Beneath the Masks

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—unannounced, uninvited, and, as it turned out, completely unwelcome. The crack of his arrival shattered the intimate atmosphere, startling the couple in the middle of a very enthusiastic activity on the dining table.

For a split second, everything froze. Then, three things happened at once: Ginny let out a startled yelp, Blaise shot him the filthiest glare of his life, and Draco's eyes went far wider than necessary as he processed exactly what he had walked into.

"For the love of Merlin—GINEVRA!" he half-shouted, throwing both hands over his eyes like he could somehow erase the image now permanently burned into his brain. "I—I am going to need extensive therapy. And possibly Obliviation."

Ginny, breathless and thoroughly compromised, groaned in absolute frustration as she hurriedly adjusted her dress. "Ferret, what the hell are you doing here?" she snapped, her voice laced with equal parts irritation and mortification.

Blaise, on the other hand, didn't move an inch. Still entirely naked, still seated at the table like he owned the damn world, he simply leaned back against his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. His eyebrow arched in the epitome of unbothered amusement. "To what do we owe the pleasure, Malfoy?" he drawled, voice thick with sarcasm.

Draco, despite still covering his face, managed to glare through his fingers. "Oh, fuck off, Zabini."

He sighed, lowering his hands slightly—only to immediately regret it when his gaze flickered back to Ginny's now haphazardly adjusted dress. He looked away so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

"I need your help," he said instead, his tone clipped, determined to move past whatever the hell this was.

Ginny's irritation wavered, concern creeping into her expression. She studied him for a moment before exhaling. "What's wrong, Malfoy?"

Draco hesitated, glancing around as if checking for eavesdroppers before pulling out a chair and sitting down—still very much refusing to acknowledge whatever just happened on this particular piece of furniture. "It's about something that you have no business sticking your nose into," he muttered.

Blaise exchanged a look with Ginny, his smirk deepening.

She huffed, rolling her eyes dramatically before tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Alright, Ferret, fine—I'll leave," she said, waving a dismissive hand as she stepped away from the table. But then, she turned back, leveling Draco with a very pointed look.

"Oh, and next time?" she added sweetly, "Let me have at least two orgasms before you go barging in."

Draco gagged. "Fucking hell, woman!"

Blaise chuckled lowly as Ginny grabbed her knickers from where they had been very unceremoniously tossed onto the table and sauntered upstairs.

Once she was gone, Draco ran a hand down his face, inhaling deeply like he needed to reset his entire existence.

"I hate both of you," he muttered.

Blaise smirked, finally standing and mercifully grabbing a robe from the nearby chair, tying it loosely around his waist. "And yet, you still come to me for help," he mused, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. He motioned toward Draco with the bottle. "Drink?"

Draco exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "Yes."

Blaise slid a glass across the table before sinking back into his chair. "So," he drawled, watching as Draco downed half the drink in one go. "What's got you in such a state that you risked witnessing that?"

Draco sighed heavily, setting the glass down. "It's Weasley," he admitted, his voice growing serious. "I think he's getting desperate. He's reckless enough to talk, and if he does—" He shook his head. "I need to protect my wife from him."

 ~~~~~~

A few minutes later, Zabini was dressed in his immaculate Valentino suit and headed out to the joke shop WWW, where Ronald worked. Draco watched as his friend adjusted his tie with meticulous care, every movement precise and deliberate.

"Make sure that he gets the massage" Draco commanded, a hint of command in his voice.

"Leave it to me," he said, a glint in his eye. "Weasley won't know what hit him."

Draco couldn't help but smirk. "Just... try to keep it subtle," he cautioned, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "We don't want to attract any unwanted Ministry attention."

At Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, the vibrant atmosphere contrasted starkly with Blaise's mission. The shop buzzed with energy, colorful products lining the shelves and cheerful customers milling about. Blaise strode in, his presence commanding attention despite the jovial surroundings.

Ronald, who was busy assisting a group of young witches with a selection of prank items, looked up and spotted Blaise. His expression shifted from confusion to wariness as Blaise approached.

"Ronald Weasley," Blaise greeted smoothly, his voice cutting through the chatter.

Ron straightened, his eyes narrowing. "Zabini. What do you want?"

Blaise smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Just a word. In private, if you don't mind."

Ron glanced around, then nodded curtly. "Fine. Follow me."

They moved to the back of the shop, away from prying eyes and ears. Once they were alone, Ron crossed his arms and faced Blaise. "Alright, what is this about?"

Blaise's demeanor shifted from casual to serious in an instant. "Draco came to me with concerns about your recent... interactions with Hermione. He's worried about what you might do."

Ron scoffed. "Worried, is he? After everything he's done?"

Blaise raised an eyebrow - "And what is that he done"?

Ron's eyes flashed with anger. "He married her, manipulated her. He's the reason she's not talking to us anymore".

Blaise's gaze hardened. "Be that as it may, this isn't the time for grudges. Malfoy has made it clear that he won't tolerate any threats to Hermione's safety. And I'm here to make sure you understand that."

Ron stared at Blaise, a mixture of resentment and grudging respect in his eyes. "So, what? You're here to intimidate me?"

Blaise's smile returned, this time with a hint of genuine amusement, while pulling out a Wasp Injector knife. "That we're all on the same page. Hermione's happiness is OUR priority. If you truly care about her, you'll stay out of their way."

Ron clenched his jaw but remained silent, the weight of Blaise's words sinking in.

Blaise nodded, satisfied. "Good. I'm glad we understand each other."

With that, Blaise turned and left the shop, leaving Ron standing alone, his thoughts a tumultuous mix of anger, regret, and reluctant acceptance.

Malfoy waited outside of the shop, enjoying his mint flavored ice cream like nothing happened inside. "Did Weasel get the message?" Draco asked.

With a smirk, Blaise just smiled, tucking his knife into his belt. "He did," he answered.

Muggles are good at some inventions at least. 

~~~~~~

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, searching his face for any cracks in his composure. But she knew better than to push—Blaise was an expert at deflecting, and pressing him too hard would only make him retreat further into his carefully guarded walls.

She trusted him. But Malfoy? Not so much.

Still, she exhaled slowly, relenting for now. "Alright," she said at last, though the slight furrow in her brow betrayed her lingering doubt. "But if you ever need to talk... I'm here. Always."

He leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead, his lips warm and reassuring against her skin. "I know," he murmured. "And I appreciate that more than you realize."

For a moment, she let herself soften into the warmth of him, the steady, familiar weight of his presence. But just as she was about to press further, to test the waters of his carefully measured words, he pulled back, tugging her up with him in one smooth motion.

"Now," he said, his voice lighter, deliberately steering them away from heavier things, "let's forget about Draco for a while. You've been slaving away in here, and I'm starving."

She arched an eyebrow at his transparent attempt to change the subject but let it slide—for now.

"Oh, so you did notice I was slaving away while you were off doing God-knows-what?" she teased, crossing her arms.

He smirked, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her flush against him. "I always notice, bambola. And I would've been here sooner if I wasn't so busy saving Malfoy from himself."

She rolled her eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. "Uh-huh. Well, if you want to eat, you're setting the table."

With a dramatic sigh, he released her, muttering something about being overworked and underappreciated as he moved to grab the plates. She smirked but didn't comment, letting the easy rhythm of their routine settle the tension still lingering in the air.

They sat down to eat, the scent of warm bread and roasted vegetables filling the space between them. But despite the comfort of the meal, she could still feel the weight of their earlier conversation hanging in the air, an unspoken presence neither of them fully acknowledged.

He made an effort—steering their discussion toward lighter topics, teasing her about her recent obsession with a new mystery novel, rolling his eyes at the latest Quidditch scandal, dropping bits of gossip about their friends with just enough amusement to keep her engaged.

And she played along, laughing at his dry commentary, letting herself get momentarily swept into the conversation. But even as she smiled, even as she sipped her wine and listened to him talk about something Theo had done last week, her mind kept drifting.

Back to Draco.

Back to whatever mess he had dragged Blaise into.

She trusted her husband with her life—but that didn't mean she could ignore the tension in his shoulders, the unspoken weight behind his words, the way his gaze had flickered—just once—when she pressed him for the truth.

~~~~~~

Ginny Weasley had been through war. She had fought Death Eaters, survived the chaos of Hogwarts, and faced down some of the most dangerous wizards in the world. And yet—somehow—nothing had tested her patience quite like the absolute nightmare that was wedding planning with Pansy bloody Parkinson.

It wasn't just Blaise and his infuriating secrecy gnawing at her patience, though Merlin knew that was enough to make her want to hex him into next week. No, the real battle, the true test of her sanity, came in the form of one high-strung, high-maintenance, couture-clad menace to society.

Pansy Parkinson was chaos incarnate. A force of nature wrapped in silk and diamonds, leaving destruction in her wake with every dramatically flung hand gesture. Ginny had always known Pansy was a lot—sharp-tongued, unreasonably particular, and dramatic enough to put an entire theater troupe to shame. But ever since wedding planning had kicked into high gear, she had ascended to an entirely new level of unhinged.

If she wasn't wailing about the exact curvature of her bouquet arrangement, she was threatening to hex an entire catering staff for their complete and utter failure to capture the "emotional essence" of a reception menu. It was as if she had mistaken her wedding for a battlefield, determined to crush anything that stood between her and matrimonial perfection.

And Ginny? Ginny had somehow become her unwilling war general.

The first sign that Pansy had officially gone off the deep end came during an absurd meltdown over the bridesmaids' dresses.

"It must be the exact shade of moonlit lavender," Pansy had declared dramatically, brandishing fabric swatches as if they were cursed artifacts. "Not too light, not too dark. If it's even slightly off, it'll ruin everything."

Ginny had blinked, utterly unamused. "Pans, it's lavender. It's not some ancient, sacred relic. I doubt anyone is going to storm out of the wedding screaming if it's a shade too light."

"Oh, everyone will notice!" Pansy had gasped, her expression scandalized, as if Ginny had personally insulted her bloodline. "I will notice. And if it's wrong, it will haunt me for the rest of my life. Do you want that on your conscience, Red? Do you?"

Ginny had inhaled sharply through her nose, counted to ten—twice—before offering the only response that would keep her from launching a stunning spell at the woman. "Alright, Pansy. We'll find the right shade. No ghosts. No hauntings."

But that had only been the beginning.

Next, the flowers—dear Merlin, the flowers. What should have been a simple selection turned into a week-long saga filled with near-tears, aggressive color swatch comparisons, and Pansy interrogating a poor florist like she was leading an Auror investigation.

"White roses," she had started. Then immediately: "No. Ivory. No—creamy white with just a hint of blush. But not too much blush because—Merlin forbid—they cannot upstage the gown."

By the time the conversation ended, the florist looked as if she was actively plotting her own disappearance. Ginny, meanwhile, strongly considered joining her.

But nothing—not the dresses, not the flowers, not even Pansy's unrelenting vendetta against anyone who dared breathe incorrectly in her presence—had prepared Ginny for the absolute meltdown over the wedding invitations.

"This font is appalling," Pansy had declared, flinging a sample card across the room like it had personally offended her. "What kind of barbarian uses Times New Roman? I swear to Salazar, I will not have my guests visually assaulted before they even arrive!"

Ginny had barely caught the damn thing mid-air, staring at it blankly. "Pansy… this is not Times New Roman."

"I know that," she had snapped, rubbing her temples. "But it evokes Times New Roman, and that is even worse."

Ginny had stared at her, deeply regretting every life choice that had led her to this moment. "You do realize that no one will care about the font, right?"

Pansy had inhaled sharply, clasping her hands together as if she were calling upon every dark force in the universe to strike Ginny down. "How dare you."

At that moment, Ginny had seriously considered sending a patronus to Blaise, warning him that his best friend was a threat to society and should be dealt with immediately.

But instead, she had taken another deep, suffering breath and lied through her teeth.

"Fine," she had said, forcing out the most obnoxiously patient tone she could muster. "We will find the perfect font that does not, in any way, evoke Times New Roman."

That had finally calmed Pansy down.

Ginny, however, had started mentally composing a very strongly worded letter to the universe demanding to know what sins she had committed to deserve this level of suffering. 

And then there was the cake. Ginny still had nightmares about the cake.

Pansy had spent hours—literal hours—deliberating over every possible flavor, texture, and decoration, treating the decision with the same gravity as if she were finalizing a high-stakes international treaty.

"The cake must be a work of art," she had declared, her voice somber, like she was pronouncing a prophecy. "Something that will be remembered. Discussed. Immortalized. This will not be just any cake, Red. This will be the cake."

Ginny had nodded along, her expression neutral, all while internally fantasizing about setting the entire bloody thing on fire just to be done with it. Who cared if it was vanilla or chocolate? Who cared if the icing was too thick or the sugar roses weren't precisely the right shade of ivory?

Pansy, apparently.

And she was making it everyone's problem.

The absurdity only escalated from there.

Each tiny, insignificant detail transformed into a matter of life and death. The seating arrangement was an intricate political puzzle, meticulously designed so that no one of questionable blood status sat too close to any purebloods—not because anyone actually cared, but because Pansy was committed to the bit.

The lighting of the reception hall was another war altogether.

"Red, I refuse to be photographed under harsh magical lighting," she had said with absolute conviction, flipping through lighting samples like they were classified Ministry documents. "If even one shade is off, I'll look washed out. Do you want me to look washed out on my wedding day?"

Ginny had rubbed at her temples, exhausted beyond belief. "I want to survive this wedding planning without developing an alcohol dependency."

"Dramatic," Pansy sniffed. "Now, be useful and help me determine which enchanted glow best complements my aura."

By the time Ginny had endured weeks of this relentless, high-stakes, Pansy-level madness, she was certain she had sprouted a few gray hairs.

And the worst part?

They weren't even done yet.

Blaise, of course, found the whole situation mildly amusing—which only served to infuriate her further.

"She's being ridiculous, Blaise!" she had ranted one evening, after enduring an excruciating day helping Pansy select the perfect wedding shoes. (Yes, wedding shoes—which, according to Pansy, had to be the exact right height, made of a non-scuffing material that could handle "pressure," and, apparently, infused with the essence of celestial perfection.)

Blaise, meanwhile, had been sprawled lazily across the couch, looking entirely too comfortable, a glass of Firewhiskey in hand. His only response? A slow, knowing smirk.

"Darling, Pansy's always been dramatic. This is nothing new."

"This is next-level madness," she shot back, pacing the room like a caged animal. "I have never seen someone lose their mind over the texture of a veil."

He chuckled, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "You knew what you were getting into when you agreed to help. Pansy doesn't do anything halfway."

"I thought I knew what I was getting into," she muttered darkly. "Turns out, I was woefully unprepared."

But it wasn't just Pansy's obsessive attention to detail that was driving her to the brink of madness. It was the way she had dragged everyone else into her insanity—like her wedding was some kind of international diplomatic event and they were all personally responsible for ensuring world peace.

Draco, for example, had somehow found himself entangled in seating arrangements of all things.

"Honestly, Draco," Pansy had huffed, waving a parchment filled with names under his nose. "You cannot—and I mean cannot—sit Potter next to your mother. Do you want a blood feud breaking out during the soup course?"

Theo had been tasked with curating the music selection, a job he had immediately regretted.

"I want something elegant but modern," Pansy had instructed, pacing in front of him like a general preparing for battle. "Nothing too stuffy, but also nothing that will make me cringe. You understand, don't you, Theo?"

Even Blaise hadn't been spared.

His assignment? Table linens.

Ginny had yet to hear the end of his complaints about being forced to select textiles for a wedding he wasn't even particularly invested in.

"She's planning this thing like it's the bloody wedding of the century," Ginny grumbled one evening as she aggressively chopped vegetables for dinner. "Who cares if the centerpieces have the wrong shade of gold? They're just flowers."

From across the room, he smirked, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. "You care, apparently."

"I care because she's making me care!" she snapped, waving the knife dramatically in the air for emphasis. "She's driving me mental, Blaise. If I hear the word 'aesthetic' one more time, I swear—"

"You'll what?" he cut in smoothly, raising an eyebrow, thoroughly entertained.

"I'll hex the entire bloody wedding," she declared, slamming the knife down onto the cutting board. "And then I'll disappear into the forest and live as a hermit, where no one can ever talk to me about color schemes or floral arrangements again."

He let out a deep, rumbling chuckle before stepping forward, pulling her against him with that easy, infuriating confidence of his. "You won't hex the wedding," he murmured into her ear, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her temple. "You'll grit your teeth, smile politely, and do exactly what Pansy asks, because you're a good friend."

She sighed, sagging against him despite herself. "Why did I agree to this?"

His grin was wicked, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Because, despite everything, you love her," he said smugly. "And because you can't resist a challenge."

She groaned dramatically, burying her face against his chest. "Some challenges," she muttered. "This wedding is going to be the death of me."