LOVERS- Ginny & Blaise (HP)

Ginny continued to pound Jelena's head with a ferocity that bordered on madness, her vision blurred by a mixture of blood and tears. She didn't stop, couldn't stop. Every strike released some of the horror, the fear that had been building inside her since Hermione's disappearance, but it was a release that only left her feeling emptier.

"Baby, enough," he murmured, pulling her back gently but firmly, his hands steady on her shoulders. He had to ease her grip on the weapon she still held, her fingers bloodied and trembling, unable to let go.

She staggered back, leaning into him as she stood there, her chest heaving, drenched in blood. The sticky warmth of it clung to her, but the reality of what had just happened still felt surreal. She stared at her own hands, stained red, her mind barely able to process the sight. It was as if her body and mind had become disconnected, suspended in the haze of violence and adrenaline.

Without a word, he guided her to the edge of the room, leading her to the corner of the dimly lit den, trying to keep her away from the grim scene before her. She slumped down, her back pressing against the wall, her breaths shallow and ragged. Blaise knelt beside her, one hand resting reassuringly on her shoulder.

Meanwhile, Theo and Blaise exchanged a grim, wordless look. They moved with practiced efficiency, their faces stony as they began to clean up the evidence. In a twisted way, they were accustomed to handling such matters, erasing traces of blood, gathering shattered fragments of glass and bone, and dealing with bodies.

In a matter of minutes, they had wiped away the signs of violence, any trace of Jelena's body disappearing into a dark, heavy bag. The room looked as untouched as it had when they'd first arrived. Only the faint scent of blood lingered, a bitter reminder of what had transpired.

Theo's eyes flicked to his watch, his jaw tightening. "I need to get back to my son," he said, his voice rough, the adrenaline waning to reveal the worry in his gaze.

He nodded, understanding the unspoken urgency. "I'll see you at the safe house," he replied.

With a final glance at her, who still sat in a stunned silence, Theo disappeared with a loud crack, leaving him alone with her. His expression softened as he moved closer to her, crouching down to meet her at eye level.

"Tesorino," he murmured, his voice a gentle balm against the chaos still ringing in her ears. "It's over." He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face, his fingers warm and steady against her chilled skin. "I'm going to lift you up now. We're going to the safe house together. Just lean on me."

She looked at him, her face streaked with blood and tears, her eyes still wide with shock. She nodded slowly, almost numbly. Blaise wrapped his arms around her, lifting her as though she weighed nothing. She felt herself sink against him, resting her head on his shoulder as he held her close. The scent of his familiar aftershave, with its notes of cedar and something darkly comforting, began to anchor her, pulling her back from the edge of panic.

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

Luna had done the impossible; she'd saved Hermione, her best friend, pulling her back from the edge of the abyss. And in the wake of that miracle, Ginny, who hadn't ever been the praying type, found herself lighting candles and whispering to powers she'd never even believed in. She didn't know who God was, didn't even understand the idea of divine mercy or intervention. But she prayed anyway—to every deity, every legend, every force in the universe she could think of.

Days bled into nights, each hour blending with the next in a relentless cycle of waiting and worrying. She stayed by Hermione's bedside whenever she could, a silent sentry in the stillness, watching every rise and fall of Hermione's chest with an intensity that made her feel both fragile and fierce.

"Please," she whispered one night, her voice raw as if scraped with broken glass. "To anyone listening... I'll do anything if you just let her stay with us. If you just let her be okay."

She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against Hermione's hand, hoping that somehow, through sheer force of will, her friend would feel her and know she wasn't alone. That they were all here, waiting for her to return to them.

Days turned into weeks. She found herself going through rituals she never would have imagined: folding her hands, bowing her head, whispering incantations, and prayers. She spoke to God, to Merlin, to anyone whose name she could remember from her school days. She muttered phrases from Muggle religions, anything she'd read in a book or overheard from others. She made bargains in her mind, promises she would keep if only Hermione would wake up. There were tears and sleepless nights, whispers and clenched fists, every emotion cycling through her in waves. But still, she waited.

Draco would sit at Hermione's side in the quiet hours when the rest of the world seemed asleep, his fingers brushing across her hand as if the softest touch might anchor her to him. Sometimes he'd mutter quietly to her, words so gentle they barely broke the silence, telling her stories of the life he dreamed they'd have once she opened her eyes.

Theo and Luna rotated Hermione's care, bringing supplies and endless reassurance. They'd sit with Ginny, who could barely eat or sleep, and coax her into taking care of herself. Luna, with her serene presence, seemed to bring a calm that Ginny clung to in those dark days. Theo would sit on the edge of the room, watching over them all, his gaze occasionally drifting to Hermione with an unspoken determination. They were in this together, no matter how long it took.

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

When Hermione woke again, the sterile silence of the room was broken by a soft voice, floating through the dim light like a balm against her aching mind. It was a familiar voice, gentle yet strong, its tone laced with that comforting mix of warmth and conviction that only she possessed.

"... wonder is the beginning of philosophy," she murmured, her voice hushed, almost reverent. "That's what Socrates believed. And here you are, battered but unbroken, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit." Her words wrapped around her like a blanket, a strange yet soothing contrast to the antiseptic chill of the room.

Hermione managed a weak smile, a spark of humor creeping into her weary eyes. "I never saw you read anything besides textbooks," she croaked, the effort of speaking tugging at her fragile strength, but the tease lighting up her face.

She looked down, a soft chuckle escaping her lips, through her eyes glistened with barely-held tears. "Ferret told me you'd been reading this one before... everything. Thought you'd want to catch up." She reached for Hermione's hand, cradling it gently, as if Hermione were as delicate as spun glass.

But her expression suddenly faltered, a flicker of something dark and raw breaking through the haze of drowsiness. "I saw you, Gin," she whispered, voice trembling, and the weight of her words settled heavily between them. "I saw you... stab Jelena. Over and over..." Her voice caught, tears slipping down her cheeks as the memory tore through her.

Her eyes grew fierce, unwavering as she met Hermione's haunted gaze. At that moment, Hermione understood: she would have done it all over again without hesitation if it meant saving her.

She tried to sit up, the effort sending sparks of pain radiating through her body. "Can we go for a walk?" she managed, her voice barely a whisper. She needed to feel something real, to know that she was truly here, alive.

Her face crumpled, a hint of something darker tugging at her smile. "Love," she began softly, her thumb brushing over Hermione's knuckles. She took a deep, shuddering breath, as if summoning the strength to deliver the words. "During the attack... your left side... it was paralyzed." Her voice cracked, her control slipping as her chin quivered. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, a silent prayer escaping her lips. 

"It's okay," she whispered finally, squeezing Hermione's hand as if willing strength into her. "We'll get through this, I promise." But there was a tremor there, and Hermione could feel the unspoken fear lurking beneath the words.

Swallowing against the rising panic, Hermione's fingers drifted upwards, brushing her scalp. A strange, cold smoothness met her fingertips, a jarring absence where her wild curls once tumbled down. Her stomach twisted, nausea rising as she fought to understand. "What happened to my hair?" she choked, her voice strained and brittle.

Ginny closed her eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Brain surgery," she whispered finally, as if even the words themselves were a betrayal. "They had to operate, love. That's why... your hair..." Her hand trembled as she stroked Hermione's fingers, grounding her as the reality sank in.

The shock of it hit her like a tidal wave, the enormity of what had happened unraveling slowly, painfully. "How long?" Hermione's voice was barely more than a rasp, desperation bleeding through every syllable.

She hesitated, her own tears brimming. "It's... it's been weeks, Hermione." She drew in a steadying breath. "It's April 16th now."

April. The word hung in the air like an accusation, as if the universe had taken more from her than she could comprehend. Weeks vanished, entire days stolen like pages ripped from her life. A void stretched before her, an emptiness that filled her with a silent scream, echoing within the depths of her heart.

Hermione's hand trembled as she gripped Ginny's, tears slipping down her cheeks unchecked. She was lost in a sea of confusion and loss, the familiar landmarks of her life obscured by a thick, impenetrable fog.

"Ginny..." she croaked, her voice a cracked whisper. She clung to her friend, as if she were her anchor in the middle of a storm.

Her face twisted, her eyes flashing with anger and helplessness. "Draco..." she spat, the name a raw sound, filled with venom and the memory of unspeakable acts. "Draco sliced that... that bitch up. There was so much blood. Blaise and Theo... they had to clean it up. Even the ceiling was covered." Her voice shook, a grimace tightening her features, as if the memory itself was too horrific to bear.

A shudder wracked Hermione's frail body, the image of Draco drenched in blood searing through her mind, twisting her stomach with nausea. The man she loved, so noble and steadfast, transformed into something fierce and dangerous for her sake. It was both terrifying and heartbreaking.

"And Luna..." she continued, her tone softening, a hint of reverence slipping through. "Luna's the one who healed you, love. She wouldn't let anyone else touch you. We couldn't take you to a hospital, not with everything... with Jelena's people watching. So we brought you to the safe house. We've been here, all of us, since then."

The revelation washed over Hermione, her chest tightening with emotion. This place, this hidden sanctuary, had been their fortress, a place of healing and defense. And each one of them, her friends, had been her protectors, sacrificing safety and stability just to keep her alive.

As her words settled, Hermione felt a profound exhaustion wash over her, her mind a storm of memories and fractured thoughts, half-formed and elusive. She had lost so much, but she was not alone. Her presence was a lifeline, a quiet assurance that whatever darkness lay ahead, they would face it together.

Her hand squeezed hers, the promise of her friendship an unspoken vow. "Rest now, love," she whispered, her voice gentle, filled with the fierce love of a sister. "We'll tell you everything soon. There's no need to rush it. Just... just know we're here. All of us."

Hermione's eyes drifted closed, her fingers curling weakly around her hand. She felt her friend's lips press a soft kiss against her forehead, a farewell as she drifted back into the dark warmth of sleep.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the darkness surrounding them no longer felt suffocating. It wasn't an endless void, cold and merciless—it was softer now, almost like an embrace. A cocoon of quiet strength, filled with the steady rhythm of loyalty, the warmth of love, and an unspoken, unbreakable promise that bound them together in their shared pain and resilience.

Hermione trembled, her hands gripping Ginny's tightly as though afraid to let go. Tears cascaded down her cheeks, raw and unrestrained, each drop carrying the weight of her anguish. When she finally spoke, her voice was fractured, a mix of grief and disbelief.

"I saw you, Ginny," Hermione whispered, her breath hitching as emotion threatened to consume her. "I saw you… I saw you stab Jelena. Over and over, thousands of times."

Her words hung in the air like a heavy mist, suffused with guilt, shock, and something deeper—a desperation to make sense of it all.

Ginny's face was calm, almost eerily so, but her eyes burned with a fierce protectiveness that could level armies. "And I'd do it again," she said firmly, her voice steady, unwavering. She reached out, gently brushing a strand of Hermione's hair back from her tear-streaked face, her movements deliberate and tender. "Bug, don't you ever forget—don't you ever forget, my love—that you were the one who saved yourself."

Hermione shook her head, her tears intensifying, but Ginny didn't falter. She cupped Hermione's face in her hands. "You fought for yourself," Ginny continued, her tone fierce yet soft, like the edge of a blade wrapped in silk. "You survived because of the fire inside you. All I did was hold the line when you couldn't anymore. But now…" Ginny paused, her own voice cracking as she leaned closer, her forehead pressing against Hermione's. "Now let me help you save your soul."

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

Hermione's parents were always there, orbiting around her like devoted satellites, their every movement filled with a tenderness so profound it nearly stole the air from Ginny's lungs. They hovered protectively, as though shielding their daughter from the cruelty of the world by sheer force of love. They moved around her with the same care and precision they must have used when she was just an infant—adjusting her blankets, brushing strands of unruly hair from her pale face, whispering words of encouragement and comfort into the quiet, sterile air of the room.

She would watch them from the doorway or the corner of the room, their devotion almost too intimate, too raw to witness. Each soft word, each touch, was a plea for Hermione to return to them. It wasn't just grief—it was a desperate, unrelenting hope that refused to be extinguished, even in the face of everything. And that hope, as beautiful as it was, shattered something inside her every time she saw it.

It felt unfair. Unnatural. Ginny couldn't stop the thoughts that spiraled through her mind, clawing at her with guilt and fury. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Life wasn't supposed to reverse itself so cruelly. Children were supposed to grow up, take on the mantle of caretakers, and cradle their aging parents in their final years—not the other way around. And yet, here were Hermione's parents, their once-strong daughter now so fragile, their roles reversed by the brutal hand of fate. It felt as though the universe had gone off its axis, leaving everything broken and wrong.

The first time she had walked in and seen them, seen David meticulously wiping Hermione's brow while Jane smoothed the folds of her blanket, she'd frozen. Her chest had clenched so tightly it felt as though her heart might shatter, the pain so acute it left her trembling. The sight was too much—a cruel juxtaposition of love and suffering that cut her to the core. She had slipped out of the room, unable to bear it, tears blurring her vision as she tried to catch her breath in the corridor.

The image stayed with her, though, haunting her in quiet moments. The unwavering love of Hermione's parents became a symbol of something bigger—a love so deep it transcended dignity and time, a love that remained unshaken even in the face of unimaginable pain. And yet, watching them day after day, she felt helpless, as though her own grief wasn't enough to lessen theirs, as though her presence was a drop in the ocean of everything Hermione's parents had to carry.

It was then that she decided she needed to do more. She couldn't just watch. She couldn't let herself be swallowed by the same helplessness that threatened to overwhelm her every time she saw Hermione lying there. Ginny resolved to take on every burden she could, not because she thought it would fix things, but because she had to do something.

She became a force of nature, quietly assuming the role of caretaker for everyone. Every morning, she woke before the sun rose, making sure the house was spotless and the meals were ready before anyone else stirred. It was exhausting, but exhaustion was welcome—it dulled the ache in her chest and gave her something tangible to focus on.

She cooked every meal as though it were a sacred ritual, each dish prepared with meticulous care. She cleaned every corner of the house, making sure no dust settled, no clutter remained, as though creating order in her surroundings might help bring order to her own tumultuous heart.

When Lysander came into their lives, she found herself stepping into the role of caretaker with an ease that surprised even her. It wasn't something she had planned or thought about—it just happened. The moment Luna placed the tiny boy in her arms, a quiet resolve settled within her. Holding him close, she rocked him gently, the weight of his small body grounding her in a way she hadn't felt in weeks. When Luna was too exhausted or caught up in the whirlwind of their collective grief and responsibilities, she stepped in without hesitation. It wasn't out of obligation; it was instinct, a deep, innate desire to protect this fragile new life in a world that felt so broken.

She sang to him in soft, trembling tones, her lullabies weaving through the quiet of the house like a fragile thread holding everything together. Sometimes, her voice would falter, and she'd pause to collect herself, pressing her lips to Lysander's tiny forehead as if his innocence could somehow transfer strength back to her. Other times, the simple act of cradling him in her arms soothed something raw and jagged inside her, his warmth a balm to the cold, hollow ache she carried.

Changing his diapers, feeding him, and marveling at the curve of his cheeks or the soft flutter of his lashes as he slept became her sanctuary. In those moments, it was as if the world outside their home didn't exist, as though the pain and chaos couldn't touch her while she was with him. Lysander was a reminder of something she had almost forgotten—purity, hope, and the beauty of life untouched by grief. His tiny fingers curling around hers, his quiet coos and giggles, were like light breaking through the dense fog of her sorrow. He didn't know about the pain that surrounded them, didn't carry the weight of the secrets and regrets that burdened everyone else. To him, the world was still soft, still kind.

But Lysander's innocence wasn't just a comfort; it was a responsibility, and she clung to it fiercely. Every moment she spent with him was a chance to channel her own emotions into something positive, something that gave instead of took. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she could love and care without being suffocated by the weight of her grief. Yet, even as she poured herself into caring for Lysander, the cracks in her own armor deepened.

When Lysander napped, she threw herself into an endless stream of tasks. She scrubbed floors, sorted laundry, prepared meals, and tidied rooms, working with a quiet, unyielding determination that left her breathless but kept her moving. Every chore was a distraction, every completed task a small victory over the encroaching stillness she feared. Because stillness meant she'd have to confront the aching sorrow she felt for Hermione—the deep, unrelenting pain of seeing her best friend trapped in a state so far removed from the vibrant, fierce woman she knew.

She couldn't afford stillness. Stillness would mean acknowledging the moments she couldn't erase from her mind: Hermione's parents hovering like quiet sentinels, their faces etched with grief; the lifelessness in Hermione's usually expressive eyes; the gnawing fear that things might never return to the way they were. And so, Ginny filled every waking minute with activity, ensuring there wasn't a single second left for the sadness to consume her.

But even as she worked herself to the bone, she knew she was walking a thin line. Her exhaustion was like a storm brewing on the horizon—distant but inevitable. Every night, when the house finally fell silent and her responsibilities were momentarily at rest, the weight of it all threatened to crush her. She would sit on the edge of her bed, staring into the darkness, her hands trembling as she struggled to hold herself together. There were moments when the urge to break down was almost overwhelming, but she couldn't let herself. 

So, Ginny kept going. For the little boy who didn't know loss, for the friends and family who leaned on her without realizing, and for Hermione, whose presence, even in its absence, was the tether that kept her from completely unraveling. Every time she looked at him, every time his tiny hand clutched hers or his laughter echoed through the house, she reminded herself why she couldn't give up. He needed her, and that need gave her purpose. In a world that felt like it was falling apart, Lysander became her anchor—the fragile, beautiful reminder that life could still be nurtured, even in the midst of despair.

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

The Malfoys' penthouse had become more than just a destination for her; it was a sanctuary of sorts, a quiet reprieve where she could pour her love and care into something tangible. Crookshanks had been left behind in the chaos, and she had taken it upon herself to ensure he was looked after. It wasn't just a duty; it felt like a lifeline, a way to stay tethered to Hermione even in her absence. Every few days, she would Apparate to the elegant penthouse, often laden with groceries, cat treats, and fresh flowers to brighten the space.

Crookshanks greeted her with a mix of curiosity and wariness, his intelligent amber eyes flicking toward the door each time she entered, as if hoping it would be Hermione stepping through instead. Her heart clenched every time she saw it. She knelt down to greet him, her voice soft and soothing. "Hey there, Crooks. It's just me again. I know... I miss her too."

She would scoop him up gently, cradling his weight against her chest as she walked around the penthouse, speaking to him as though he were a confidant. "She'll be back soon," she murmured, her fingers stroking the thick fur at the nape of his neck. "She's just... resting right now. But she loves you, Crooks. You're her clever boy, aren't you?" His low purrs vibrated against her, a sound that was both comforting and heartbreaking in its familiarity.

There were moments when Crooks would sit by the window, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if waiting for Hermione's return. She would join him, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her hand resting on his back. "You're keeping watch, aren't you?" she'd whisper. "You're so loyal, Crooks. Just like her. She's lucky to have you."

Tending to Crookshanks became a ritual for Ginny, a series of small, deliberate acts that gave her a sense of purpose amidst the chaos. She brushed his fur with care, talking to him as she worked. "You're getting spoiled, you know that?" she teased one afternoon, holding up a ribboned toy she'd bought for him. "But I think you deserve it." Crooks swatted at the toy with surprising vigor, his antics drawing a rare laugh from Ginny—a sound that felt foreign to her own ears.

She made sure his food and water were always fresh, taking the time to arrange his space as neatly as Hermione would have liked. On colder days, she'd drape a soft blanket over the couch where he liked to nap, tucking it around him as if he were a child. "There you go, all snug," she said, watching as he kneaded the fabric with his paws before settling in.

Sometimes, she found herself lingering in the penthouse long after her chores were done, sitting quietly with him on her lap. The space felt so profoundly Hermione—elegant yet warm, filled with little touches of her personality—and being there made her feel closer to her friend. "You know, Crooks," she said one evening as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden light across the room, "taking care of you feels like taking care of a piece of her. And that's... that's what I can do right now."

The cat blinked at her, his gaze steady and knowing, and dhe smiled faintly. "We'll keep her world intact, won't we? You and me. Until she comes back."

In those quiet moments, the penthouse became a place of healing—not just for Crookshanks, who sought solace in her presence, but for Ginny herself. Caring for Hermione's beloved cat allowed her to channel her love and grief into something meaningful, a small but powerful way of saying, I'm still here. I'm still fighting for you. And as Crookshanks curled up against her, his purring a steady rhythm that matched the beat of her own heart, she felt a flicker of hope. It was fragile, but it was there, and it reminded her that even in the darkest times, there were still ways to hold on.

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

In her own mind, Ginny wasn't strong; she was barely holding it together. But to everyone else, she had become a pillar, an anchor in the storm. When Hermione's parents faltered under the weight of their own heartbreak, it was Ginny who quietly stepped in, smoothing over the gaps with her steady hands. When Luna grew weary from sleepless nights with Lysander, it was Ginny who took the little boy in her arms, singing soft lullabies until he drifted off to sleep. When the others—Draco, Blaise, even Theo—showed signs of cracking under the strain, Ginny was there, offering a cup of tea, a word of reassurance, or simply a presence that reminded them they weren't alone.

Her role as "everybody's mom" became more than just a coping mechanism; it became a testament to her love for her friends, a silent promise that as long as she had the strength, she would carry them all through the darkness. She was the one who remembered the little things—like making sure Hermione's favorite tea was stocked, even if Hermione herself wasn't there to drink it. She'd clean the corners of the safehouse that no one noticed, making it feel less like a bunker and more like a home.

But this selflessness came at a cost. Her own heart was heavy with grief and fear, emotions she couldn't allow herself to process because she was too busy holding everyone else together. The moments of stillness, when they came, were the hardest. Alone in her room at night, she would sit on the edge of her bed, her hands shaking as the weight of the day finally caught up with her. The tears she refused to shed in front of others would come then, silent and unstoppable, soaking into her pillow as she whispered to herself, Just one more day. You can do one more day.

Her dreams were haunted by images of Hermione—strong, brilliant Hermione—lying still and fragile, her parents hovering over her with expressions that she couldn't bear to look at for too long. The guilt ate away at her, a constant undercurrent to everything she did. She told herself she wasn't doing enough, that she should have noticed sooner, done more, been there when Hermione needed her most.

And yet, every morning, she got up and did it all over again. She made breakfast for everyone, even on days when her own appetite had vanished. She folded laundry with meticulous care, made lists to keep things running smoothly, and found small ways to bring light into the heavy atmosphere. A fresh bouquet of flowers on the table, a warm blanket for Hermione's parents when they sat vigil by her side, a joke to make Luna smile even for a moment—it was in these tiny, deliberate acts that Ginny found her purpose.

Deep down, she knew she couldn't carry everyone forever. Her strength, though formidable, wasn't limitless. But as long as she could, she would. Because that's what love was, wasn't it? It wasn't about grand declarations or easy moments; it was about showing up every day, even when it hurt, even when it felt like you had nothing left to give.

She carried her grief in silence, wrapped it around herself like armor, and turned it into something beautiful: care, devotion, and an unwavering determination to protect the people she loved. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't always enough, but it was what she could offer. And in those quiet moments, when no one else was looking, she allowed herself a small, private hope—that maybe, just maybe, her love would be enough to hold them all together until the light broke through the darkness once more.

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

Blaise's worry for Ginny had become a relentless presence, growing sharper with each passing day. He noticed everything—the way her shoulders remained rigid, as if bracing for an unseen blow; the faint tremor in her hands when she thought no one was looking; the hollow edge to her voice that made her usual fire seem dimmed, smothered by something he couldn't quite reach. But worst of all was the way she refused to meet his eyes, as though she couldn't bear to let him see the cracks beneath her carefully constructed walls.

He couldn't take it anymore. Approaching her, he reached out, his voice low but insistent. "Cuore mio," he began, the endearment carrying a tenderness that belied the tension simmering between them. "You need to take a moment. To breathe. To let yourself feel something other than this... whatever it is you're holding onto."

She didn't move at first, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if shielding herself from him. When she finally turned her head, her gaze was cold, distant. "I'm fine," she snapped, her tone sharp enough to cut, though it wavered slightly at the edges, betraying the storm beneath her words.

He stepped closer, his frustration evident as he gestured between them. "You're not fine. Don't lie to me. Don't stand there and pretend everything is okay when I can see it isn't. You're hurting. Let me help you."

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he thought she might let her guard down, but then she scoffed, shaking her head. "Help me?" she echoed bitterly. "You want to help me? How exactly are you going to do that when you can't even be honest with me?"

He flinched at the accusation, guilt and regret twisting in his chest. "Ginny—"

"No," she cut him off, her voice rising as she finally looked him in the eye, her anger blazing through the cracks in her composure. "You don't get to stand there and act like you care about me when you've done nothing but keep me in the dark! Do you think I forgot, Blaise? Do you think I forgot what I saw? Because I haven't. I can't. And until you come up with a real explanation for everything—every secret, every shadow—you're no different from a stranger to me."

The words hit him like a blow, the impact reverberating through his entire being. Blaise's breath caught as he searched her face for any sign of softness, of an opening where he might reach her, but all he saw was pain—raw, aching, and barely contained beneath her anger.

"Baby," he began, his voice quieter now, desperate but measured. "It's not that simple. The things I've kept from you—they weren't to hurt you. They were to protect you."

She laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and cutting. "Protect me? Is that what you're calling it now? Protecting me by shutting me out? By leaving me to wonder what kind of person I've given my heart to?" Her voice broke on the last word, and she quickly turned her head away, unwilling to let him see the tears threatening to fall.

"I'm trying," he said softly, stepping closer but stopping just short of reaching for her. "I know I've kept too much from you, and you have every right to be angry. But please, please, don't shut me out. I need time to figure out how to explain everything, to make it right. When I'm ready—"

"When you're ready?" she interrupted, her voice trembling with fury and despair. She spun back to face him, her eyes blazing. "When you're ready? What about me, Blaise? What about what I need? Do you think I can just sit here, day after day, pretending like everything's fine while I wait for you to decide I'm finally worthy of the truth?"

His jaw tightened, the weight of her words settling heavily on his shoulders. "It's not about worth. You're—" He stopped himself, his throat tightening as he fought to find the right words. "You're the most important thing in my life. That's why I—"

"Don't," she snapped, her voice breaking. "Don't say that. Not when you can't even trust me enough to let me in." Her breathing was shallow now, her hands trembling as she wiped angrily at her eyes. "I can't do this. I can't keep waiting for you to decide when I'm allowed to know the truth. I can't keep feeling like I'm the only one fighting for us."

The silence that followed was deafening, heavy with words left unsaid. His heart ached as he watched her turn away from him, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her own pain. He took a hesitant step forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just scared."

She froze, her back still to him, and for a moment he thought she might turn around. "You're scared?" she repeated, her tone softer now but still laced with bitterness. "Imagine how I feel. Imagine wondering every day if the person you love is someone you even really know."

Her words were like a dagger to his chest, and he had no response, no defense. All he could do was watch as she walked away, her footsteps echoing down the hall. The distance between them had never felt so vast, and for the first time in his life, Blaise Zabini was truly afraid—afraid that he might have lost the only person who had ever made him feel like he belonged.

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

The safehouse, which had once been shrouded in an atmosphere of tension and recovery, had gradually transformed into a sanctuary of unlikely camaraderie. It wasn't just a place to heal but a living testament to resilience, love, and the bonds that could form under the most extraordinary of circumstances. Four families, drawn together by a shared love for Hermione and an unspoken determination to see her through the worst of it, had come to function as a patchwork family of their own, pieced together with care, laughter, and shared purpose.

The halls, once suffocatingly sterile and quiet, now rang with bursts of laughter and the gentle hum of life. Pansy, who had surprised everyone with her knack for humor, had a talent for breaking the tension. Her sharp wit and outrageous anecdotes often left the room in fits of laughter, tears streaming down their faces from the sheer absurdity of her stories. She had an uncanny ability to zero in on someone's mood and lift it with an offhand comment or a cutting joke that always seemed to land just right.

Neville, ever the nurturer, brewed calming teas and concocted fantastical pain-relief salves (some more effective than others). Draco, his face etched with worry lines he hadn't known he possessed, would spend hours simply reading aloud to her, his deep voice a soothing balm. Even her parents, their initial fear slowly melting into cautious hope, joined in the impromptu dance parties that erupted after particularly successful physiotherapy sessions.

Hermione, though her body remained fragile, revelled in the unexpected warmth. The shared meals, filled with laughter and whispered secrets, were a testament to the strength they found in their unity. Evenings were spent huddled around the fireplace, arguing playfully about the merits of pumpkin pasties versus treacle tart, or debating the best way to smoke the "medicinal herbs" Neville procured (much to his initial disgust). The weed, though initially met with scepticism, proved to be a surprisingly effective muscle relaxant, leaving her giggling uncontrollably as she attempted (and failed) to master the art of walking again.

These months, though tinged with the ever-present worry for her full recovery, were a time of unexpected connection. Amidst the chaos and uncertainty, they found solace in their shared purpose, forging a bond that transcended past prejudices and wartime allegiances.

She endured three harrowing brain surgeries and a gruelling skull reconstruction surgery. Each procedure left her weaker, her once vibrant spirit dimmed by the relentless assault on her body. The sight of her fragile form, hooked up to machines, haunted those who loved her, a painful reminder of the fragility of life and the enduring strength required to fight for it.

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

She was at her breaking point. Every nerve in her body felt stretched to its limit, her emotions a storm she could no longer contain. She was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally—and she needed someone to anchor her before she shattered completely. That someone, despite her anger and mistrust, was Blaise. He was the love of her life, even if she no longer knew exactly what kind of man he was. Despite the secrets, despite the distance that had grown between them, she needed him. Not answers, not explanations—just him.

Without a word, she climbed into bed beside him. The room was silent, the air heavy with unspoken tension. She didn't wait for permission or reassurance; she simply curled against him, pressing her face to his chest, her arms wrapping tightly around his torso. The steady thrum of his heartbeat was the only thing grounding her, a rhythm that reminded her she wasn't completely alone.

He froze for a moment, unsure what to do. It had been months since she'd let herself be this close to him, and he didn't want to ruin it. But when she tightened her grip, clutching him like he was her last lifeline, he exhaled shakily and pulled her closer, his large hands settling on her back.

Carefully, he shifted, guiding her onto him so she was straddling his lap. His voice was low, barely above a whisper, but filled with tenderness. "Tell me what you need," he said, his dark eyes searching hers.

"You," she replied simply, her voice raw and uneven. "Just… you."

"I'm here, tesoro," he murmured, his hand brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"Shut up," she said, cutting him off.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied softly, his lips curving into a faint, bemused smile.

And then she kissed him. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she pressed her lips to his, fierce and demanding. His breath hitched, caught off guard by the suddenness of it. But as her kiss deepened, he let his restraint fall away, giving himself over to her entirely.

Her kisses grew frantic, almost desperate, as though she was trying to pour every ounce of her anger, frustration, and grief into him. She didn't wait for him to take the lead; she claimed him completely, her hands moving to tangle in his hair, her body pressing harder against his. Blaise let her take control, his hands staying carefully at his sides even as his body responded to her every movement.

When her hand slid down to stroke him, he let out a quiet groan, his head falling back against the pillows. "You don't have to—" he started to say, but she silenced him with a sharp glare.

"I said shut up," she snapped, her voice low and firm.

He complied, his lips parting in a soft exhale as she worked him with her hand, her touch both commanding and punishing. When she finally positioned herself and sank onto him, he sucked in a breath, his fingers curling into the sheets. She didn't give him a chance to adjust or take control; she set the pace, riding him with an intensity that bordered on feral.

Every movement was raw and unrestrained, her body demanding everything he had to give. He let her use him, his hands twitching at his sides as he resisted the urge to grip her hips and take over. But when she slapped his hands away, he realized she wasn't just venting her frustration—she was reclaiming her power, her agency, her ability to feel something other than grief and exhaustion.

When she came, her entire body trembled, her head falling back as she let out a shuddering cry. His magic surged instinctively, silencing the room to ensure her privacy. But before he could say or do anything else, she began to move again, chasing another release. This time, he couldn't hold back. His hands found her hips, and he began to thrust up into her, meeting her movements with a rhythm that sent them both spiraling.

Her second orgasm hit her hard, and he followed soon after, a low, guttural groan escaping him as he emptied himself inside her. For a moment, they stayed like that, her body draped over his, both of them catching their breath.

But then she straightened, her expression sharp despite the flush in her cheeks. "No one said you could cum," she said, her tone as biting as ever.

He blinked at her, his chest still heaving. "Tesoro—"

"Shut up," she interrupted, climbing off him and turning her back to him without another word. She pulled the blanket over her shoulder, effectively shutting him out as she settled down to sleep.

He lay there for a long moment, staring at her back. He wanted to say something, anything, but he knew better than to push her. Instead, he exhaled deeply, his gaze softening as he watched her. Even in her anger, in her grief, she had come to him. And for now, that was enough.

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

Half a year later a bittersweet goodbye had just passed, leaving a warmth in its wake as Hermione's parents stepped out of the safehouse, and she felt her heart tugging gently as she watched them leave. The safehouse, once cold and sterile, filled with the soft hum of healing spells and whispered reassurances, now pulsed with a familiar, comforting energy. It was no longer a place of isolation but a sanctuary of belonging, filled with those who had become more than friends—they were her found family.

With a sigh, Hermione leaned her head against Ferrent's shoulder at the head of the table, feeling his arm instinctively wrap around her. Even with her lingering weakness from the ordeal, she felt a deep peace settle over her as she took in the scene around her. The table was laden with delicious dishes, a feast prepared with care by Luna, who hummed a cheerful tune as she bustled around with a ladle in one hand and a handful of herbs in the other.

Neville, always the loving husband, was nervously fussing over Pansy, who put on a show of dramatic indignation. Lysander, with all the curious energy of a toddler, had decided that the tablecloth was in need of his artistic touch and had smeared it with colourful, erratic smudges that resembled miniature explosions of colour. Pansy, ever the dramatic, was mid-rant, waving her hands as she declared the tablecloth "utterly ruined" while Neville rambled about the medicinal properties of beetroot juice, insisting that it was quite handy for stain removal if one only knew the right spells.

"Really, Pansy, a bit of beetroot never hurt anyone," Neville was saying, attempting to dab at a particularly vibrant streak while Pansy snatched the cloth away with a glare.

Luna, watching them with her usual serene amusement, simply patted Pansy's hand. "Don't worry, Pansy dear," she said in her soft, airy tone, "a little charmwork and it'll be as good as new. Besides, I rather like it—it looks rather... expressive now, don't you think?"

The room burst into laughter, her own voice mingling with the others in a sound that was bright and full of life. The safehouse had never felt like this before. Once a place of silent struggle and guarded hearts, it now seemed alive, buzzing with warmth and laughter. Her heart swelled with gratitude for this unlikely band of people who had chosen each other, scars and all, through love and loyalty.

Her gaze travelled around the table, lingering on each face, each soul that had stitched her back together. Pansy, still holding the "ruined" tablecloth with an exaggerated look of despair, caught her eye and winked, her sharp wit and fierce protectiveness shining in that playful glance. Pansy had been by her side through every dark day, offering snarky commentary and steadfast loyalty, becoming the sister she never knew she needed.

Neville, ever the gentle giant with his tender, unassuming kindness, now tried to wipe beetroot off Lysander's face, earning an enthusiastic squeal from the little one. She smiled at the sight. Neville had a way of soothing anyone, and his quiet strength had been a balm to her during her hardest moments, his soft words of encouragement reminding her that she was not alone.

Then there was Luna, sweet and ethereal Luna, who moved about the room with the effortless grace of a faerie. She was chatting animatedly about the "cosmic energy" of beetroot as she stirred a pot of something steaming and fragrant. Luna's optimism had become a beacon in the bleakness, a constant reminder that light could be found even in the darkest places. Her wisdom, always wrapped in a touch of whimsy, had helped her see the beauty in small, unexpected moments.

Across the table, he caught her eye, a soft, knowing smile playing at his lips. He had been her rock, her protector, the anchor that kept her steady even when the world had turned upside down. She squeezed his hand, a silent thank you for every sleepless night he'd spent watching over her, every wordless promise he had kept. His love was fierce yet tender, protective yet freeing, and she felt it in every shared look, every gentle touch.

"Look, look!" Lysander's high-pitched voice echoed through the room as he held up his stained hands, beaming with pride. 

Pansy snorted, rolling her eyes but unable to hide the affectionate smile tugging at her lips. "A masterpiece of mess, maybe," she teased, reaching out to ruffle his hair, much to his delight.

The laughter grew, filling every corner of the safehouse, transforming it into a true haven. She realised with a sudden, overwhelming clarity that this—this was where she belonged. Not in a perfect life, but in this messy, imperfect, beautiful world, with these people who had become her family. Here, amidst the chaos and laughter, the love and the loyalty, she had found a home.

As dinner began, the conversations flowed, filling the room with warmth and stories. Neville began recounting a particularly funny incident from his last herbology experiment gone wrong, while Luna passionately defended the intelligence of Nargles and their effect on plant growth.

Draco chuckled beside her, joining in the banter as he exchanged playful jabs with Pansy about their competitive days at Hogwarts. It felt like every wound, every scar, was softened by the healing power of laughter, of memories shared and new ones made.

When the meal ended, they sat around, basking in the afterglow of good food and better company. The sky outside darkened into a deep blue, stars beginning to sprinkle across the night. Luna, with her mystical air, insisted they all go stargazing, claiming that tonight's alignment was particularly auspicious.

Out in the garden, blankets spread across the grass, they lay side by side, gazing up at the sky. The cool night air was refreshing, the quiet hum of nature enveloping them in peaceful silence. She felt his hand slip into hers, his thumb grazing the back of her hand in soft circles, grounding her. Beside her, Pansy lay with her head on Neville's chest, eyes half-closed, while Lysander curled up beside Luna, who softly hummed a lullaby to him.

After a while, Luna's voice drifted through the darkness. "You know, they say that every star is a story, each one a life that once was. They burn and fade, but their light remains."

Pansy scoffed lightly, but there was a fondness in her tone. "Leave it to you, darling, to make everything sound so… poetic."

"Maybe there's a bit of poetry in all of us," Luna replied with a smile, her gaze soft as she looked around at each of them. "We're each here for a reason, each star in our own right, shining through the dark."

In that moment, as they lay beneath the vast expanse of the night sky, surrounded by love and laughter, she felt a profound sense of peace wash over her. The safehouse, this temporary refuge, had given her more than safety—it had given her hope, strength, and a family. It was a messy, imperfect, utterly wonderful life, filled with joy and sorrow, laughter and tears, and she wouldn't trade it for anything.

She squeezed his hand, and as he turned to her, his eyes shining with the same feeling of contentment, she whispered, "This… it feels like forever."

He smiled, brushing a kiss against her forehead, his voice a low murmur in the dark. "It is forever. As long as we're together."

They lay there, wrapped in the warmth of each other's presence, knowing that no matter what came next, they had each other. And in the quiet of that night, she understood that home wasn't just a place—it was here, in the arms of those who loved her, in this found family that had stitched together her broken pieces and made her whole again.