She wandered slowly through the manor, her steps tentative and quiet, the soft hush of her bare feet brushing against polished wood and cool marble the only sound in a house that felt impossibly vast, an expanse of rooms and halls that seemed to echo with a silence too deliberate to be natural.
Every corridor stretched before her with the grandeur of a gallery, lined with tall windows dressed in velvet and silk, each one pulling narrow streams of pale light across the floors that seemed more suited to a museum than a home.
The ceilings soared high above her, intricate crown mouldings drawing her gaze upward, while the walls displayed oil paintings whose subjects she could not name, though she somehow knew without doubt that they had been chosen less for history or lineage and more for the muted sophistication they lent to the space.
The furniture was decadent, though restrained, as if every piece had been selected not for comfort but for the image it projected, each table and chair arranged with the meticulous eye of someone who understood that power often lived in the unspoken language of design.
Yet what unsettled her most was not the wealth on display, but how effortlessly it seemed to suit her. The fabrics whispered beneath her fingertips with the softness she had always preferred, the muted shades of cream and gold and deep green struck the exact balance between warmth and formality that had once calmed her in small spaces she could call her own, and even the subtle perfume that lingered throughout the house caught her off guard, a light floral top note drifting through the air, anchored by something deeper and more grounded that she could almost remember, as though the house itself breathed in rhythm with her.
When her wandering feet led her to what appeared to be a guest bath, she paused at the threshold, fingertips grazing the smooth edge of the open door before stepping inside, where the air was dense with steam and the unmistakable scent of rose and bergamot greeted her like an old friend she had not seen in years.
Her gaze fell to a delicate crystal decanter perched on the marble edge of the tub, its cut surface catching the filtered light in soft prisms, and as she lifted the stopper to inhale the familiar fragrance, her breath caught in her throat. It was the very blend she had once scrimped to buy, a small luxury in the cramped flat she had shared after Hogwarts, a scent that had marked brief moments of control and comfort in an otherwise chaotic life. Now it waited here, not by chance, but with the clear intent of someone who had wanted her to find it.
The realization sent a chill through her despite the warmth of the room, a slow coil of unease winding through her ribs as she began to understand that everything about this place had been crafted to her liking, not in the way a loving partner might learn another's quirks through time, but in the way an archivist might reconstruct a subject from fragments of memory and guesswork, or perhaps in the way someone determined to hold onto a version of her no longer within reach might attempt to preserve it under glass. It was beautiful. It was precise. It was suffocating.
Eventually, after wandering through what felt like an endless maze of velvet-draped corridors and gold-trimmed doorways, her bare feet nearly silent against marble floors that seemed to stretch without direction or reason, Ginny had managed to find one of the elves.
It took longer than she expected. The manor seemed eerily empty, the quiet pressing in around her until her skin prickled with unease, and by the time a small figure finally appeared at the end of a corridor near what looked to be a drawing room, her breath caught in an unexpected wave of relief. She quickened her pace without thinking, calling softly to the elf before he could dart away, and when he turned to face her, the expression that met her was so openly emotional that it nearly stopped her in her tracks.
The poor creature, small and trembling, had frozen mid-step, eyes growing impossibly wide as though he had just witnessed a miracle. His mouth opened, then closed again without sound, his chest visibly heaving beneath his tiny embroidered tunic.
Before Ginny could say a word, he had thrown himself forward with a strangled sort of sob, latching onto her hands as if anchoring himself to the earth. She barely caught his name in the flurry of apologies and choked declarations that poured out of him, something high-pitched and frantic about how grateful he was to see her alive, how worried they had all been, how much they had missed her, though the words blurred together in a jumble that made her throat ache in return.
She spent what must have been half an hour kneeling there on the polished floor, her hands wrapped gently around the elf's shaking ones, murmuring quiet reassurances she only half believed, promising that she was alright even as her own heart hammered with the weight of uncertainty, soothing the tiny creature with words that came instinctively, as though a part of her still knew how to comfort those who had once depended on her.
When the tears finally slowed to a series of soft hiccups and trembling sighs, she smiled and extended one hand toward him, palm open, a silent invitation. The elf took it at once, his small fingers curling trustingly around hers, and together they rose to their feet, her balance a little steadier now with another living presence beside her.
Hand in hand, moving slowly through the corridors she had begun to loathe for their endless perfection, Ginny let herself be led this time, her grip tightening faintly around the elf's whenever the walls seemed to press too close.
And at last, after more twists and turns than she could count, they came to a broad set of double doors, half open, where the familiar sound of a man's voice filtered out into the hall, low and calm in that way she was beginning to associate far too deeply with practiced control.
Her pulse quickened, though she could not have said why, and with a breath she did not fully realise she was holding, Ginny stepped forward with her small companion still clasped firmly at her side, finally finding Zabini.
"Mia Cara?"
His voice came from just behind her, smooth and familiar, that faint lilt of amusement already curling beneath it as though he had been watching her wander the corridors with a kind of quiet patience, and Ginny turned sharply, shoulders dropping in relief at the sound of something warm and human in this house of velvet and marble.
"I am lost," she admitted without shame, lifting her hands in a helpless gesture that would have seemed ridiculous if she had not felt so entirely adrift. "Completely."
Blaise let out a low sound, something between a groan and a laugh, running a hand through his hair as he approached, the lines of his body still unreasonably relaxed even as his words betrayed a hint of guilt. "Oh, shit," he said, shaking his head slowly. "Yes, I completely forgot that you would not remember the layout. Oh God."
Ginny tilted her head, curiosity cutting through her confusion. "Are we religious too?"
He blinked, then smiled, that particular kind of smile that seemed to live in the corners of his mouth, ready to appear whenever she caught him off guard. "No," he said lightly. "Not unless you want to be. We can choose whatever you like. I only said it because Granger says it all the time, and eventually everyone around her picked it up."
She blinked again, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "You are friends with Hermione?"
He laughed then, truly laughed, and it was a sound that both soothed her nerves and sent a strange little jolt through her ribs. "You are friends with her," he corrected with mock solemnity. "I am tolerating her presence. Now that she is pregnant she is even more annoying and insufferable, though no one is allowed to say that aloud, of course."
"Hermione is pregnant?" Ginny gasped, eyes wide, the news pulling her momentarily out of the haze of uncertainty. "Oh, Merlin. I am so excited. Please tell me we are still best friends. Please, you must call her. I need to see her."
She reached out instinctively then, grabbing his wrist without thinking, the need in her voice so genuine that it seemed to catch even Blaise slightly off guard. For a moment he looked at her with something softer in his expression, as though watching her reach for familiar pieces of herself touched something in him he would never admit aloud.
He stepped closer, moving slowly, deliberately, his hands coming to rest against her shoulders with a kind of practiced ease, the press of his palms both grounding and possessive in its gentleness. "Unfortunately," he said, voice low and amused, "you are very close with her. And she insists on bringing her moron of a husband every time."
"Zabini," Ginny scolded without heat, swatting at his arm though she did not pull away from his touch. "You cannot talk about my brother like that."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "It is not your brother, love."
She frowned then, confusion knitting her brow. "What?"
Blaise exhaled slowly, one thumb brushing a slow circle over the fabric of her sleeve, and his gaze caught hers with that same steady calm that made her heart race even when she wished it would not. "I should not overwhelm you," he said softly, voice thick with the weight of things unsaid. "Remember? Come. I will show you the way to our room."
And with that, his hand slid gently down to catch hers, fingers curling warm and sure around her own as though the gesture was as natural to him as breathing, as though he had always known how to lead her through whatever darkness might lie ahead.
After a few quiet minutes walking side by side, her hand still caught in his, their pace unhurried as though neither of them wished to arrive too quickly, they reached what must have been the entrance to their room. The door stood half open, tall and carved with curling patterns she did not recognise but found herself tracing with her gaze.
As they stepped inside, Blaise paused just behind her, his presence a steady warmth at her back, and without a word, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head.
The gesture was so casual, so practiced, that for a moment her breath caught entirely unbidden, and her body reacted before her mind could catch up. She flinched away from him, not harshly, not violently, but enough that the distance between them stretched wide in the span of a single step. The room seemed to hold its breath.
He froze immediately, lifting his hands in the air with palms open, voice gentle and regretful in equal measure. "I am so sorry, love," he said softly, and his eyes looked wounded in a way that made her throat tighten. "I just... we touch each other all the time. That is what we do when we arrive somewhere. It is instinct."
Ginny watched him carefully now, her heart still racing a little faster than she wanted it to. "And what do I do?" she asked, keeping her tone level, needing to hear the script she had apparently written for herself in this life she did not remember.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth then, something fond and bittersweet. "You usually tell me to behave," he said, voice soft with memory, "and then you kiss my arm. For some reason."
Her brow lifted. "You do realise that is what I can reach, right?" she asked dryly, and that earned her the first true smile she had seen from him since their walk began, one that reached his eyes and softened the tension that still lingered between them.
He only smiled at her in response, saying nothing.
Ginny tilted her head slightly. "What is it?" she pressed, curiosity sparking through her again.
His smile deepened, though something mischievous flickered in his eyes now. "You usually say something different," he said with a kind of mock innocence that made her chest warm despite herself, "but I am not allowed to repeat that."
"Kinky?" she guessed with a grin she could not quite suppress.
"Very," he replied with a low, pleased murmur that made her cheeks flush faintly despite her confusion.
Her gaze drifted slowly around the room then, trying to piece together the rhythm of her life here, the shape of her days. "What do I do all day?" she asked, voice quiet but steady.
Blaise gave a small shrug, the motion smooth and careless, though his eyes remained fixed on her. "I do not know, amore," he replied. "I am at work. Sometimes you visit me. Sometimes, well, most of the time you call to complain about something. I act as though I am paying attention."
"You are telling me I am here all day?" she asked, one brow arching in playful suspicion.
He shook his head. "You visit our friends," he said. "You go on trips. You spend time in town. You are rarely idle. You were never one to be still for long."
Her chest tightened slightly at the mention of friends and trips, and another thought surfaced before she could stop it. "What about my family?" she asked softly, the question slipping out on a breath she had not meant to release.
Blaise's smile faded then. He looked at her for a long moment, something cold and ancient stirring beneath the warmth in his eyes. Slowly, carefully, he lifted one hand to cradle her face, his touch featherlight against her cheek. "We should talk about sad things later," he said gently, though the words landed heavy in her chest.
Her breath caught again, her pulse quickening. "Are they dead?" she asked, voice sharpening with sudden fear.
Blaise's gaze flickered, and without a word, he stepped back from her, turning slowly as if weighed down by something he could no longer hold in place. He walked toward the far side of the room with deliberate calm.
"Zabini," she called after him, the panic rising thick and fast now, her voice cracking under its weight. "Are my parents fucking dead?"
He stopped, shoulders tense, head bowed slightly. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost hollow. "You are the one dead to them."
The words struck her harder than any blade might have. It was not her parents' death she had feared, but this, this unbearable truth that their love for her had somehow ended. It felt like something sharp had lodged itself in her ribs, twisting deeper with every breath.
"Because of you?" she managed to ask, her voice barely above a whisper.
Blaise turned to face her again, eyes dark with something she could not name. "I am just half of the reason," he said quietly. "I will call Granger. You can speak to her. It would be better if I were not the one to tell you all of these things."
And with that, he moved across the room to fetch the enchanted mirror, leaving her standing in the centre of their beautiful, suffocating room, her heart breaking silently beneath her borrowed skin.