The first week slipped by in fragments. Sleepless nights blurred into one another, broken only by whispered reassurances and the steady rhythm of a crib rocking back and forth. The Zabini estate, once so grand and cavernous, seemed to shrink around them. It no longer felt like a house built for power or legacy. It revolved now around one small room where Valerius either slept or stubbornly refused to.
Enchanted nightlights cast a flickering glow across the nursery, soft and dim, stretching pale shadows over his face as Ginny paced for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. Her legs ached. Her arms had gone numb hours ago. Exhaustion wrapped around her like a damp coat she couldn't take off, too heavy to ignore and too familiar to fight.
What surprised her most was Blaise. He had taken to fatherhood with a kind of ruthless dedication she hadn't expected. The man who used to breeze through life with a smirk and expensive shoes now stood alert at every cry. His tailored suits had been replaced by rolled-up sleeves and yesterday's shirt. The dark rings under his eyes never faded. His wand sat close, always within reach, as though danger might appear in the hallway without warning.
He changed nappies like he was disarming curses. Made bottles in record time. Walked circles around the room with Valerius cradled tight to his chest, muttering soft things in Italian as if the baby might understand. There was precision to it, almost clinical, but it wasn't cold. Underneath all of it was something tighter. A tension she couldn't name, something wound sharp beneath the surface. He moved like a man preparing for war and holding something fragile at the same time.
They stood together one night, side by side in the quiet, watching their son finally drift off. Ginny's head throbbed with exhaustion, but she glanced sideways at Blaise and saw the same wear carved into his face.
"You're not sleeping," she said, barely more than a whisper.
He didn't look away from the crib. "Neither are you."
She leaned into him, just slightly, letting her temple rest against his shoulder. His shirt was warm. He smelled like baby powder and fatigue. "This isn't something you can sustain," she murmured. "You can't keep carrying all of it like this. Not without breaking."
There was a long pause. He reached down and touched Valerius's hand, light as breath, then stilled again. His voice came low, stripped of pretense.
"I'm not worried about me," he said. "I'm worried about him."
By the second week, the edges started to wear thin.
Valerius was colicky. His cries tore through the night without mercy, raw and piercing, cutting through whatever calm they managed to find in between. Ginny felt the weight of it settle into her bones. Exhaustion didn't just hover at the edges anymore—it rooted itself deep, turning her into someone sharp around the corners. Small things became insurmountable. Simple moments, like burping him or finding a clean muslin cloth, felt like uphill climbs. Her body ached. Her mind scattered. Her patience frayed faster than she could hold it together.
It didn't take much to start a fire between them.
"You're hovering," she muttered one afternoon, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice. Blaise stood behind her, too close, his arms folded as he watched her rock the baby with growing tension in her jaw.
"I'm making sure you're doing it right," he said flatly, the words low and clipped.
She turned to him too fast, eyes flashing, the baby still squirming in her arms. "Doing it right? I've been doing this for hours while you've been tucked away in that oversized study pretending you're not falling apart."
His jaw tightened. For a second, it looked like he might snap back, but he didn't. Instead, he held out his hands.
"Give him to me."
Her arms pulled Valerius closer on instinct. The thought of letting go, even for a moment, made something inside her ache. But the ache wasn't love—it was sheer, bone-deep fatigue. Her shoulders were burning. Her fingers were starting to tremble. She breathed out hard through her nose and gave in, passing the baby to him with slow, reluctant hands.
Blaise took him like it was second nature. One arm tucked beneath the baby's body, one hand supporting his head. His movements were calm, sure. Within moments, the crying faded to a whimper, then settled. Valerius curled into him, small and warm and quiet.
Ginny sank into the nearest chair, bracing her elbows on her knees and pressing her hands to her face. She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or sleep for a year.
"He likes you better," she said, voice muffled and raw.
When she looked up, his expression had shifted. Less defensive now. Less hard. He adjusted the baby against his chest and spoke softly.
"He doesn't like me better. He just knows when you're drowning."
She stared at him, not sure what to do with that. Something inside her twisted at the kindness in his tone, the honesty of it. She didn't want to admit he was right, but she also didn't want to keep pretending she had it all together.
Her throat tightened. Her body sagged.
He rocked Valerius slowly, his hand gently cupping the back of the baby's head. "We're in this together, baby."
And for the first time that day, she let herself believe him.
The third week brought a parade of visitors that never seemed to end. Family. Friends. People who meant well, but couldn't seem to read a room. They showed up with pastel-wrapped gifts and too-loud voices, all smiles and baby talk, cooing over Valerius like he was some soft little miracle sent just for them. Ginny stood through it all with her jaw tight and her patience thinner by the minute. Everyone had advice. Swaddle tighter. Let him cry. Don't let him sleep in your arms, he'll never learn independence. She wanted to hex the next person who said the word "spoiled," but instead, she smiled. Nodded. Pretended not to see red.
Blaise, of course, handled it like he always did. He turned on the charm. Poured drinks, flashed that polished smile, gave smooth nods and low chuckles in all the right places. But she knew better. She watched him too closely. Saw the sharp twitch in his jaw every time someone mentioned fatherhood like it was a job he hadn't earned. The way his knuckles turned white around a glass when Val cried loud enough to silence the room. He kept the mask in place, but it was cracking at the edges.
When the last guest left, she let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. The quiet felt holy. But Blaise didn't soften. He stood in the kitchen with his back to her, shoulders high and rigid, like he was waiting for something to explode.
"You're hiding something," she said, voice steady, low.
He didn't move. Just leaned harder into the counter, arms folded, his head angled like he was weighing the cost of honesty.
"Some things are better left unsaid," he replied, too calm, too cold. The kind of tone that cut without needing to draw blood.
"Not when it's about Val," she said. "Not when it's about us."
That word did it. Family. It landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending quiet ripples out between them. His jaw clenched. Still, he didn't turn.
She almost gave up, expecting him to retreat into that quiet place he went when things got too close. But then he let out a slow, unsteady breath and finally turned to face her. His eyes looked tired in a way she hadn't seen before. Not just from the baby. From something deeper.
"I'm trying to protect you," he said. His voice was soft now, stripped of everything except the truth.
She crossed her arms. "From what? Your past? Your enemies? Yourself?"
His mouth opened, but no words followed. Instead, he began to pace, dragging his hands through his curls until they stuck up wildly. He looked like a man unraveling thread by thread.
"You don't understand," he said. "You don't see the world the way I do. It's not safe. Not for people like us. And definitely not for him."
There was something in his voice that chilled her. A kind of certainty that sounded too much like fear.
"What are you talking about?" she asked. She didn't like how tight her chest felt.
He stopped pacing. His eyes found hers, sharp and dark and filled with something frantic.
"Valerius," he said. "He's too good. He's too soft for this world. They'll hunt him. They'll pick him apart, use him as a weapon to hurt me. He'll be seen as a weakness."
She stared at him, stunned by how serious he was. "That's not going to happen," she said, even though she couldn't be sure.
"You don't know that." His voice broke on the words. "There are people who would do anything just to watch me suffer. Taking him would be the easiest way."
He stepped closer. Close enough that she could see the sweat on his brow, the way his hands curled slightly, not into fists but into something just as tense.
"I'm going to put him in a bubble," he said, like it was the most obvious solution in the world.
Ginny blinked. "You're going to what?"
"A protective bubble," he said again. "A ward. A spell. A shield strong enough that no one can get near him. They won't see him. They won't touch him. They won't even remember he exists if they try."
She stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
"You want to hide our son from the entire world?"
"I want him safe."
"That's not safe," she said slowly. "That's a prison."
"It's peace," he insisted. "He won't have to live with this pressure. He won't have to fear."
She stepped back, shaking her head. "You can't take away his life because you're scared of yours."
"I'm not scared for me," he snapped. "I'd burn the whole world down for him and not feel a damn thing. But I can't let them take him. I can't."
He looked wrecked now. Sweating. Shaking. She didn't doubt he meant every word.
"You can't protect him from everything," she said gently. "And if you try to lock him away, he'll grow up resenting you."
"I'd rather he hate me and live," Blaise said. "Than love me and die."
The silence that followed felt like a storm holding its breath. Neither of them moved. Neither of them broke.
"I need to think," she said finally, voice quieter than she meant. "Just for a minute."
And she left him standing there, fists curled at his sides, still believing with his whole chest that a magical bubble could fix what the world had broken.
The fourth week brought with it something that almost resembled a rhythm. Not perfect. Not smooth. Just enough to keep them upright, to keep the worst of the unraveling at bay. The nights were still long, still heavy with exhaustion that clung to their skin and sat behind their eyes, but they were learning to live in the tired spaces. There was a quiet kind of truce between them now. He figured out the way she hummed under her breath while rocking their son, a sound too soft to really hear but strong enough to calm the baby when nothing else worked. She came to expect the way he moved through the house without a sound, always close, always watching like the walls themselves had given him a purpose.
One of those nights, long after the house had gone still, she found him sitting on the nursery floor with Valerius tucked into his arms. The only light came from the mobile above the crib, its slow spinning casting pale reflections onto the ceiling, onto the quiet curve of his face. He looked like he hadn't moved in hours.
She eased down beside him, legs crossed, her robe drawn tight around her. His focus didn't shift. He was tracing circles on the baby's tiny back, his hands gentler than she'd ever seen them. It struck her, the way a man like him—so sharp-edged, so accustomed to control—could hold something so breakable with reverence instead of fear.
"We're going to figure this out," she said softly, one hand reaching to rest over his.
He looked at her then. Just a flicker at first, his eyes dark and worn, and then a longer glance that held something else. He didn't answer right away. His thumb continued its path over their son's spine, a steady rhythm that seemed to ground them both.
"I hope so," he said eventually. His voice didn't carry. It barely made it past his lips. "For him."
She felt it land between them, that small truth. It didn't fix anything. It didn't promise anything. But it was honest.
They sat like that in the half-light, saying nothing more. Her head came to rest on his shoulder, and when he didn't move, she closed her eyes. He exhaled slowly, the breath leaving his lungs like it carried more than just tiredness. She could feel the weight in it. The fear. The need to hold everything together even as it slipped through the cracks.
He was still scared. That hadn't changed. Still wound tight with the worry that something would come and break this before they even had a chance to breathe. But he was here. And so was she. And so was the baby between them.
The world hadn't gotten quieter. Their life hadn't become easier. But in the hush of the nursery, with her cheek pressed to his arm and their son curled against his chest, something settled.
It wasn't peace exactly. But it was close. Just enough to let them rest for one night.
She stood in front of the mirror, her fingers tracing the unfamiliar curves of her body. The soft glow of the enchanted sconces illuminated every change—her fuller hips, the curve of her stomach, the faint marks that trailed along her skin, mapping out the transformation of the last few months. She was naked, vulnerable, and she barely recognized herself.
A quiet shuffle behind her made her heart jump. His presence was unmistakable—the slow, measured footsteps, the way the air shifted with his warmth as he stepped into the space behind her. She didn't need to turn to know it was him.
"Don't look," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He didn't stop. He stood just close enough for her to feel his body heat at her back, his breath warm against the shell of her ear.
"Why shouldn't I?" he asked, his tone soft but firm.
Her hands instinctively came up, covering her stomach. "Because... just look at me," she said, voice laced with frustration. "It's terrible."
His hands gently found her arms, coaxing them away from where she tried to shield herself. His gaze locked onto hers through the mirror. "It looks beautiful," he murmured.
"Don't lie to me."
"I promised, remember?" His voice dropped lower, smoother. "I swore I'd never lie to you again. Almost three years of it was enough."
She swallowed hard, unable to argue.
Slowly, he leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to her bare shoulder. Her grip on the sink tightened.
"Please stop," she whispered, but there was no real conviction behind her words.
"Why would I?" His hands traced a slow path down her arms, teasing, exploring. "My baby girl is needy."
"I'm… I'm not—" her breath hitched as his hands found her breasts, cupping them with a reverence that made her knees weak. The moment his thumb brushed over her nipple, a soft, reluctant moan escaped her lips.
His grip tightened just slightly, his fingers kneading her sensitive flesh.
"Sensitive," she breathed out, almost in shock at how quickly her body responded to him.
His smirk was evident in the mirror as his lips ghosted over her neck. "I can hear that." His voice was pure satisfaction. "You've been depriving me, amore." He nipped at her earlobe, his breath hot against her skin. "Let me enjoy you."
His touch remained slow, teasing. He rolled her nipple between his fingers, pulling soft, delicious sounds from her lips. She shuddered in his grasp, torn between resisting and surrendering.
"Blaise," she gasped, her body betraying her.
"Yes, baby?" He was all arrogance now, reveling in her unraveling. "Please, make music for me. I need to put it in my Pensieve."
Her thighs clenched involuntarily, but it was already too late. He could see everything—the way the evidence of her arousal glistened along her skin, the way her body reacted to him despite the insecurities she tried to hold onto.
His grip tightened ever so slightly, a silent promise in his touch. "Mia cara," he murmured, voice thick with reverence and need. "You've never been more beautiful to me than you are right now."
Before she could protest, he lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to their bed. She tensed in his arms, turning her face into his shoulder as warmth flooded her cheeks.
"No," she whispered. "It's embarrassing."
"It is not," he countered, voice dripping with conviction as he laid her down against the silk sheets. His eyes darkened as they roamed over her body, taking in every curve, every inch of flushed skin. "You're dripping for me, love. And all I want—" he trailed his fingers down her stomach, stopping just before where she ached for him most, "—is to taste you."
She shivered, her breath hitching. "No, please, we can't—"
He caught her chin, tilting her face toward him, his gaze unreadable but intense. "There will be no 'we,'" he corrected smoothly. "You will come on my face. Do you understand me?"
Her lips parted, her pulse hammering beneath her skin. She knew resistance was futile.
"Yes," she breathed.
His brow lifted. A warning. A command.
"Yes, sir," she whispered, her voice trembling with anticipation.
A slow, predatory smirk spread across his lips. "That's my good girl."
He kissed down her body, worshipping her with every touch. "You gave me an heir," he murmured, dragging his lips lower. "And now, you're in my bed, making a mess because you haven't been touched in too long." He exhaled, pressing a reverent kiss to her inner thigh. "I'm so in love with you, Ginny, I swear it's going to kill me."
"Please, Blaise," she whimpered, arching toward him. "Please."
He hummed against her skin, teasing her with the warmth of his breath before finally parting her thighs, spreading her open just so he could take in the sight of her.
Pink, glistening, utterly divine.
His tongue swept across his lower lip. "Mio Dio, amore," he murmured, reverence dripping from his tone. "You're perfection."
He had every intention of torturing her—drawing this out until she was shaking, breathless, mindless beneath him. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to her inner thighs, dragging his lips across her heated skin, teasing, waiting, savoring her trembling anticipation.
And then, finally, he gave in.
The first flick of his tongue against her sent a shudder through her entire body, her fingers fisting the sheets. He took his time, licking, tasting, mapping out every inch of her like he was committing her to memory. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her in place as he worshipped her.
The sounds she made only spurred him on. He licked, sucked, devoured her, pushing her closer and closer to the edge until she was gasping, trembling, incoherent.
And then, when she was teetering on the brink, he sucked her clit into his mouth, hard.
Her scream echoed through the room as she came apart for him. But then, he felt it.
A sudden rush of wetness, hot and uncontrollable.
She only had done this a few times, but now, with his name a desperate cry on her lips, she was drenching him, coming undone in a way neither of them had expected.
He groaned, gripping her thighs as he rode out her pleasure, his tongue still teasing her as she convulsed beneath him.
And when she finally came back down, dazed and breathless, her chest heaving, she whimpered, "Blaise—oh, gods—I'm so sorry…"
He chuckled darkly, wiping his chin with the back of his hand before gripping her thighs once more. "Oh, baby girl," he purred, his voice thick with wicked satisfaction. "You have no idea what you've just done."
And before she could catch her breath, before she could even think, he slid two fingers inside her—slow, deep, perfect.
Dragging her toward her second undoing.
~~~~~~
Draco's attacker had vanished like smoke.
A month had passed and no one had turned up a name, a motive, not even a lead. Just a dark alley, a jagged wound, and the cold truth that someone had wanted him dead. Maybe it was personal. Maybe it was just business. In their world, the line between the two was razor-thin and always moving.
He hadn't slept through the night since.
The memory played on loop. The shadow at his back. The sudden weight of a body slamming into his. The twist of pain when the blade sank in. Not clean, not professional. Just violent. Sloppy. Desperate. Like someone had wanted to make a point.
And they'd failed. But just barely.
It wasn't the pain that kept him up. It was the insult. That someone had gotten close enough to touch him, to hurt him, and walk away without a trace. It made his skin crawl. He checked wards twice as often now. He cast protective spells without thinking. Every sound in the dark twisted his nerves a little tighter.
He wanted the bastard found. Wanted them gone. Not punished, not captured. Just erased.
The folder landed on the table with a clean slap.
"We've got a mission," Blaise said, calm as ever. Too calm. His posture was lazy, but his eyes didn't match. They were sharp, steady, watching Draco too closely.
Draco didn't look down. His hands curled around the edges of the chair, his teeth grit. "I'm not going anywhere."
"You are," Blaise said, tone quiet, final.
"I don't care what the old men upstairs think is important this week," Draco snapped. "I was attacked. Someone tried to kill me. You think I'm going to leave that behind to chase after trinkets like a fucking errand boy?"
"You think I don't care that you were attacked?" Blaise's voice didn't rise, but the shift in it was enough to cut the air. "You think this is easy for any of us? I wouldn't be here if it weren't urgent."
Draco stood. "I'm not interested in what they think is urgent. My focus is here. My focus is revenge."
"Your focus is blinding you," Blaise said, and now there was heat behind his words. "The artifact isn't just a relic. It's tied to something bigger. It leads to a map—an ancient one. And if it falls into the wrong hands, it puts all of us at risk. You, me, Theo, Luna, the entire operation. You don't get to sit this one out because your pride's bruised."
Draco's jaw locked. He wanted to punch something. He wanted to drag whoever had attacked him into the street and make them beg. But more than that, he wanted control. And right now, it was slipping.
He looked down at his hands, tight fists at his sides, the skin gone pale from pressure. Slowly, he eased his fingers open. The rage didn't go anywhere, but he buried it just enough to breathe through it.
"When," he said, voice low and even.
"First light," Blaise answered. "Luna's already preparing the supplies. It's going to be fast. No margin for error."
Draco nodded once, tight and bitter. He ran a hand over his face, dragging it down slowly. "This doesn't mean I'm done," he muttered.
"I didn't say it did."
He turned away without another word, but the burn stayed with him. Whoever had come after him would pay. That hadn't changed. The only thing different now was that they'd have to wait their turn.
~~~~~~
The door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the windows, the reverberation echoing through the vast halls of the estate. Upstairs, she winced, tightening her grip around the tiny bundle in her arms. His footsteps were heavy, purposeful, each stride up the stairs sending a shiver of anticipation down her spine.
"Where are you, love?" His voice, deep and smooth as always, carried that familiar mix of urgency and affection—a dangerous combination that she had never quite been able to resist.
"In the bedroom," she called back, keeping her tone deliberately flat.
Moments later, he appeared in the doorway, and for the briefest of seconds, the storm in his dark eyes softened. His gaze immediately locked onto Valerius, who stirred slightly in her arms, tiny fingers curling into a loose fist. Without hesitation, he crossed the room in long, confident strides, leaning down to press a featherlight kiss against the baby's soft head.
"Hello, little love," he murmured, the uncharacteristic tenderness in his voice sending a pang through her chest. And then, his lips found hers—slow, lingering, reverent. "And hello to the love of my life."
She arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "When are you leaving this time?"
His shoulders stiffened, the tension barely perceptible to anyone but her. But that mask—the cool, unreadable facade he wore so well—never faltered. "Is it that obvious?"
She scoffed. "You overcompensate when you're about to leave. It's like clockwork." Shifting Valerius in her arms, she exhaled sharply. "What is it this time?"
He hesitated, running a hand through his thick curls, his expression betraying the weight of whatever mission he had been assigned. "Draco, Theo, and his cousin are heading to Afghanistan. We've got a high-paying mission, and it's... important."
Her expression hardened, disappointment rolling off her in waves.
"I can't apologize," he said, his voice firm but not unkind. "It wouldn't be truthful."
She let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "Why do you even need the money? You're a billionaire, Blaise. You don't have to keep doing this."
He leaned against the bedpost, crossing his arms with that insufferable smirk of his. "I need to fund your hobbies," he quipped. "And, well, I happen to enjoy killing bad people."
She shot him a withering glare. "Bad people and hobbies? I don't even have hobbies."
"Oh, really?" His smirk deepened. "How about that notice-me-not charm you put on your ever-growing shoe collection? Or those horrendous modern art pieces you insist on buying—seriously, they look like actual shit. Or the sweaters you started knitting a year and a half ago and never finished?"
She turned to face him fully, her glare turning lethal. "Can I have a single fucking secret? A single shred of privacy? Do I get to have any part of my life that isn't meticulously cataloged by your insane brain? Or do you also track what time I take a shit and the exact moment I last had my period?"
His smirk was maddening. "Every morning at 10:37," he said smoothly. "And your last period was approximately 296 days ago."
Her nostrils flared. "You disgust me."
"I'm aware," he replied easily, completely unfazed. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. "And I love you more than the universe itself."
She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like Unfortunately, me too, but refused to meet his gaze as her cheeks tinged pink.
He chuckled, reaching out to trail his fingers along the bare skin of her arm. "What time are you leaving?" she asked, still avoiding his gaze.
"Tomorrow morning," he said, stepping even closer, his fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns against her skin. "Which is why I want tonight to be just us."
She eyed him warily. "Romantic?" She glanced down at herself, then at him, still dressed in his mission-worn clothes. "You're covered in dirt, and I'm running on two hours of sleep because your child—"
"Our child," he corrected smoothly, amusement flickering in his eyes as he glanced at Valerius, who remained blissfully unaware of their bickering. "And I'll handle everything tonight. Just let me take care of you."
She folded her arms, clearly unconvinced. "You're not exactly the romantic type."
His grin widened, a glint of mischief sparking behind his dark eyes. "Then let me surprise you."
Before she could react, he had already swept her off the bed, Valerius still cradled safely in her arms, his strength effortless as he carried them both.
She gasped, half-laughing, half-protesting. "Put me down, you lunatic!"
"Not a chance," he murmured against her hair, pressing a kiss to the side of her head as he carried her through the room with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
She sighed dramatically, resting her head against his chest, but her lips betrayed her as they curled into a small, reluctant smile. "I hate you."
He smirked, his grip tightening ever so slightly around her. "I know."
And as he carried her through the dimly lit hallways, the weight of his departure still looming over them, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, tonight could be enough.
~~~~~~
The sun blazed high above, an unyielding fire that seared the endless expanse of sand stretching out in all directions. Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Titus stood as silent sentinels against the vast emptiness, their shadows long and sharp in the blinding light. The air shimmered, heavy with heat and foreboding, and each man was swathed in protective armor, their wands clenched tightly. A fine layer of dust coated them, mingling with sweat and grit, but none of them paid it any mind. They had long ago learned to ignore discomfort in the face of duty.
This mission was unlike any they had encountered before. They'd been pulled from their usual assignments, dropped into the arid heat of the Middle East without their usual intel or support. Their instructions were stark and absolute: leave no witnesses. The weight of this directive pressed on each of them, a silent reminder of the moral murkiness they were venturing into. It wasn't a mission they could walk away from without leaving parts of themselves behind.
"The Raven Order," as they were notoriously known among their enemies, had carved a reputation on the darkest edges of society. They were mercenaries with a finely honed skill for carnage, precision, and unwavering loyalty to their cause. Yet, despite their notoriety and experience in high-stakes missions, something about this assignment felt different.
The mission briefing had been surprisingly sparse, leaving them with little more than vague coordinates and the chillingly simple directive: "eliminate the target, no questions asked." Typically, their assignments included dossiers filled with everything from the target's background to security measures, which allowed them to anticipate every move. This time, the silence around the mission details gnawed at them, stirring an uneasy curiosity. But curiosity, they had been trained to remember, was a weakness.
They exchanged tense glances, each member harboring unspoken questions. For a group accustomed to executing plans with ruthless precision, this assignment's shadowy vagueness pressed on their instincts like a warning. But in their line of work, loyalty came before comfort, and they each knew that when their boss issued orders, it wasn't their job to ask why. Their boss, after all, was a figure cloaked in infamy—someone who had taken them all in, molded them into who they were now, someone who demanded, above all, loyalty beyond reason. And loyalty, they each knew, had a price.
Draco looked to his friends, each one a seasoned warrior in their own right. Blaise's calm exterior masked a mind that was always calculating, always planning the next move. Theo's eyes, usually filled with mischief, were now cold and focused, his wand gripped tightly in his hand. Titus, the newest but most intimidating member of their group, stood tall, his presence casting a long shadow over the others. His face was a mask of stoic indifference, unreadable to even his closest comrades. Despite—or perhaps because of—his terrifying reputation, there was something oddly reassuring about having him on their side. His mere presence was enough to silence any lingering doubts, a constant reminder that they had a weapon of pure, unyielding force among them..
"We've faced worse," Draco muttered, more to himself than to the others, though they all heard him.
"Still doesn't mean I like this," Theo replied, his voice low. "We don't even know what we're dealing with."
"Doesn't matter," Blaise said, his tone as steady as ever. "We follow orders, get in, and get out. Simple as that."
Draco nodded, though his mind was racing with possibilities. They all knew the drill—stick to the plan, trust each other, and leave no loose ends. But something about this mission felt off, a nagging sense of dread that they couldn't quite shake.
"Let's move," Draco said finally, taking the first step forward.
As they began their trek across the desert, the weight of their task pressed down on them, a heavy burden that they carried without complaint. They were soldiers, after all—soldiers who had seen the darkest corners of the world and had become shadows themselves.
As they passed through the remnants of a village that had clearly been bombed, Draco felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The destruction was unlike anything he had ever seen, even in the darkest days of the Wizarding War. The sight of the crumbled buildings and the eerie silence of what was once a lively community was a harsh reminder of the cruelty Muggles could inflict upon each other.
He exchanged a glance with Blaise, both of them shaken but determined to press on. They moved cautiously, their senses heightened as they sought out a safe place to regroup. Eventually, they found shelter in a well-covered house, its walls still standing despite the devastation outside. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the remnants of a life that had been violently interrupted.
Titus stood at the doorway, his expression hard, as he scanned the horizon for any sign of movement. "We set up here," he said in a low, commanding tone. His voice, as cold and unwavering as the steel in his hand, left no room for argument.
Draco nodded, still trying to process the reality of what they were walking into. This mission was unlike anything they had done before, and the horrors they were witnessing only added to the weight of what was to come.
Gathered around the dusty table in the dimly lit room, Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Titus studied the map of the surrounding area. The map was old, worn at the edges, and had clearly seen its share of conflict, just like the land it depicted. The red ink marking potential threats and targets stood out starkly against the yellowed parchment.
Theo, always one to have a trick up his sleeve, released a tracker fairy that Luna had given him for situations exactly like this. The tiny, shimmering creature flitted around the room for a moment, getting its bearings before darting out through a crack in the wall.
They waited in tense silence, each of them mentally preparing for what might come next. The fairy returned after what felt like an eternity but was likely only minutes. It hovered in front of Theo, its wings fluttering rapidly as it relayed its findings.
"No human or magical presence in the area," Theo announced, his voice barely above a whisper.
Draco and Blaise exchanged a glance, the tension in the room easing slightly but not disappearing entirely. "Good," Blaise said, his voice steady but his eyes hard. "It means we have the advantage for now."
Draco felt a chill run down his spine at Titus's words. The mission was about to begin, and despite the emptiness of the surrounding area, he knew they were far from safe.
After hours of intense strategizing, the group decided it was time to rest. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls as they rolled up the map and tucked away their gear. The exhaustion was beginning to set in, but none of them would admit it. They each had their own way of coping with the looming threat of the mission ahead.
He found a spot near the back of the room, where the walls felt sturdy, and the air was slightly cooler. He lay down on the hard floor, using his pack as a pillow, his mind still racing with thoughts of the mission and the dangers they would face.
Blaise settled in a corner, his back against the wall, his wand close at hand. He closed his eyes but remained alert, his instincts honed from years of dealing with the unpredictable.
Theo, always the last to settle, made sure the tracker fairy was safely tucked away before finding a spot near the door. He muttered a quick spell, ensuring they'd be alerted if anything—or anyone—tried to approach during the night.
Titus was the last to lie down. He stretched out on the floor, his massive frame taking up more space than the others. His eyes remained open for a while, scanning the room, making sure everyone was settled before finally closing them. Even in sleep, his presence was intimidating, a reminder of the strength he brought to the group.
As the night wore on, the room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of clothing or a deep breath. Despite the uncertainty of the mission ahead, sleep eventually claimed them, one by one. They would need every ounce of rest they could get for what awaited them at dawn.
~~~~~~
And there, in the dead of night, they made a rookie mistake—one that could cost them everything. Exhaustion had taken its toll, and in their need for rest, no one had thought to stand guard.
At precisely 4:16 a.m., Draco was jolted awake by the sudden, cold pressure of a hand clamped over his mouth. His eyes shot open, but before he could react, before he could even register what was happening, a wave of darkness crashed over him. It wasn't just the absence of light—it was an all-consuming void, pulling him down into nothingness.
The last thing Draco felt was his heart pounding wildly in his chest, a surge of panic rushing through his veins. Then, there was nothing. Just silence and darkness.
~~~~~~
Hermione bolted upright in bed, her scream tearing through the silence of the dim room, her body drenched in sweat.
The jarring intensity of it left her clutching her chest, as if holding her own heartbeat steady could somehow restore the calm that had vanished in an instant.
The feeling was too visceral, too real—the soul bond she shared with Draco had flared to life in a way it never had before, flooding her with an overwhelming terror. Something had happened to him, something unthinkably dark.
Her hands shook as she pressed them against her heart, trying to steady herself. But the dread, sharp as a knife, lingered. The bond had been a gift in their relationship, a way of keeping them close even when they were apart.
Tonight, though, it felt like a curse, a cruel reminder of the unimaginable danger he was in.
She forced herself to breathe, even as every exhale came out in ragged, uneven bursts. Images she couldn't quite remember, fragments of fear and pain, filled her mind, threatening to break her completely.
Her voice wavered as she whispered a Patronus incantation, sending an otter streaking through the room.
"Pansy!" she called out through her Patronus, the urgency thick in her voice. Moments later, she burst through the fireplace, her face creased with worry as she rushed to her side.
"Darling, breathe," she said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Tell me what's wrong. What happened?"
Hermione tried to steady herself, but her body betrayed her as sobs escaped her lips. "It's Draco," she choked out, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Something... through the bond. It was like a flood of terror. I felt it, Pans—he's in terrible danger. I know it."
Her voice broke, fresh tears streaking down her face. "I don't know where he is, I just know he's suffering, and I can't reach him."
Her eyes narrowed with fierce determination. "We'll find him, Sweetheart. We'll find him." Without a second's hesitation, she conjured a Patronus of her own, sending it out with an urgent call to Luna.
The fireplace flared to life, and Luna's face appeared, her blue eyes filled with worry. "What's happening?" she asked, taking in the panic on both their faces.
"Draco's in danger," Pansy replied. "Hermione felt something terrible. Can you come? We need all the help we can get."
Within moments, Luna was at their side. She took in the scene with silent alarm, her gaze moving between Hermione's tear-streaked face and Pansy's fierce determination.
She knelt beside Hermione, her hand gentle on her back, helping her to breathe through the panic that had taken hold. "Mimi, we'll find him. I promise," she said softly, her voice a steadying presence.
Pansy moved to the closet, quickly pulling on dark, fitted clothes that would allow her freedom of movement. She glanced at Hermione, noticing how pale she'd become, her body nearly convulsing with fear.
When Hermione's nausea overtook her, she leaned forward, retching onto the carpet as fresh waves of distress wracked her frame.
"Shh, it's okay, you're okay," she murmured, kneeling beside her and gently undoing Hermione's sweat-drenched clothes. She helped her change into something dry, her hands steady and soothing as she worked.
She wiped Hermione's face clean, brushing a loose curl away from her forehead. "We're going to get him back," she said with a fierce certainty that held Hermione together, even if only barely.
"Luna," Pansy asked, her voice tense, "any idea where they might have gone?"
She shook her head, her face mirroring Hermione's desperation. "I don't know. He didn't tell anyone where they was going, did he?"
When Luna returned from home, she found Pansy already dressed in sleek black, her face set with an intensity that made her look almost like a warrior preparing for battle.
Hermione, on the other hand, was pale, trembling uncontrollably. She was bent over, vomiting onto the carpet, her whole body betraying the shock and fear that had taken hold of her. Pansy was at her side, carefully supporting her, hands gentle as she undressed Hermione, wiping her face and shoulders with a cool cloth.
Her touch was steady and soft, an unspoken promise of comfort, even as her own heart raced with dread.
Hermione, barely able to lift her head, whispered hoarsely, "Please ask Ginny... she might know where they are."
Pansy didn't hesitate; with a quick flick of her wand, she conjured her Patronus, sending the silvery fox dashing through the air, her urgent message relayed through clenched teeth. "Please, hurry," she muttered as she watched the light fade.
Moments later, Ginny Apparated into the room, her eyes filled with alarm as she took in the scene. She went straight to Hermione, who looked up at her with tear-filled eyes.
"Something's wrong with Draco," Hermione gasped, her voice thick with panic. "Not just Draco… I think it's all of them. They're in terrible danger."
Pansy's gaze shifted to Ginny, her tone biting yet desperate. "Red, where's Blaise? Do you have any idea where they are?"
Ginny's voice was low, tense. "Last I knew... Afghanistan. They went on a mission—Draco, Theo, and Blaise." Her words sent a chill through the room, the weight of them pressing down on everyone.
Hermione began to cry, the realization sinking in deeper. "Oh, gods. They're trapped out there, somewhere dangerous, and we can't even reach them."
Ginny dropped to her knees beside her, pulling her into a tight embrace. "We'll find them," she murmured, determination flaring in her eyes.
She glanced over at Luna. "Luna, can Kippy watch Valerius for us?"
As Hermione regained her composure, she moved swiftly toward Draco's study, her mind racing. Every shelf, every drawer, every hidden compartment in the room was combed through in a frenzy. At last, her fingers closed around a small bear-shaped portkey, one of Draco's most reliable means of travel. Relief and fear warred in her chest as she clutched it to her heart.
She hurried back to the others, her face now set in grim determination. The four women stood together, clad in dark protective robes, a formidable and resolute sight. They were ready—prepared to confront whatever awaited them, bound by love and fierce loyalty to the men they cherished.
Grasping the white bear-shaped portkey tightly, they felt the familiar pull of Apparition. In an instant, the surroundings shifted, and they found themselves standing in the arid expanse of the Registan Desert. The harsh sunlight and the vast, desolate landscape greeted them as they prepared for the daunting mission ahead.
~~~~~~
The sun blazed mercilessly overhead, casting jagged, unforgiving shadows across the endless expanse of sand as the four women stood at the edge of the Registan. The heat pressed down like an iron weight, sweat slicking their skin, breaths coming heavy—not just from the journey but from the suffocating grip of fear tightening around their chests. Miles of nothingness stretched before them, an unrelenting desert with no signs of life, no clear direction, only the deafening silence of the unknown.
Ginny's pulse hammered in her ears, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides as her sharp gaze swept the barren horizon. As if, by sheer will alone, she could force reality to bend, to conjure him from the emptiness. Every second that passed without a sign of him felt like a slow, torturous unraveling, panic clawing its way up her throat.
Ferret was missing. Which meant he was in danger too.
And that thought alone was enough to turn her blood to ice.
"Blaise!" She screamed into the vast emptiness, her voice breaking under the weight of desperation. The desert swallowed the sound, stretching it into the endless horizon, offering nothing in return but silence. Her chest heaved, panic clawing at her ribs, her heart hammering against her sternum. The sun burned overhead, merciless and unrelenting, but the fear twisting inside her was colder than ice.
And then like a mirage solidifying into reality, he was there.
A figure emerged through the shimmering heat, his dark silhouette stark against the pale sands. His steps were slow, unsteady, exhaustion weighing down his every movement. But his eyes—his sharp, assessing gaze—locked onto her, and for the briefest moment, something in them cracked. Relief. Disbelief. And something deeper, something raw.
He reached for her without hesitation, his hands finding hers, fingers lacing together with a desperate, grounding pressure.
"My love," he breathed, his voice thick with exhaustion, his grip tightening as if reassuring himself that she was real. His eyes, dark and searching, swept over her, lingering on her disheveled hair, the sand clinging to her skin, the worry carved into her features. "What are you doing here? You shouldn't have come—please, go home. Are you alright?"
She barely registered his concern. Her fingers curled around his, holding on as if letting go would shatter her. Her voice, hoarse and trembling, barely made it past her lips. "We had no choice," she whispered. "Hermione felt something… something terrible. Blaise—where is he?"
Her breath hitched, her heart stalling as she searched his face for answers. And in the way his jaw clenched, the flicker of something dark crossing his expression, she knew.
She knew something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.
His expression darkened, the tenderness replaced by a hard edge as he glanced at the girls, each of them watching him with equal intensity. He took a steadying breath before replying, his voice laced with regret and frustration.
"Granger," he said, his voice low and heavy with guilt as he met Hermione's eyes. "Malfoy… he was taken."
He paused, struggling to steady himself. "It happened in the dead of night, while we were sleeping. We didn't hear a thing—no warning, no signs. When I woke, his bedroll was empty, and the wards were broken. They took him. Right from under our noses. I have no idea where they've taken him."
Hermione's face drained of color, and for a moment, she swayed as if she might collapse.
Pansy quickly reached for her, steadying her by the shoulder, and Hermione gripped her friend's hand tightly, drawing strength from the touch.
"WHO?" Hermione asked, her voice barely a whisper, raw with anguish and fear. "Who has him, Blaise?"
"I'm not entirely sure. But they knew exactly what they were doing. They targeted Draco specifically; they were after him," he replied, his jaw clenching. The air around them felt heavy, almost suffocating. Every word out of his mouth seemed to weigh them down further.
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken dread. Hermione closed her eyes, grappling with the fear that threatened to consume her. She could feel the bond between her and Draco pulsing faintly, but it was distant and faint, like a candle barely flickering in the darkness. The thought of him suffering, of him alone and vulnerable in an unknown location, sent a shudder through her.
"We can't just stand here," she said, her voice fierce, cutting through the silence. "We have to do something. We have to find him, Blaise. Can you track them?"
Blaise's face hardened as he considered her words. "I can try, but it won't be easy. They were prepared, and they knew the terrain better than us. But I won't stop until we bring him back."
Luna stepped forward, her gaze focused and uncharacteristically intense. "Then let's not waste time," she said. Her soft voice had a steely determination that resonated with each of them. "We've come this far; we'll do whatever it takes."
~~~~~~
They returned to the hideout, the place where Draco had been taken. The tension in the air was suffocating, and every step Hermione took felt heavier with the weight of her fear and rage.
Inside, a flickering magical map was projected onto the wall, its glowing contours casting eerie shadows across the room. Theo and another man stood over it, their faces grim, deep in conversation.
As they entered, Theo looked up sharply. His expression shifted to one of alarm when his eyes landed on Luna."Theodore Atticus Nott!" Luna snapped, cutting off his attempt to speak.
"Luna, my life—" he began, stepping toward her, his tone urgent and pleading. "You shouldn't be here! Please, go home. This isn't your fight!"
Her expression hardened, her usual dreamy demeanor replaced by steely resolve. "If any of us is out there, it is my fight. I'm not leaving until we bring him back."
Hermione, her arms crossed, let her gaze fall on the unfamiliar man standing beside Theo. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Who's this?" she demanded, motioning toward the stranger.
The man stepped forward, offering a tight, almost mocking smile. "Titus Nott. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Malfoy," he said smoothly. "I've always admired your work—"
"Save it," she interrupted sharply. Her tone cut through the room like a blade. Her gaze was unrelenting. "So, you're the butcher."
The air in the room grew even more tense. Pansy, standing beside Hermione, glared at Titus like he was a stain that refused to be scrubbed clean. Her lip curled in disgust.
Titus didn't flinch. His voice remained even, but his smirk faltered. "Yes," he admitted, his tone clipped. "I am
"Good," she said coldly, her voice laced with contempt. "We're going to need every weapon we can get to find my husband. And if you can't deliver, you're dead weight."
Titus's smirk returned, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "This job isn't for the ladies," he said, almost casually.
Before he could blink, every woman in the room snapped in unison, "SHUT THE FUCK UP."
Titus held up his hands in mock surrender. "Yes, ma'ams," he muttered.
Ginny stepped forward, her fiery hair and even fiercer expression adding weight to her words. "Besides murdering people, do you have any actual skills? Because if you're just here to look dangerous, we don't need you."
"Enough!" Hermione barked, her voice ringing through the room. "When this is over, you can kill him for all I care. Right now, I want to know where the nearest hideout is!"
Theo stepped forward cautiously, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Hermione, please, calm down. He's my cousin."
"Like we give a fuck," Pansy said, her voice dripping with disdain. She tilted her head, her gaze sweeping Titus up and down. "Though, at least you're nice to look at. That's something."
Titus gave her a wry smile. "Thank you, ma'am," he replied, his tone deliberately smooth.
Blaise, leaning against the wall, cut through the tension with his calm, measured voice. "The nearest hideout is kilometers away. But there's a run-down residential property nearby. It could be worth checking."
"Finally, a useful conversation," Luna muttered, her tone laced with exasperation.
The group fell into a tense silence, the weight of the mission ahead pressing down on them. They exchanged glances, the unspoken promise between them clear: whatever it took, they would find Draco.
~~~~~~
Just as Draco's world seemed to collapse into an endless cycle of pain and despair, when every breath felt like it was dragging him deeper into the abyss, a sound shattered the oppressive silence—a deep, gut-wrenching explosion that sent shockwaves through the very foundation of the building.
The walls trembled violently, dust and debris cascading from the ceiling like the first warning signs of an earthquake.
Then, before he could even process what was happening, the door was obliterated in a deafening blast, the force of it sending splinters of wood and shrapnel through the air like deadly confetti. Smoke curled into the room in thick, choking tendrils, swallowing everything in a suffocating haze, turning shadows into specters, blurring the line between salvation and damnation.
Through the blinding cloud of dust and destruction, figures emerged—swift, methodical, a force of nature tearing through the chaos like they were born in it. The metallic glint of weapons, the sharp bark of commands, the relentless momentum of bodies moving with precision—it was war in its purest form.
He could barely make out the shapes, the people who had just stormed in, but instinct screamed at him to brace himself. His already battered body tensed, his mind clawing through the exhaustion and pain, forcing himself upright even as his vision wavered. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out all logic.
He was prepared to meet thy God.
Because this was it, wasn't it? The moment where all debts were paid in blood. Whether salvation or judgment awaited him, he couldn't be sure. His past sins, his regrets, his triumphs, his mistakes—everything balanced on a knife's edge. Would the next second bring rescue or reckoning? Was this the moment he was finally put down like a wounded animal, or had some foolish, reckless soul decided he was worth saving?
His lips curled into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace, bitter amusement tugging at the edges of his exhaustion. If this was his end, he'd meet it standing. But if by some cruel twist of fate, this was his reprieve—then may whatever poor soul dared to come for him be ready for the storm he was about to unleash.
But not until God willed it—and, as fate would have it, she did not.
And in this universe, God went by the name Hermione Granger-Malfoy.
Standing in the center of the chaos, her breath steady, her grip unshakable, Hermione raised her wand with the kind of finality that only came from absolute conviction. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. With a single, fierce incantation, she cast the Killing Curse. A jet of sickly green light split through the darkness, striking Cormac McLaggen square in the chest. His body seized for the briefest of moments, his expression frozen in surprise—then he crumpled, lifeless, his existence snuffed out in an instant. He had been a threat. Now, he was nothing.
The room erupted into chaos. Shadowy figures lunged at one another, spells colliding mid-air in dazzling bursts of energy, while gunfire cracked through the pandemonium, the scent of smoke and blood thickening the air.
Light and darkness clashed in a brutal symphony—curses flew like streaks of lightning, bullets shattered the air like thunder. The walls bore scorch marks from spellfire, debris scattered underfoot as bodies dropped, groaning and gasping, or not rising at all.
Hermione moved with deadly precision, weaving between attacks with the agility of a seasoned warrior, her wand an extension of her fury. Every movement was controlled, every spell cast with unrelenting accuracy. She wasn't just fighting—she was dominating. Every flick of her wrist sent an opponent sprawling, every step forward carved a path through the carnage. She had fought in wars before, had carved her name into history with grit and resilience. And tonight, she would do it again.
At the center of it all, Draco remained bound, his vision swimming, his body barely holding onto consciousness. The fight blurred at the edges, the sound distorting as though he were submerged underwater. His pulse pounded sluggishly, his body battered and broken. He barely registered the hands clawing at his restraints, the violent tremors of the room as spells collided with walls.
Then—his bonds loosened.
A sudden, suffocating pull yanked him into oblivion. The pain, the noise, the blood—everything faded into nothingness. A cold void enveloped him, a weightless abyss that should have been terrifying but instead felt… almost peaceful. His body no longer ached. The wounds no longer burned. The war no longer mattered.
And then—her voice.
"I'm here, my love."
Soft. Steady. The anchor he had always clung to in the darkest of times.
It was impossibly soothing, that voice. It wrapped around him like warmth in the bitter cold, a tether to reality even as the darkness threatened to consume him. He wasn't sure if he was dying or simply dreaming, wasn't sure if this was heaven or some cruel trick of the mind. But he knew, without question, that it was her.
And in that moment, with her voice guiding him through the void, Draco Malfoy felt peace. This was afterlife.
~~~~~~
Draco remained in a coma for an entire year, and in that time, their lives fractured around him, the damage slow and insidious. His absence wasn't just a wound—it was a gaping chasm, swallowing them all in different ways. The man who had once been their leader, who had endured so much and always clawed his way back to his feet, now lay motionless, his body a mere shell of the force he had once been.
For Hermione, it was a living nightmare.
She, who had once been the pillar of reason, the one who could find logic in chaos, unraveled before their eyes. Grief clung to her like a second skin, hollowing her out, turning her into someone unrecognizable. The fire that had once burned so brightly behind her eyes dimmed, flickering weakly as though it might be snuffed out entirely.
Her friends tried, in their own ways, to help her, to offer support. But it was like trying to reach someone behind unbreakable glass—Hermione saw them, heard them, but she never truly let them in. She floated through the days, going through the motions, existing but not living.
Ginny, who had her own complicated history with Malfoy, tried as well. She wasn't doing it for him, Hermione was her best friend, and she couldn't stand seeing her like this.
So she did what she knew how to do: she barged in, forced her way into Hermione's space, and left little offerings in the form of warm biscuits, the kind she used to love.
Hermione never said thank you. Sometimes, she barely even acknowledged them. But Ginny kept baking them anyway, because it was something, and she was determined to give Hermione something when the world had already taken so much.
Blaise, on the other hand, never needed an excuse to linger by Draco's side. He visited every day, without fail, no matter what else was happening in his life. Rain, shine, blood on his hands—nothing deterred him.
Ginny hated it.
She understood it, but she hated it.
It was one thing to be loyal. It was another to let that loyalty consume you.
"You're a bloody idiot, you know," he would mutter to the unconscious man, arms crossed as he leaned back in that awful hospital chair. "Leaving Granger to clean up your mess? That's low, even for you. But don't worry, I'm here to remind her every day that you're still the biggest prat in the room—even if you're comatose."
He spoke to Draco like the bastard could hear him, filling the silence with updates about missions, about Valerius, about anything that came to mind. Sarcasm, exasperation, reluctant affection—it was all there, woven into his words like a thread he refused to cut.
And then he would come home, exhausted, retreating into the nursery to watch Valerius sleep, as if their son was the only thing anchoring him back to reality.
Ginny saw it all, and it infuriated her.
She never said anything—what was the point? It wouldn't change a damn thing. But every time she watched him disappear into that room, every time he spent hours at Draco's bedside instead of with them, that ugly little voice in the back of her mind whispered: What about us? What about your family?
Their friends felt the strain, too. Theo all but vanished from group gatherings, unwilling to steep himself in the unrelenting gloom that had settled over them.
Pansy, for all her sharp edges, had tried. She had gone to see Hermione, made an effort to reach her. But even she was reaching her limit.
"I don't know what to say to her anymore," she admitted to Ginny one afternoon over tea. "She barely even sees me. I feel like I'm talking to a ghost."
Ginny nodded, because Merlin, did she understand that feeling.
Days blurred into weeks. Weeks bled into months. The world kept spinning, even when it felt like theirs had stopped. Blaise kept his vigil, Hermione kept wasting away, and Ginny kept making those damn biscuits, because what else could she do?
And then, after a year of waiting, of suffering, of drowning in the silence Draco had left behind—
He woke up.