The morning was slow, lazy—the kind of morning they rarely got to enjoy. She sat at the dining table, sipping her coffee, idly flipping through the pages of a magazine, while he lounged nearby, a book in hand. The occasional clink of her cup against the saucer, the quiet rustle of pages, and the warm sunlight streaming through the windows painted an illusion of tranquility.
But his mind wasn't on his book. Not really.
After a while, he set it down, stretching lazily before turning his gaze toward her. He studied her—the tousled waves of red hair still slightly messy from sleep, the way her blouse slipped off one shoulder, the slow, rhythmic way she traced the rim of her cup with a fingertip.
"You know," he mused, his voice smooth, low, intentional, "we haven't had sex on the dining table yet."
She paused mid-sip, one eyebrow arching as she met his gaze. The look in his eyes was unmistakable—dark, heavy-lidded with desire. A slow, knowing smile spread across her lips as she set her cup down. "Is that a challenge?" she asked, her voice sultry, teasing, full of promise.
He smirked and stood, moving toward her with that effortless confidence she had always found infuriatingly attractive. He stopped just beside her chair, leaning down so his lips nearly brushed the shell of her ear.
"I dare you," he murmured, his voice sending a delicious shiver down her spine.
The space between them crackled with anticipation. She took a slow breath, eyes gleaming with excitement, before pushing her chair back and rising to her feet. Her hands slid up his chest, feeling the solid warmth beneath his shirt as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Their lips met, slow and deep, tongues teasing, tasting, drawing out the moment.
He groaned into the kiss, his hands finding her waist, pulling her closer, pressing her against him so she could feel exactly how much he wanted her. She grinned against his lips, nipping at his bottom one before whispering, "You're overdressed, amore mio."
He let out a low chuckle, but he was already working on the buttons of her blouse, taking his time, savoring the reveal. As the fabric slipped from her shoulders, his gaze darkened at the sight of her lacy black bra, the way it framed her curves perfectly. His fingers traced along the straps before he dipped his head, lips brushing over the swell of her breasts, teasing before finally taking a nipple into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue, biting just enough to make her gasp.
She tangled her fingers in his curls, her body arching into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips. Her own hands weren't idle—she made quick work of the buttons of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, her fingers gliding over the hard ridges of his chest, the warmth of his skin under her touch.
His mouth left her breast, trailing hot kisses down her stomach as he dropped to his knees in front of her. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties, tugging them down slowly, his lips and tongue following the path of exposed skin. She let out a soft curse, gripping the edge of the table as he nudged her thighs apart, his breath warm against her already aching heat.
The first stroke of his tongue made her knees buckle, but his hands were there, steadying her, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. He teased her, slow and deliberate, drawing out every sigh, every moan, until she was trembling beneath him.
She looked down at him, watching the way his dark eyes flickered up to meet hers, that sinful smirk curling against her as he sucked her clit between his lips, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through her spine.
"Blaise," she gasped, her grip tightening on the table, her head tilting back as he worked her closer and closer to the edge.
He took his time, savoring every reaction, every shudder, but when her legs began to shake, when she let out a desperate whimper of his name, he finally let her fall apart, her release crashing over her in waves.
She barely had time to catch her breath before he stood, his hands gripping her hips as he pulled her against him. He kissed her again, rougher this time, letting her taste herself on his lips as he pressed his hardness against her still-sensitive heat.
"Turn around," he murmured against her lips.
She obeyed, her hands bracing against the smooth wood of the table, her breath still uneven as he unbuckled his belt, his fingers slow and teasing as he pushed down his trousers.
He pressed himself against her, rubbing the thick length of his cock against her slick folds, teasing, torturing.
She let out a frustrated whimper, pushing back against him. "Blaise—"
He chuckled darkly, gripping her hips. "Patience, bambola."
And then, with one slow, deliberate thrust, he filled her completely, stretching her, making her cry out as he sank deep inside her.
His fingers tightened on her hips as he began to move, his pace steady but intense, every roll of his hips hitting exactly where she needed.
She moaned, her nails digging into the wood, her body arching as he set a rhythm that was both punishing and intoxicating.
The table creaked beneath them, their bodies colliding in a symphony of pleasure, gasps and moans filling the room as he drove her higher and higher, each thrust pushing her closer to that sweet oblivion.
"Look at you," he murmured, voice thick with desire, bending over her, his lips trailing over her spine. "So perfect. So fucking mine."
His words sent another rush of heat through her, and when his hand slipped between her thighs, fingers finding her swollen clit, she shattered, her release ripping through her as she cried out his name.
Draco apparated straight into the Zabini residence, completely unannounced and with the subtlety of a brick through a window. The instant he landed, the sharp crack of apparition echoed through the room and froze all three of them in place.
Ginny's legs were still wrapped around Blaise's waist.
Blaise was buried inside her, hands on her hips.
The dining table was the scene of a full, unapologetic, mid-thrust situation.
No one breathed for a solid three seconds.
Then everything went to hell.
Ginny let out a shriek that could have shattered glass. Blaise whipped his head toward Draco, eyes dark with fury. Draco's own eyes went cartoonishly wide as his brain caught up with the horror in front of him.
"For the love of every fucking saint in existence," Draco shouted, slapping both hands over his eyes. "On the dining table? The dining table. I am going to sterilize my brain with acid."
Ginny yanked her dress down in blind panic, still half sitting on Blaise's lap. "Are you insane?" she yelled. "Who the fuck apparates into someone's house without warning?"
"Apparently I do," Draco said, voice strained. "Because apparently I enjoy hurling myself into trauma."
Blaise, still very much inside her, gave Draco a stare that could have ended a war. He didn't move. He didn't bother covering himself. He simply leaned back a little, his voice low and cold.
"Malfoy," he said slowly, "What do we owe the pleasure of your company? voyeurism or something important?."
"Why the hell are you still inside her?" Draco screamed through his fingers. "Get out."
Ginny groaned, burying her face in her hands. "This is the worst fucking day of my life."
"That makes two of us," Draco muttered.
Blaise finally slid out of her, the movement slow and absolutely intentional. Draco gagged so hard he nearly bent double. Ginny hit Blaise in the shoulder for being dramatic, then scrambled off the table, still trying to shove her knickers back on.
Draco peeked through his fingers, immediately regretted it, and covered his face again with a tortured noise. "Why the dining table? Why not a bed? A wall? The floor? Literally any other surface that hasn't held food?"
Blaise clicked his tongue. "Table's sturdy. Holds up well."
"Stop talking," Draco snapped.
Ginny threw her hands up, glaring at Draco's still-covered face. "What the hell do you want, Ferret? Speak before I kill you."
Draco inhaled sharply, voice strained. "I need your help."
Ginny's frustration flickered into concern. "What happened?"
"It is about something you have no business sticking your nose into." Draco muttered.
Blaise stepped forward, still naked until he finally grabbed a robe off the chair and tied it loose around his waist. His voice was calmer now, though the threat underneath it was sharp. "Talk."
Ginny huffed, waving them off. "Fine. Have your secret boy meeting." She started up the stairs, then turned and pointed at Draco.
"Oh, and next time," she said sweetly, "give a girl time to have AT LEAST TWO ORGASMS before scarring yourself for life."
Draco gagged again. "I hate you."
Blaise laughed under his breath. "You walked in. That is on you."
Blaise poured whiskey, setting a glass in front of him. "Drink. You need it."
Draco nodded once and swallowed half the glass in a single go.
"Now," Blaise said, voice steady. "Tell me why you came here."
Draco set his glass down, staring at it like it held answers. "Weasley," he said finally.
Blaise froze. "Arthur?"
"Ronald."
Blaise's jaw tightened.
Draco continued. "He is losing it. He is reckless enough to talk. And if he talks to the wrong people, it puts Hermione in danger." His voice cracked a little. "I will not let that happen."
All trace of humor vanished from the room. Blaise straightened, eyes sharp.
"Start from the beginning," he said quietly.
Draco did.
~~~~~~
A few minutes later, Zabini stepped out of the bedroom wearing a charcoal Valentino suit so sharp it could have cut glass. Every button aligned, every fold smooth. His cologne settled in the air like a warning. Draco watched him with a level of relief he would never admit, because this was Blaise at his most dangerous. Quiet. Polished. Purposeful.
Blaise adjusted his tie with a slow, careful pull. The gesture was elegant, almost delicate, yet charged with the kind of intent that made Draco's shoulders loosen.
"Make sure he gets the message," Draco said, calm but unblinking.
Blaise smoothed his cuffs. "He will." A glint flashed through his eyes, sharp as a razor's edge. "Weasley will not only get it. He will feel it."
Draco cleared his throat. "Just keep it subtle. We don't need a Ministry investigation. Not this week."
Blaise let out a small laugh, dark and amused. "Subtle is my middle name."
Draco raised a brow. "No, it is not."
Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was chaos in physical form. Bright lights. Shrieking sweets. Spell smoke drifting through the air. It was the kind of place Blaise hated. Too loud. Too crowded. Too cheerful.
He walked through the door and the noise dimmed, as if the shop itself sensed a predator had arrived.
Ron Weasley was at the front counter, explaining a Skiving Snackbox to a pair of Hogwarts girls. His expression shifted when he noticed Blaise approaching. Wariness slid over his features like a shadow.
"Zabini," Ron said, straightening. "What do you want?"
Blaise smiled. It was pleasant enough, but the sort of pleasant that made your stomach tighten. "A moment of your time. Alone."
Ron hesitated, then jerked his head toward the back. "Fine."
They moved into the storage room. The hum of the shop faded. The door clicked shut.
Ron crossed his arms. "Alright. What is this about?"
Blaise's expression changed all at once. The warmth vanished. His eyes cooled to something flat and precise.
"It is about Hermione."
Ron stiffened.
"Draco is concerned," Blaise continued. "And when Draco is concerned, I pay attention."
Ron let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, spare me. He married her without giving her a real choice. He cut all of us out. She barely talks to us anymore. And he is worried about me?"
"You misunderstand," Blaise said softly. "Draco is worried about what you might do."
Ron's jaw ticked. "I would never hurt her."
"No," Blaise said, tilting his head slightly. "But you might hurt him. And if you do, you hurt her. That is the part you never seem to grasp."
Ron scoffed, but his eyes flickered.
Blaise slipped a hand into his jacket. The movement was slow, unhurried, almost elegant. When his hand emerged, he held a Muggle Wasp Injector knife. Sleek. Black. Designed to inject lethal venom into the target with one clean puncture.
Ron's breath caught. "What the hell is that?"
"A tool," Blaise said calmly. "Muggles make the most interesting toys when they put their minds to it."
He twirled the knife once, the metal catching the dim light, then held it loosely at his side.
"Here is the part where you listen," Blaise said, stepping in close enough that Ron could smell the cologne and the cold metal and something far more dangerous beneath it. "No more attempts to contact Hermione behind Draco's back. No more righteous speeches. No more dramatic rescue fantasies. She is safe. She is protected. And she is staying exactly where she is."
Ron swallowed hard. "Or what?"
Blaise's smile returned. A slow, amused curl that had absolutely nothing friendly in it.
"Or I show you what this knife can do."
Ron's eyes widened. Blaise leaned in even closer, lowering his voice.
"It empties a man's veins from the inside. Quiet. Efficient. Very clean. The Ministry could stand in the room while it happened and still not realize you were dying."
Ron stared, unable to speak.
Blaise patted his cheek once, almost affectionate. "Relax. I am not here to kill you. Draco would be annoyed with me if I did. But you needed to understand that we are not playing games."
Ron's voice came out tight. "I care about her."
"So do we," Blaise said. "Which is why you will not involve yourself again."
He stepped back, pocketing the knife with a soft click. "Good talk."
Outside, Draco sat on a bench with a mint ice cream cone, looking like a man on break from paperwork rather than someone who had just sent his closest friend to intimidate a Weasley. The late afternoon light softened the sharp angles of his face. He looked up when he heard footsteps, tracking Blaise with a lazy sort of curiosity.
Blaise crossed the street with the ease of a man returning from a business meeting rather than a threat delivery. He carried himself like the city belonged to him. His suit was crisp. His walk was unhurried. The faint scent of his cologne drifted ahead of him.
"Did Weasel get the message?" Draco asked, taking a slow lick of his ice cream.
Blaise adjusted his cufflink with a small, thoughtful tilt of his head. "He did." There was no smugness in his voice. Only certainty. "He understood exactly how far we are prepared to go."
Draco hummed, unconcerned. "Good."
Blaise slipped a hand inside his jacket, checking that the knife was seated properly. It was a habit, nothing more. The same way another man might check his quill or wand holster. "These Muggle tools are something else," he said with calm appreciation. "Efficient. Precise. No magical signature to trace. They make our job easier."
Draco snorted. "Please do not start a collection."
Blaise shrugged lightly. "It is part of the craft. You refine the tools. You evolve the methods. You stay ahead. That is how we survive."
Draco took another bite of his ice cream, utterly unfazed. "You sound like you are about to start giving lectures."
Blaise smirked. "Only to you."
They fell into step together, heading down the street. The sun hung low behind them, stretching their shadows across the pavement. Two well-dressed men walking home, blending neatly into the flow of London life. An assassin with a venom injector in his suit pocket and an ex-hitman finishing a mint cone.
Normal. Quiet. As familiar as breathing.
"Did he try to argue?" Draco asked, his voice casual, like he was asking about a shop order.
"For a moment," Blaise said. "But I helped him understand the structure of the situation."
Draco nodded. "Good. Clarity keeps people alive."
Blaise's mouth curved slightly. "Exactly."
~~~~~~
Ginny moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, the scent of roasted vegetables and freshly baked bread filling the air. The warm, inviting atmosphere should have been comforting, but something nagged at her. Where the hell had he gone?
He had left earlier without a word—no note, no explanation—just disappeared into thin air. And while she was used to his occasional bouts of secrecy, this felt different. There was an edge to his absence that made her uneasy.
Just as she placed the final touches on their meal, the familiar crack of Apparition echoed from the hallway. Her heart gave a small, involuntary lurch. She turned, glancing over her shoulder just as he strode into the kitchen, looking slightly disheveled but otherwise composed.
She noted the subtle signs—his slightly mussed curls, the dust clinging to the edges of his jacket, the way he rolled his shoulders as if shaking off tension. Where the hell have you been?
"Where've you been?" she asked, aiming for casual but failing miserably. She wiped her hands on her apron, watching him closely.
He met her gaze, his usual mask of nonchalance firmly in place. With a careless shrug, he brushed some lint off his sleeve, exuding the effortless cool that usually worked on everyone—but not on her.
"The spoiled one needed some help with his business," he drawled, a wry smirk playing at his lips. The way he said it—both affectionate and exasperated—made it clear exactly which spoiled one he was talking about.
She folded her arms, leaning against the counter. "What's he up to now?" she asked, her voice light but her eyes sharp.
He stepped further into the kitchen, running a hand through his curls as he leaned against the counter. "Oh, you know Draco—always tangled up in something, always needing me to help sort it out." His tone was teasing, but there was something else beneath it. Something unspoken.
And he wasn't looking at her.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. He's hiding something.
"Blaise," she said, firmer now, her arms tightening across her chest. "You've been gone for hours. You don't just disappear like that unless it's something serious."
She stepped toward him, resting a hand on his arm, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. "What's really going on?"
For a moment, he hesitated. His gaze flickered down to her hand, and in that brief second, she saw it—the crack in his carefully curated calm. The faintest flicker of something that looked a lot like hesitation.
With a heavy sigh, he pushed away from the counter and dropped into a chair at the table, rubbing his temples.
"It's... complicated, Gin," he admitted at last. "Draco's dealing with some things—things I can't exactly get into." He paused, clearly weighing how much to tell her. "Let's just say he's got a lot on his plate, and he needed some backup."
She sat across from him, her concern deepening. "What kind of backup?" she pressed. "You're not in danger, are you? Draco's not pulling you into something that could get you both in trouble?"
He shook his head, reaching for her hand, his fingers lacing through hers in a reassuring grip. "No, it's nothing like that." His thumb ran absently over the back of her hand, grounding both of them. "Draco's just—let's say he's got some personal issues, and he needed someone to make sure he didn't do something stupid."
LIAR.
She leveled him with a skeptical look, her eyes moving over his face in a quiet attempt to catch any slip in his expression. Blaise never cracked easily. He had a gift for composure that bordered on infuriating, and she knew better than to push him past a certain point. If she pressed too hard, he would only pull away, retreating behind those walls he had spent years perfecting.
She trusted him. She did. But Malfoy was an entirely different story.
Even so, she exhaled slowly and let her shoulders drop. "Alright," she said at last, though the little crease between her brows refused to smooth out. "But if you ever need to talk, I'm here. Always."
He leaned forward and pressed a long, soft kiss to her forehead. His lips carried warmth, steady and grounding, and for a moment she melted into it, allowing herself to soak in the simple comfort of being held by someone who knew her better than anyone else.
"I know," he whispered against her skin. "And I appreciate that more than you think."
She almost said something else, something pointed and careful that might have nudged at the truth he was hiding, but he pulled back first. His hands found her waist, gentle but insistent, and in one smooth motion he tugged her upright with him.
"Now," he said lightly, deliberately pushing them toward safer ground, "let us forget about Draco for a bit. You have been working in this kitchen for ages, and I am starving."
She arched a brow at how quickly he changed the subject, but she let it slide.
"For someone who vanishes without warning," she said, crossing her arms, "you have an awful lot of opinions."
He smirked and slid an arm around her waist again, pulling her close enough that their noses almost brushed. "I always notice you," he said, the words soft but edged with that familiar heat. "And I would have been here sooner if I had not been busy saving Malfoy from whatever idiocy he was about to pull."
Ginny snorted, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing how that line warmed her. "Right. Well, if you want to eat, you can set the table."
He let out a long, theatrical sigh, the kind that made her roll her eyes even as her lips twitched. "I am overworked," he muttered as he walked toward the cupboards. "And deeply underappreciated."
She let him complain under his breath without interruption. Hearing him grumble was a strange comfort, familiar and grounding after the uncertainty of earlier.
Soon enough, they sat at the table, the warm bread steaming between them, the roasted vegetables filling the air with a rich, earthy scent. It should have been an easy, comforting moment, but she still felt the invisible thread pulling at her thoughts.
He tried. She would give him that. He pulled the conversation toward lighter ground, teasing her about the crime novel she had devoured last week, groaning dramatically about the latest Quidditch scandal, gossiping about Theo with a smug little smirk that made her laugh despite herself.
She let him talk. She laughed in the right places. She stole bits of bread from his plate just to see him huff.
But even while she smiled, her mind kept drifting back to the questions he had not answered.
Back to Draco.
Back to the way Blaise had flinched, barely noticeable but very real, when she asked what he had been pulled into.
Back to the shadows that sometimes clung to him when he returned from these sudden disappearances.
He reached across the table, letting his fingers brush hers, gentle and deliberate. She lifted her gaze to meet his, and there was something in his eyes that almost made her stop thinking entirely.
Almost.
~~~~~~
Ginny Weasley had been through war. She had fought Death Eaters, survived Hogwarts in its darkest years, and stared down some of the most dangerous wizards alive without flinching. She had duelled, bled, survived, and rebuilt herself more times than she could count. She was not easily rattled.
Nothing, however, had prepared her for the absolute hell that was wedding planning with Pansy Parkinson.
She had faced curses that tore through stone, but none of them compared to Pansy's daily breakdown over floral symmetry. She had survived the Carrows, yet she found herself on the brink of madness because Pansy had decided the colour cream was an insult to her soul. There were days when Ginny genuinely wondered if she should have stayed on the battlefield. At least there, the screaming made sense.
It wasn't just Blaise and his secrecy wearing her down, although that was its own special type of torture. His sudden disappearances, half-truths, and too-calm eyes had her nerves strung tight as bowstrings. But that was almost manageable compared to the whirlwind of couture and chaos who had commandeered her entire week.
Pansy Parkinson was a natural disaster in heels. A force of nature wrapped in silk and diamonds, destroying everything in her path through sheer dramatic willpower. She was sharp, theatrical, and painfully specific about every detail, and Ginny had always known she was intense. What she had not expected was whatever the hell wedding-planning Pansy had become.
This was a new creature entirely.
If Pansy wasn't on the verge of tears over the curvature of a bouquet, she was threatening to set an entire catering team on fire because their menu lacked the "mystical resonance of eternal devotion." Ginny had watched her collapse into a chaise lounge because a tablecloth pattern reminded her of a tragic childhood memory. She had also watched her scream at a seamstress because a stitch "stared at her with malicious intent."
It was as if Pansy had mistaken her own wedding for a high-stakes political summit where fabric choices might determine the fate of wizarding civilisation.
And Ginny? Ginny had somehow been dragged into the role of unwilling right-hand general in a war she never signed up for.
She had always thought she was patient. She had held her own through years of chaos with brothers who believed subtlety was a foreign concept. She had survived growing up in a house full of boys, survived a diary that tried to swallow her mind, survived battle and grief and recovery.
Yet here she was, one Tuesday afternoon, ready to throw herself into a decorative flower arrangement just to escape another conversation about the symbolism of lavender versus lilac.
Because Pansy bloody Parkinson wanted perfection.
And Merlin help anyone who stood in her way.
The first sign that Pansy had officially gone off the deep end came during a spectacular meltdown over the bridesmaids' dresses.
"It must be the exact shade of moonlit lavender," Pansy had announced, sweeping into the fitting room like a prophet carrying the world's most dramatic revelation. She held up fabric swatches as if they were cursed relics of ancient magic. "Not too light. Not too dark. One shade off and the entire ceremony collapses."
Ginny had stared at her flatly. "It's lavender, Pans. It isn't some ancient runic stone. No one is going to riot if it's a little too light."
Pansy had gasped, genuinely scandalised, hand pressed to her chest like Ginny had just spat on her family crest. "Everyone will riot. I will riot. Do you want that on your conscience, Red? Do you?"
Ginny had breathed slowly through her nose, counted to ten, then counted again when that didn't work. "Alright. Fine. No riots." She tugged the fabrics from Pansy's trembling hands. "We'll find the right shade. Promise."
That disaster had been the warm-up.
Because then came the flowers.
Merlin help her, the flowers.
What should have been a thirty-minute decision turned into a week-long interrogation. Pansy descended upon the poor florist like an Auror conducting a final cross-examination.
"White roses," Pansy said confidently. Then instantly changed her mind. "No. Ivory. Wait. No. Creamy white with a hint of blush. But not too much blush because I refuse to have my bouquet upstage my gown."
By the time she was done, the florist looked like she had seen death. Ginny, on the other hand, was actively considering taking up smoking.
But the real breaking point came with the wedding invitations.
Pansy held up a sample card, stared at it for three seconds, then hurled it across the room like it had personally insulted her.
"This font is appalling," she declared. "What kind of barbarian chooses something that evokes Times New Roman? Do you want my guests to feel visually assaulted?"
Ginny barely managed to catch the card. "This isn't Times New Roman."
"I know it isn't Times New Roman," Pansy snapped, pacing wildly. "It evokes Times New Roman, and that is worse."
Ginny had stared at her for a long, silent moment, absolutely convinced she was being punished for something she had done in a past life. "We will find a font that does not evoke Times New Roman," she said through clenched teeth.
Pansy nodded, instantly soothed. Ginny, meanwhile, began drafting a furious letter to the universe demanding reparations.
And the cake. Sweet Circe, the cake.
Pansy spent hours discussing the cake. Not selecting it. Discussing it. Ginny had listened to her monologue about layers, textures, symbolic flavours, and the spiritual implications of sugar roses.
"The cake must be art," Pansy murmured gravely. "Something unforgettable. Something worthy. Something that speaks."
Ginny had nodded, contemplating lighting the bakery on fire.
The absurdity only escalated.
Seating charts became a political nightmare. Lighting turned into a crisis worthy of a Wizengamot hearing. One afternoon, Pansy insisted they spend three hours analysing the emotional resonance of enchanted candlelight.
"Red, if I am photographed under harsh magical lighting I will appear washed out. Washed out. On my wedding day."
Ginny rubbed her eyes, exhausted. "I want to survive this without becoming an alcoholic."
"Drama," Pansy sniffed. "Now help me choose which shimmer best complements my aura."
Ginny had aged ten years in the course of a week.
And Blaise found all of it mildly amusing.
When she finally burst one evening, ranting as she chopped dinner with more force than necessary, Blaise's only response was to lounge back on the sofa and sip Firewhiskey like he was watching theatre.
"She is being ridiculous," Ginny snapped, nearly slicing the cutting board in half.
"Pansy is always ridiculous," Blaise replied smoothly, swirling his drink. "This is her natural habitat."
"This is worse," Ginny corrected, pointing the knife at him accusingly. "This is no-sleep-eye-twitching madness. She had a meltdown over the texture of a veil. A veil, Blaise."
He shrugged, eyes glinting with amusement. "You agreed to help."
"I agreed under the understanding that she was a normal level of dramatic, not twelve-screaming-peacocks-at-sunrise dramatic."
Blaise laughed, stood, and slipped behind her, pressing a slow kiss to the side of her neck. "You love her," he murmured, smug as always. "And you love a challenge."
Ginny slumped back against him, defeated. "Some challenges. This one is going to kill me."
He hummed thoughtfully. "If it does, I'll send flowers. But the right flowers. With approved colours."
She swatted him, but she was laughing too, shoulders loosening in spite of herself.
Because she loved Pansy.
But Merlin save her from this wedding.
Pansy did not knock.
She never knocked.
She burst into the Zabini kitchen with the force of a tropical storm and the emotional stability of a teetering stack of potion vials. The back door flew open with a bang, her heels clicking furiously as she stormed inside.
"Red," she announced, breathless. "We have a crisis."
Ginny froze mid-stir, wooden spoon hovering in the air. "I swear to Merlin, if this is another issue about table linens, I am walking straight into the lake."
Pansy placed both hands on the counter, leaning forward dramatically. "It is worse."
Ginny's soul briefly left her body.
"Worse than the linens?" she asked weakly.
Pansy nodded gravely. "Much worse. It is the seating arrangement."
Ginny slapped her forehead. "No. I refuse. I am not doing this today."
Pansy ignored her entirely and began pacing the kitchen as if she were planning a military siege. "I have spent hours arranging and rearranging that chart. Hours, Ginny. Hours that I will never get back. My youth is slipping away and for what? For Potter and Longbottom to act like children every time they are placed less than two tables apart?"
Ginny's eye twitched. "Pansy. Sweetheart. They are friends."
"Friends who cannot be trusted," Pansy snapped. "Neville will wander off to touch plants. And Potter will follow because he is pathologically incapable of minding his own business."
Ginny opened her mouth to argue, closed it, and instead silently prayed for strength.
Before she could even answer, the front door swung open and Draco strode in. He was mid-argument with someone, already annoyed, already done with everyone's nonsense.
He spotted Pansy and froze.
"No," he said immediately, pointing at her like she was a dangerous creature. "I am not doing this again."
"Oh, you are doing this," Pansy replied, stabbing a manicured finger in his direction. "I need your opinion."
"You do not need my opinion," Draco said. "You need therapy."
Ginny's laugh came out in a pained little wheeze.
Pansy grabbed Draco by the wrist and dragged him toward the dining table. "Malfoy, you are sitting next to Potter."
Draco recoiled like she had spat poison at him. "Absolutely not."
"You must," Pansy insisted. "Your presence will keep him from wandering."
Draco looked at her, then at Ginny, then back at her again. "Pansy, the last time I sat next to him at a formal event he asked me my feelings on imported quinoa."
Pansy rolled her eyes. "Oh, get over yourself. You survived Voldemort. You can survive a conversation about grains."
Ginny leaned her elbows on the counter, face buried in her hands. "Merlin give me patience."
At that exact moment, Theo walked in behind Draco, carrying a box of enchanted candles and looking as though he had aged a decade since breakfast.
"If she asks me to smell one more candle, I am throwing myself into the fireplace," Theo announced to the room. "She made me rank them by their emotional aftertaste."
Ginny stared. "What does that even mean?"
"I do not know," Theo said, eyes hollow. "I do not know anymore."
Pansy whirled on him. "Theo, you are late. I need your opinion on the couple's entrance music."
"No," Theo said, backing toward the door like an escaped prisoner. "You cannot make me listen to another string quartet version of anything."
Pansy gasped. "Theo Nott, how dare you take this lightly?"
Theo threw his hands up. "I am doing my best. Truly. But the caterer cried today, Pans. She cried. You cannot keep terrorizing people."
Pansy blinked, surprised. "She cried?"
"Yes," Theo said. "And she fainted when you asked her if the soup had enough soul."
Ginny lost it. She clapped a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking as she tried to laugh quietly. She failed.
Pansy spun toward her. "Red. You promised to help. Why are you laughing?"
Ginny lifted one trembling finger. "Because if I do not laugh, I will cry, Pans."
Blaise entered the kitchen at this exact moment, leaning against the doorframe and observing the chaos with clear amusement. He crossed his arms and surveyed the scene like a king watching clowns in his court.
"What did I miss?" Blaise asked.
Pansy threw her arms in the air dramatically. "Everything is falling apart. The wedding is doomed."
Blaise arched a brow. "Have you tried simply eloping?"
Everyone froze.
Pansy stared at him like he had grown a second head. "Elope?"
Theo looked hopeful. "Elope."
Draco nodded. "Yes. Elope. Save us all."
Ginny raised both hands toward the heavens. "Please elope. I beg you."
But Pansy looked horrified. "Red, how dare you. Absolutely not. My wedding will be perfect."
"Your wedding is a crime scene," Ginny muttered under her breath.
Blaise chuckled and stepped forward to wrap an arm around her, kissing the top of her head. "You, love, need a break."
"No, I need a padded cell," she said, voice small.
Then she fled to the pantry.
She shut the door behind her, leaned back against the shelves, and let out the world's most exhausted sigh. She slid down to the floor, staring at the sacks of flour like they were her only allies in this cruel universe.
Outside, she heard Blaise whisper, "She is in the pantry."
Pansy gasped. "Oh no. She is hiding from me."
Theo whispered back, "We are all hiding from you."
Ginny groaned. "I can hear you idiots."
Then Blaise's voice, warm and fond. "Darling, you cannot live in the pantry."
"Yes, I can," she said through the door. "I am safe here."
Draco snorted. "Move over. I am joining you."
Theo sighed. "Make room for me too."
Pansy scoffed loudly. "Pathetic. All of you."
Blaise chuckled and pushed the pantry door open just enough to peek inside. "Come on, bambola. Let us rescue you from the wedding planner."
"You married the wedding planner," Ginny shot back. "This is your fault."
He only grinned and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "And I would do it again."
She groaned and let him pull her up, her knees cracking like she had aged twenty years.
Pansy clapped her hands. "Good. Now that we are all refreshed, let us return to the seating chart."
All four of them groaned at once.