head slightly, clearly pleased. "You're the best kiss I've ever had in my life."

Ginny glanced up at him then, her eyes meeting his. There was something sincere, something raw in the way he looked at her, and it made her breath hitch in her throat. She wasn't sure when it had happened—when he had started to matter to her, but at that moment, it was undeniable.

"Blaise..." she began softly, feeling her heart race in a way that made her feel both vulnerable and exhilarated. "I like you."

He froze for just a second, clearly taken aback by her confession, but then his face softened into the gentlest smile she had ever seen him wear. "I like you too, Ginny," he whispered, his voice filled with a quiet intensity that made her chest tighten.

He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers, their noses almost touching. "And good little angels like you," he murmured, his lips brushing against her hair, "get whatever they want."

Ginny felt her face flush, but she couldn't suppress the small smile that crept onto her lips. The walls she had built around her heart were slowly crumbling, piece by piece, and though it terrified her, being in Blaise's arms felt like the safest place in the world.

She closed her eyes, sinking deeper into his embrace, and whispered softly, "Then all I want right now... is to stay here with you."

Blaise's breath hitched, his heart pounding beneath her cheek, and in that moment, he knew. This—right here, with Ginny in his arms, letting down her guard, even just a little—was everything. He didn't need the grand gestures or the perfect words. He just needed her, as she was, with her fire and her sharp edges, her vulnerability and strength.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt like maybe—just maybe—she was starting to need him too.