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The family box at the stadium was high enough above the pitch that the players looked almost unreal when they first burst into motion... bright robes streaking through cold autumn air, broomsticks slicing sharp lines across the clouds, the roar of thousands swelling and folding against the enchanted glass like waves against stone. Usually, Blaise loved it.
Usually, the second Ginny stepped onto the pitch, something in him loosened. The tension of ledgers and estate disputes and the endless burden of inherited wealth would ease from his shoulders because there she was... alive and blazing and impossible to ignore. Ginny Weasley in motion was its own kind of magic. Fierce. Precise. Untouchable. But tonight, he knew something was wrong before the match had even properly begun.
She missed her first pass. Not badly enough for the crowd to notice, perhaps, but Blaise noticed everything about her. The Quaffle skimmed her fingertips instead of settling neatly into her palm, and though she recovered quickly, there was a stiffness to the correction. A hesitation. Beside him, Narcissa Malfoy murmured something polite about the weather, but Blaise barely heard her. His gaze stayed fixed on Ginny.
Three minutes later, she slammed shoulder-first into another Chaser hard enough to send both of them spinning. The whistle shrieked. Penalty. The crowd booed, but Ginny didn’t even argue with the referee as she flew toward the penalty box. That, more than the foul itself, made Blaise sit straighter. Ginny always argued. Not petulantly, and not without reason, but she burned hot and immediate, and when she believed herself right, she defended it with teeth bared. The fact that she simply gripped her broom with white-knuckled hands and stared at the floor of the penalty box made unease coil coldly in his stomach.
By halftime, she had earned another penalty. By the third quarter, she was thrown from the game entirely. The stadium erupted. Some angry, others delighted. Blaise was already standing before the announcement had finished echoing.
“Blaise,” Draco called from two seats down, startled. “Where are you—”
“I’ll be back.” But he wasn’t sure he would. Because Ginny had looked furious when she’d been escorted off the pitch, yes, but beneath the fury had been something far worse. Hurt.
It took hours to get near her. The Harpies’ locker rooms were chaos after the match: reporters swarming the corridors, healers checking players for injuries, coaches shouting over one another while owls swooped overhead carrying revised press statements. Blaise stayed away. Not because he wanted to. Because Ginny hated being cornered while angry. So he waited. He ignored the whispers trailing after him through the private corridors of the stadium. That’s Zabini, isn’t it? Explains her temper. Strange match for a Weasley.
He had heard variations of it his entire life. He was too rich. Too cold. Too Slytherin. Son of a murderer. Raised among monsters. He’d learned young that people often mistook surviving for guilt. By the time he finally entered their rooms at nearly midnight, exhaustion sat heavy behind his eyes.
Ginny was sitting at the edge of the bed in loose sleep clothes, damp hair falling down her back from a shower she’d clearly taken not long before. The room was dim except for the fireplace crackling softly against stone walls. She looked up when he entered, but immediately looked back down. Blaise’s chest tightened.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hey.” He closed the door behind him. For a moment, neither spoke. Then he crossed the room slowly, carefully, as though approaching a wounded animal, and sat beside her on the mattress.
“You want to tell me what happened tonight?” Ginny shrugged, but it was forced. Too quick.
“Bad game.”
“Mm.”
She picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of her jumper. “I’ve had them before.”
“You have.” Another silence. Blaise watched her profile in the firelight... the tension in her jaw, the way her shoulders remained drawn too tight. “You were distracted from the moment you stepped onto the pitch.”
“I know.”
“You never lose your temper during matches.” A humorless laugh escaped her.
“Well. Apparently tonight was special.”
Blaise reached over then, smoothing his hand gently over the back of her neck. She leaned into the touch immediately, instinctively, and the small movement made worry ache sharper beneath his ribs. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said softly. “I won’t force it out of you.” Ginny swallowed hard. His thumb brushed slowly along the warm skin below her ear. “But something’s wrong.”
At that, her composure cracked. “They were talking about you.” Blaise stilled. Ginny stared at the floor. “In the tunnel before the match.” Her voice was tight now. “Some of the Falcons players. And one of the reserve Keepers from Falmouth.” She laughed bitterly. “Guess they didn’t realize I was around the corner.”
He already knew. Not the details. But he knew the shape of it. The rhythm. He had heard those conversations his entire life.
“Gin—”
“They were joking about your mother,” she interrupted quietly. “About all the husbands she buried.” Her fingers curled into fists against her knees. “Talking about how it’s only a matter of time before you do the same.” Blaise said nothing. “And then they started talking about us.” Her jaw tightened. “Saying I must like dark wizards now. Saying the Weasleys must be desperate if I ended up with a Slytherin who grew up beside Death Eaters.” The words hung ugly and heavy between them. The fire popped softly. Ginny finally looked at him then, anger flashing bright in her brown eyes. “And they just kept laughing.” Blaise felt something old and tired settle over him. Not pain, exactly. This was simply familiarity.
“Ginny,” he said gently, “you didn’t need to fight them over it.”
“Yes, I did.”
“You got thrown from the match.”
“I know.”
“You could’ve been injured.”
“They were insulting you.” Blaise exhaled slowly. His hand slid from her neck to cradle her jaw instead, thumb brushing lightly over her cheek.
“Love,” he murmured, “I’m used to it.” The words seemed to make her angrier. Ginny pulled back just enough to look at him fully.
“That’s not better.” He blinked. “You say that like it fixes something,” she continued, voice trembling now with emotion she’d clearly been holding in for hours. “Like because people have always said cruel things, it somehow matters less.”
“Ginny—”
“No.” She shook her head fiercely. “You shouldn’t have to be used to it.” Something in his chest twisted painfully at the conviction in her voice. Because she meant it. Completely. There was no calculation in Ginny Weasley. No careful diplomacy. She loved with her entire soul, and when she cared for someone, she defended them with everything she had. Even at her own expense. Blaise looked at her for a long moment. Then he leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently against hers.
“You got yourself ejected defending my honor,” he said quietly.
A reluctant huff of laughter escaped her. “You sound pleased about it.”
“I’m a Slytherin. I enjoy frightening levels of loyalty.” That finally earned the smallest real smile. Tiny. Tired. But real. Blaise kissed her softly then, lingering for a moment before pulling back just enough to murmur against her mouth: “You don’t have to fight every battle for me.” Ginny’s hands slid up into his hair.
“Maybe not,” she whispered. “But I’ll never just stand there while they tear you apart.” The raw certainty in her voice nearly undid him. Because Merlin help him, no one had ever said that to Blaise Zabini before. No one had ever looked at the darkest parts of his life and chosen him anyway.