LOVERS- Ginny & Blaise (HP)

TW: Ron's and Lavander's death.

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

Ron had brought Lavender.

Pansy spotted them as they strolled in, and instantly, her eyes narrowed in disbelief. Of all the days to show up looking like that. She wasn't exactly Lavender's biggest fan, but today? Today, she was practically offended. Lavender's outfit was a complete disaster, a crime against brunch fashion if Pansy had ever seen one.

"Honestly, what is she wearing?" She muttered to herself, leaning over to whisper to Neville, her voice dripping with disdain. "That outfit looks like it came straight from a 90's charity shop. And not in a chic, vintage way—more like the clearance bin."

Neville gave her a soft, noncommittal hum, but Pansy wasn't done. Oh no, she was just getting started.

"Who shows up to brunch in that shade of mustard yellow? Is she trying to look like an overcooked egg yolk or what?" Pansy continued, her eyes following Lavender as she flounced toward their table. "I mean, it's one thing to wear an ugly outfit, but it's a whole other thing to look like she lost a fight with a bargain bin. What, did she just close her eyes and grab the first thing she touched?"

Luna, sitting next to Ginny, couldn't help but smile as she watched Pansy roast Lavender. She found Pansy's commentary hilarious, and she was amused by Lavender's obliviousness.

"I think Lavender's outfit is quite unique," Luna said, her voice soft. "It's very expressive, don't you think?"

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "Unique? More like a fashion disaster," she replied.

Luna shook her head. "I think it's beautiful. It shows that Lavender is not afraid to be herself. She's not afraid to stand out from the crowd."

Ginny giggled. "You're too kind, Luna. I think Pansy has a point."

Luna shrugged. "Maybe so. But I think Lavender looks lovely. And that's what matters most."

Ginny, sitting across the table, caught Pansy's eye and smirked. She was clearly enjoying the commentary. "Go easy on her, Pans. Maybe she's going for a 'retro mess' vibe."

Pansy raised an eyebrow, shooting Ginny a sideways glance. "Please, if that's retro, then I'm a Muggle. And don't get me started on those shoes. Merlin's beard, are those...clogs?" She practically gasped. "Clogs, Red! In public!"

He choked on his drink, trying and failing to suppress his laughter. "Sassy," he said, half-amused, half-begging her to behave, "be nice."

But she wasn't done. Oh no. This was a battlefield, and Lavender was walking right into her line of fire.

"I swear, Ron must be blind," Pansy went on, now fully committed to the roast. "He's a Gryffindor, so that explains some of it, but this? This is just tragic. Someone needs to send her a howler. A fashion howler."

Lavender, blissfully unaware of Pansy's ongoing critique, smiled brightly as she approached the table, her mustard monstrosity of a dress swaying awkwardly with each step. Her eyes flicked to Ron, who looked utterly clueless, as if he hadn't noticed the atrocity standing next to him. Of course, he hadn't. Typical.

"Morning, everyone!" Lavender chirped, taking her seat beside Ron, who grinned sheepishly at the group.

Pansy returned her smile with one of her own—a thin, tight-lipped smile that spoke volumes. "Morning, Lav. Love the outfit," she said sweetly, batting her lashes. "So...bold."

Ginny had to bite down on her napkin to keep from laughing out loud. Draco, who had been quietly sipping his tea, smirked into his cup, knowing better than to get involved.

" Thanks, Pansy!" Lavender replied, beaming. "It's vintage!"

"Ah, yes," she said, her voice as smooth as silk. "I could tell. Very...timeless." She took a sip of her mimosa, pausing for dramatic effect. "I mean, it's practically prehistoric."

Neville elbowed her lightly under the table, but it was too late. Ginny had dissolved into barely concealed giggles, and even Ron was starting to look suspiciously at Lavender's dress, as if he was only now realizing her thinly veiled insults.

"Well," Lavender said, oblivious to the shade being thrown her way, "I just thought it would be fun to wear something a little different."

"Different? Absolutely," she agreed, nodding slowly. "No one else would dare."

Draco finally chimed in, his tone lazy but amused. "Bold choice, Lavender. It's not every day you see someone pull off... clogs."

Lavender blinked, glancing down at her shoes as if only now realising they were the subject of scrutiny. "Oh, these? They're super comfortable."

Her smile was razor-sharp. "I'm sure they are, darling. Comfort over style—always a choice."

Ron, clearly sensing the tension but unsure of how to fix it, awkwardly cleared his throat and reached for a scone. "So, uh... how's everyone been?"

"Oh, just fabulous," she said, her tone dripping with saccharine sweetness. "This brunch just gets more...interesting...every week."

As the conversation shifted, Pansy leaned back in her chair, sipping her drink with a satisfied smirk. Sure, it was just another Sunday brunch with friends, but with Lavender here, it was turning into something far more entertaining.

And really, she thought, glancing at Lavender's outfit one last time, wasn't that what Sundays were for?

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

If Draco Malfoy was an enigma, a puzzle wrapped in icy coolness and centuries of pureblood mystery, then Lavender Brown was a straight-up bitch—bold, loud, and an absolute conundrum. Trying to make sense of her was like attempting to solve an equation with missing variables, all while she prattled on about the latest trends or some meaningless gossip.

Sitting next to her at brunch felt like pure, unadulterated misery for Hermione. Every high-pitched giggle from Lavender made Hermione's skin crawl. She would honestly rather be Alan Turing, cracking impossible codes for the rest of her life, than endure another minute of this superficial torture. At least cracking codes had a point—sitting next to Lavender felt like slowly losing brain cells to a never-ending stream of inane chatter.

Trapped at the brunch table with Lavender Brown, Hermione could feel a familiar wave of irritation rising like a storm. Draco, for all his cold stares and cryptic remarks, at least had depth—a challenge worth unravelling. But Lavender? She was nothing more than a walking tabloid, spilling gossip and self-importance with every exaggerated flick of her hair. Hermione would have preferred deciphering ancient runes off a troll's backside—at least that would've been intellectually stimulating.

Her eyes drifted to her china cup, feigning interest in the delicate patterns as Lavender droned on. The truth was, she'd rather be interrogating a Death Eater, wands drawn and tension high, than sitting through this mind-numbing drivel. Anything would be better than listening to Lavender's endless stream of superficial nonsense.

Lavender Brown, a human incarnation of a spoiled perfume sample, poked at her lukewarm breakfast. Every saccharine word felt dripping with condescension, a poorly veiled jab at Hermione's perceived social climb. It was a game of one-upmanship, a battle of appearances, and Hermione was growing weary of the charade.

"Alright Granger," Lavender drawled, her perfectly manicured nails tapping a staccato rhythm on the tablecloth. "Fancy seeing you here. Still slumming it with Ministry wages, or have you Malfoy coughing up enough Galleons for caviar these days? I hear the new Auror uniforms are rather...plebeian." Her voice was laced with venom, her eyes scanning Hermione with a predatory gleam.

Hermione, ever the picture of politeness, offered a tightly controlled smile. "It has its adjustments, Lavender. Though renovations can be quite rewarding when you get to personalise the space." Her voice held a hint of sugar, sweet enough to curdle milk, but laced with a pointed barb about Lavender's lack of interior design knowledge.

Lavender's eyes sparkled with a hint of malice. "I bet. It must be so... thrilling to live in such a modern place. All that luxury and, of course, the Malfoy legacy."

The insinuation in Lavender's words was clear. Hermione clenched her jaw, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "Every place has its charm. It's the people who live there now that matter."

Lavender's eyes narrowed, her voice dripping with venom. "Oh, please, Granger. Don't pretend you're some sort of martyr. You married up, plain and simple. And don't think I haven't noticed the way you've been clinging to Malfoy like a barnacle. It's almost pathetic."

Pansy was seething, every nerve on edge as Lavender's grating voice continued to claw at her patience. The woman was insufferable, her presence alone enough to irritate Pansy to no end. Her hands itched to throw a snide comment or two, but before she could open her mouth, Neville's firm grip tightened around her waist, pulling her closer in a silent plea.

"Please, love," he murmured softly into her ear, his voice low and soothing. "Behave."

Pansy shot him a sideways glance, her eyes flashing with defiance. "No promises," she whispered back, her tone sharp as a blade.

She could feel the tension bubbling under her skin, desperate to erupt. Keeping quiet around Lavender was like trying to bottle a storm. But Neville's presence, solid and reassuring, kept her just on the edge of restraint. For now.

Hermione's patience was wearing thin. She could feel her face growing hot. "Lavender, I appreciate your concern for my happiness, but perhaps we should change the subject. This conversation seems to be going nowhere productive." Her voice was firm, but she tried to maintain a polite tone.

Draco's patience, too, was wearing thin. "Lavender," he interjected, his voice low and dangerous, "I believe this conversation has reached its conclusion."

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

"Friends," Hermione thought bitterly. If this was friendship, she'd rather be alone. 

"I would advise your husband to be more respectful and keep his eyes to himself during the meal," Draco said icily, his gaze locked with Ronald's . The atmosphere in the room shifted dramatically, the once hushed conversation turning into a tense silence. Hermione's hand tightened around Draco's, a silent plea for calm.

"Perhaps you should consider keeping your own eyes on your plate, rather than lingering over what doesn't belong to you. Because if I catch that intrusive gaze directed at my wife once more," he continued, a glint of steel flashing in his eyes, "well, let's just say this breakfast might end a bit more abruptly than you'd like." Draco's eyes narrowed. "Admire from afar, Weasley. Or better yet, don't admire at all."

Draco's hand, pale and elegant, closed around the silver knife. Its weight shifted in his palm, a familiar balance. His eyes, icy and predatory, locked onto Ron, a cold, calculating gleam in them. The clatter of cutlery and hushed conversations faded into a distant hum. The world narrowed to two men, a silent promise hanging heavy in the air.

The knife spun lazily in his fingers, catching the light in a deadly dance. Each rotation was a silent threat, a promise of violence should the need arise. Ron's face, once flushed with anger, turned a sickly shade of green. His eyes darted around, searching for an escape, a way out of this suffocating tension. But there was no escape. Only Draco, and the promise of pain that gleamed in his hand.

Ron cleared his throat nervously before responding, "Look, Malfoy, I wasn't—"

Draco cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Save it, Weasley. I know how you used to look at her, and old habits die hard.

"No need for explanations, Weasley," Draco drawled, his voice laced with a silky menace. "We all have a past, don't we? Some are more regrettable than others, of course." He tilted his head slightly, a predator toying with his prey. "Isn't that right? After all, a leopard can't change its spots, can it?"

Hermione placed a calming hand on Draco's arm. "Draco."

Draco's expression softened slightly as he turned to Hermione. "I'm just making sure our boundaries are clear."

Ron nodded, still a bit flustered. "Yeah, I get it. Sorry, 'Mione."

Draco narrowed his eyes, his voice low. "Do not talk to her directly, Ronald. She is mine. She is mine to look at, to talk to. She means nothing to you now and forever. I'm the only one who knows how the golden cunt tastes. Get over her, and get back to that whore of a woman, that you call a wife."

Hermione stood from the table and without a warning apparated them back to their home.

The tension in the room shattered in an instant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ginny dragged Ron away from the dining room, her face flushed with anger. The tension in the room was palpable, the silence heavy before she broke it.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Ronald?" she began, her voice shaking with barely contained fury. Her eyes, which usually sparkled with warmth, now glared at her brother with the intensity of a wildfire. "I cannot believe what I've just heard. The way you've been treating Lavender... it's beyond disgusting!"

Ron, who had been slouching in his chair, flinched at her words but remained silent, clearly caught off guard by the ferocity of her outburst.

"You have some nerve to call yourself a man," she continued, stepping closer to him, fists clenched at her sides. "A real man doesn't treat a woman like she's a piece of property you can just toss aside when you're bored! And don't you dare act like you don't know what I'm talking about, because I've seen it! We've all seen it!"

Her voice rose with each word, her rage bubbling up like molten lava. "Lavender deserves so much better than the way you've been treating her. You think you're so clever , sneaking off, flirting with other girls, not giving a damn about how that makes her feel? You're a coward, Ron! You're too much of a spineless git to face her like a decent human being and tell her the truth!"

Ron shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to the floor, but Ginny was relentless.

"Oh no, don't you look away from me! You're gonna listen to every word, because I'm not done!" She jabbed a finger at his chest, her voice cracking with the force of her emotion. "Lavender might be annoying sometimes, but she loves you, Ron. She's stood by you through so much, even when you didn't deserve it! And this is how you repay her? By humiliating her? By making her feel like she's worthless because you're too selfish to own up to your feelings?"

"You have no idea how hard it is for women like her, Ron," she seethed, her voice shaking with raw emotion. "We're always told that we should just be happy to have a man at all, that we should settle for whatever scraps you give us. But Lavender... she deserves someone who sees her, who actually cares about her, not some half-assed, pathetic excuse of a relationship that you're giving her!"

Her chest heaved as she glared down at him, her heart pounding with rage. "But what do you do? You act like a child, throwing tantrums when things don't go your way, running off to someone else like a spoiled brat! You're a joke, Ron. You don't deserve her! You don't deserve any woman if this is how you're going to act!"

His face was beet red, whether from shame or anger, Ginny didn't care. He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off before he could utter a word. "No, you don't get to speak! You don't get to defend yourself, because there is no excuse for what you've done. None!"

"You think you're better than everyone, don't you?" she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. "You think you can treat people like they're disposable, like they're nothing more than toys for your amusement. You've been acting like some self-righteous prat for years, and I am done pretending like it's okay. It's not okay, Ron. It's never been okay!"

Her hands trembled with barely restrained fury as she took a step back, glaring at Ron with pure contempt. "You're not the only one who's been through hard times, Ron. We've all been there. But that doesn't give you the right to treat people like trash. You need to grow up and clean up your mess before you lose everything—and everyone—around you."

Her eyes narrowed, her voice cutting like ice. "And what about Hermione? Are you still in love with her?"

His eyes flickered with something—guilt, anger, shame. "No, I'm not," he muttered, avoiding her gaze.

"Oh, but you are, " she shot back, her voice rising. "It's written all over your pathetic face! You need to get a grip, Ron. It's over! It's been over for years. " She took another step closer, her words like daggers. "Hermione is Draco's wife now. The Ministry matched them—99% match, Ronald. Do you know what that means? Soulmates."

She could see the fury building in Ron's eyes, but she wasn't finished. Not even close.

"You are not Draco, and you will never be him!" she spat, her words hitting like punches. "He's ten times the man you are, and you know it. He loves her, and he's protective as hell. He knows you're still pining for his wife, and trust me—he's not going to sit back and let you sulk around like some lovesick puppy. You think his going to tolerate you lingering like this? You've got another thing coming."

Ron's jaw clenched, his fists balled at his sides as he stared at her in seething silence.

"Look at yourself!" she continued, her voice dripping with disgust. "You're stuck in the past, pining over someone who's not yours and never will be. Meanwhile, you're ignoring the woman you're actually married to—the one the Ministry chose for you. And let me remind you, Ronald, your wife is not Hermione. Lavender deserves better than your sad, selfish behaviour."

She paused, letting her words sink in. "So stop acting like the world owes you something and start treating Lavender like she matters, because if you keep on like this, you'll lose everything. And frankly, you deserve to."

The room fell silent, her words hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Ron stared at her, speechless, the weight of her fury settling on him like a lead blanket.

Her voice dropped, but the intensity remained. "I don't care if you've had a rough time with everything that's happened. You don't get to use that as an excuse to hurt people who care about you. Either step up and fix things, or get out of the way and let someone else do it."

She turned on her heel, her heart still racing as she marched toward the door. But before she left, she paused, looking back at her brother one last time. "And don't think for a second that I'll sit by and watch you destroy someone else's life like this. Lavender deserves better. You should've been better."

With that, she slammed the door behind her, leaving Ron to sit in the wreckage of her words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"To our family."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The guilt festered, growing heavier with every passing year. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment, the conversation lulled. The fire crackled in the background, filling the room with soft, comforting sounds, but Hermione's thoughts turned darker. Dancing with the devil . She wondered if Ginny ever suspected just how close their husbands' shadows loomed. How much of their love was balanced on the edge of danger.

Sheleaned back on her hands, her eyes still sparkling but her voice quieter now. "So, what do you want to do while they're away? Got any plans?"

Hermione shrugged, trying to shake off the heaviness in her chest. "Nothing exciting. Catch up on some reading, maybe do a bit of work... but I'm open to suggestions."

A mischievous grin crept across herface. "How about we binge-watch some Muggle movies? I've got a list of classics I need to see, and now seems as good a time as any."

Hermione couldn't help but laugh, feeling lighter again. "That sounds perfect."

And so, they settled in, piling pillows on the floor, turning the lights down low, and allowing themselves to get lost in the escapism of films neither of them had ever gotten the chance to see during their Hogwarts days. They laughed, paused to chat about how ridiculous some of the dialogue was, and shared the last of the pastries. It felt like a return to simpler times, before their lives had been consumed by politics, war, and the suffocating responsibilities of their adult lives.

They were halfway through Dead Poets Society , when Ginny suddenly sat up, mid-sentence, her attention shifting to the flickering firelight. Hermione followed her gaze, her heartbeat quickening when she saw the shimmering form of a Patronus gliding into the room.

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

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

The room plunged into a chilling silence. The playful atmosphere evaporated, replaced by a suffocating wave of terror. Ginny's face drained of colour, her eyes wide with disbelief. Hermione felt a primal surge of fear course through her. 

Ron, her ex boyfriend, her best friend, his home engulfed in cursed flames?

Ginny lunged for her wand lying on the coffee table, her voice taut with urgency. "Fiendfyre? But that's… that's dark magic, unforgivable! Who would do such a thing?"

Hermione's mind was already racing. They needed to act quickly.

"We don't know," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "But we need to get to Ron as soon as possible. Grab everything – Floo powder, emergency potions, anything that might be helpful."

Their movements were a blur of frantic energy. Ginny, her face etched with worry, stuffed essentials into a well-worn pouch. Hermione, her heart hammering in her chest, checked her wand for any malfunction.

The weight of Draco's secrets, the anxieties gnawing at her, were pushed aside for the moment. All that mattered now was getting to Ron and helping in any way she could. As Ginny threw a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace, a silent plea echoed in Hermione's mind. Please let them be alright. Please let us get there in time.

With a shared look of grim determination, they stepped into the emerald flames, the house and the unknown dangers that awaited them swallowing them whole.

A sickeningly familiar sensation of twisting and turning filled Hermione as they Apparated. 

When her stomach settled, she opened her eyes to a scene of utter devastation. Ron and Lavender's house, a quaint cottage she'd visited on numerous occasions, was a raging inferno. 

Towering flames licked at the night sky, casting an eerie orange glow on their surroundings. The once cheerful paint peeled and blistered, the windows mere black voids spewing out thick, acrid smoke. The heat blasted them like a furnace, sending a wave of nausea washing over Hermione.

Ginny, beside her, stood frozen, her face a mask of pure horror. "No," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "This can't be happening."

The sound of panicked screams cut through the night. 

Hermione grabbed her arm. "We need to find them and get them out. Let's go."

With determination, they ran toward the house, the flickering flames casting eerie shadows on their faces. They could hear the distant shouts of Ron and Lavender, the panic and fear evident in their voices.

"Stay close to me," Hermione shouted over the roar of the fire, holding her wand tightly.

Ginny nodded, tears streaming down her face but a fierce resolve in her eyes. Together, they plunged into the chaos, ready to do whatever it took to save Ron and Lavender.

As they moved closer to the house, they saw Ron and Lavender struggling near the entrance, trying to get through the smoke and flames. Just then, Harry appeared with more aurors to the scene, his face determined as he used his skills as an Auror to combat the fire and create a path.

"Harry!" Hermione shouted, relief washing over her.

Harry turned, his eyes filled with urgency. "I need your help! We have to get them out now!"

They worked together, Hermione and Ginny casting water spells to hold back the flames while Harry created a shield around Ron and Lavender. For a moment, it seemed like they might succeed.

But then a terrifying crack echoed through the night as the roof of the house began to collapse. Flames surged, cutting off their path to the entrance. 

"NO" Ginny screamed, trying to run forward, but Hermione held her back.

"We can't get to them," Hermione said, her voice breaking. "It's too dangerous."

Harry looked back at them, anguish in his eyes. "I won't leave them," he shouted, casting another spell to push the flames back.

The scene unfolded in a horrifying slow-motion. Through the inferno, Hermione saw a flash of red hair and green eyes– Ron and Lavender, their faces a mix of terror and a desperate hope that flickered as quickly as it appeared. Ron's lips moved, forming a silent plea, his eyes locked on Ginny. Then, just as abruptly, the flames consumed them entirely.

"NO!" Harry's anguished roar echoed through the night, a primal scream that mirrored the hollowness that erupted in Hermione's own chest. He lunged forward, his body straining against the invisible barrier of his protective shield, but it was futile. The house, ravaged by the relentless fire, groaned once more before succumbing to its fate. With a deafening crash, the roof caved in, burying Ron and Lavender beneath a mountain of burning debris.

Ginny, her face contorted in a silent scream, crumpled to her knees. A high-pitched wail tore from her throat, a sound so raw and filled with despair that it ripped at the very fabric of Hermione's being. Tears streamed down Hermione's own face, blurring her vision as she enveloped Ginny in a desperate hug, the only comfort she could offer in the face of such unimaginable loss.

Harry stumbled back, his face etched with a grief so profound it threatened to consume him. His eyes, usually filled with a steely determination, were vacant, reflecting the ashes of their hope. The shield around them flickered and died, the battle lost before it even truly began. In the silence that followed the inferno's roar, the weight of their devastating loss settled upon them, a suffocating cloak that promised a future forever stained by this horrific night.

The flames danced a macabre victory dance, their orange glow illuminating a scene of utter devastation. The house, once a symbol of warmth and laughter, was now a smouldering skeleton, a stark reminder of the cruel hand of fate. 

The air, thick with the acrid stench of smoke and burnt wood, hung heavy in the stillness that followed the inferno's roar.

Time seemed to lose all meaning. Minutes stretched into hours, each tick of a nonexistent clock echoing the hollowness in their hearts. Harry, his face etched with a grief that mirrored the lines etched into the ancient battlefield before them, stood frozen, his gaze fixed on the smouldering ruins. 

Ginny, the fire of her life extinguished, remained huddled in Hermione's embrace, her sobs the only sound that dared to pierce the suffocating silence.

Hermione held her tighter, the unspoken words of comfort a paltry offering in the face of such immense loss. The image of Ron and Lavender, their faces filled with a desperate hope consumed by the inferno, replayed on a loop in her mind.

 A single tear escaped, tracing a glistening path down her cheek, a silent tribute to the friends, the lovers, stolen away in the blink of an eye.

As the first rays of dawn began to paint the horizon with streaks of pale pink and orange, casting an ethereal glow on the scene of destruction, a new kind of silence descended. The silence of acceptance, of a horrifying truth settling in their gut like a lead weight. Ron and Lavender were gone.

Gently, she helped Ginny to her feet, the young woman's body trembling with the aftershocks of her grief. Together, with Harry leading the way, they cautiously approached the ruins, their hearts heavy with the weight of their loss, but their bodies fueled by a desperate need to bring their friends home.

The weight of Ginny's grief pressed heavily against Hermione, a tangible force mirroring the hollowness in her own chest. "I know, Gin," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "I know."

Harry sank down beside them, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "There had to be something I could've done," he muttered, his voice raw with self-recrimination. "I should have…"

But the sentence died on his lips, replaced by a heavy sigh. There were no answers, no solace in "should haves." Only the cold, brutal reality that Ron and Lavender were gone.

As dawn painted the sky with streaks of rose and gold, a cruel reflection of the devastation below, a new understanding settled on Hermione.

Standing there, next to the ashes of what used to be Ron and Lavender's home, Hermione felt the weight of Draco's words more deeply than ever before. The devastation before her was a chilling testament to the lengths he would go to protect her, to avenge any perceived wrong against her. The flames that had consumed everything in their path were a stark reminder of the power he wielded, both as a man in love and as a formidable force.

As she looked around at the wreckage, a shiver ran down her spine. Draco had indeed painted the town red, not just with fire and destruction, but with the lives of those who stood in his way. The horror of the scene was a promise fulfilled—a grim reminder of the darkness that had always lurked within him, a darkness that she had both feared and been drawn to.

Tears streamed down her face as she struggled to reconcile the man she loved with the devastation he had caused. She knew Draco's actions were driven by love, but the cost had been too high. Ron and Lavender, innocent in all of this, were now gone, victims of a conflict they never asked to be part of.

In her heart, Hermione knew she had to stop Draco. She couldn't let more lives be lost in the name of love, no matter how fiercely he felt it. As she turned away from the destruction, determination set in. She had to find a way to end this madness, to save Draco from himself, before it was too late.