A/N: Allright, you've caught me. I really should be updating my other stories, and trust me, I've been trying. I've had the worst case of I'm-lazy-and-can't-think-of-a-good-plot-twist soo I'm waiting it out until some type of miracle-inspiration kicks in. Pity it had to come in the form of a new plotline for a new story, so here we go. Let's just hope I can keep up with 4 stories-I told myself in the beginning that the max would be 2. Which changed to 3. And now I guess it's 4.
It is AU, so if anyone flames me saying that this wouldn't happen in the canon world-I'll point and laugh.
Also, I'm aware that Ginny's true name is Ginevra, or something like that, isn't that right? And that's all nice and well....I've really got nothing against the name, it's actually quite a nice name, but the idea of "Virgina Weasley" has been in my head since the first book that I'm quite attached to it. And in my head, Ginny is much more of a "Virginia" than a "Ginevra," at least in my opinion. So she'll remain Virginia in probably all of my stories. If anyone has a real, burning passion of hate for this, mention it in ur review!
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Girl Boy
Chapter One: Rift
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(Harry)
Let me introduce myself. Although, I'm quite certain that you know exactly who the bloody hell I am. At least, if you read magazines. Or newspapers. Or tabloids. Watch the telly. Go on the tube.
Who am I? Harry Potter, millionaire extraordinare. I try not to have a big head about it, though. I'm the co-founder of Portkey, the largest line for anything masculine. You got sports drinks, sports bars, the works. I share that title with my best mate, Ronald Weasley. We've known each other since the unhappy wailing of our first breath-we lived right next door and our birthdays are only months apart.
It's not like I'm not happy with my life. I've got everything any British person wants. Money. Fame. Women.
Actually, that's not true. I don't have women. Women want me, but that doesn't mean I technically...have them.
Can you keep a secret?
If this ever got out, I would be the laughing stock of Portkey. Of bars. Of loos. Anything, really.
...I'm actually saving myself.
What? Yeah, that does mean I'm still a virgin.
I'm proud of it, though. I can't ever respect a man who goes to a bar, picks a random girl, has his way with her, and then dumps her the next day. Or girls who enjoy the noncommitment and animalistic pleasure. That's just so...overrated. I pity them, actually.
But I'm secretly proud. Shouting it out wouldn't be the best thing in the world.
And no one expects it, since I am, of course, Harry Potter.
And that I'm going out with Ginny Weasley.
Of course I like her. She's Ron's sister, and by all standards, she's perfect. Auburn locks cascading down her back, a pale complexion any woman would die for, dark brown eyes that gaze right into your soul, a knowing smirk, those pouty lips, a curvy figure...
I could really just go on and on.
But you want to know another secret?
I'm not in love with her, like everything suspects. Sure, I like her. If I was married to her, I wouldn't dislike it, per say. It's just...I don't want to settle. Settle for second rate. And I know that a woman like Ginny Weasley isn't second rate. But she isn't exactly first rate, either.
I want something more.
But like I said, don't tell anyone that. Ron was expecting a proposal at any time. He was more excited about us than we were. But now that he's gone...it's like we don't have anything anymore, me and Ginny. It was as if the only reason we stayed together, the only thing keeping us together, was Ron...
She's a writer. Ginny, I mean. She writes columns and editorials, she's a natural. And currently, she's off in France, doing some sort of writing festival. For...poetry. Singing. Something. All I know is, she's gone for four weeks. Four glorious weeks.
I sit down in my first class chair, on my way to London from New York. I love London, I really do, but I found that I just loved America more. It's not really anything, having a home. I travel so much that I can't honestly say that I have much of one. That's one thing I really-
"I hate flying."
I turn away from the window to face the speaker. She's sitting right next to me, her bushy hair surrounding her trembling face.
"I absolutely hate it."
"It's allright," I say, smiling to her. "It's not like we're going to die." She swallows, nodding nervously.
"Of course not." As an after thought, she turns to me and asks, "Right?"
"Right," I say, patting her hand.
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(Hermione)
I knew the moment McGonagall assigned me to that business meeting with the Three Broomsticks that it would spell disaster.
I don't know what I'm doing, working for Portkey. Back in my school days, I was number one. Top of the class. Same way in college. But once I graduated, once I started studying for lawyering...I didn't want it. Suddenly, my perfectly laid out life crumbled around me. I didn't want my life, I wanted something else. Something...simple.
And Minerva McGonagall, my mother's dear friend, needed a marketing assistant.
"In a year," she said, "You could become a marketing executive."
She said the word like it was becoming God Himself.
Ah, well I thought. I'll take this job, think, and when I find the right occupation for me to fulfill satisfaction and happiness, I can quit. But while I figure out what I wanted from life, I could still manage to pay the rent this way.
Well, it's been a year. And I still have no idea.
I had to fly to Sweden to meet with the Three Broomsticks representative. I knew the moment she said the words, "you" and "fly" that I would be in for one hell of a ride.
I. Hate. To. Fly.
That's just the bottom line. I can do it, I know it's safe, but all the same...I'd very much rather that my feet stay on the ground, exactly where they belong.
Minerva had different plans for me.
"It's just a short, simple meeting, all of our executives are booked, please Hermione? It would do loads for your career here."
My career. At Portkey.
Oh hell, what had I dug myself into?
So now, after a successful meeting, I had been led onto the plane, business class, where I sat next to a handsome man with jet black hair and broad shoulders. He looked slightly familiar, somehow...
After 20 minutes and we were almost launching, I gripped my arm rests instinctively and slowly began to count down from 100. After the plane began to move forwards and my eyes snapped open, I began to compulsively recite the greek alphabet backwards. Then when that failed, I whispered the Nobel Peace Prize winners for the last 20 years in reverse order.
"I hate to fly." I had gone through all my take off drills-why the bloody hell hadn't we taken off yet?!
"It's allright," the man next to me said, smiling at me warmly. I noticed his eyes then, his blazing, green eyes that seemed to be able to just pierce my soul. "It's not like we're going to die."
I swallowed nervously, nodding anxiously.
"Of course not," I say, trying to convince myself. My voice falters as after a moment I ask him, "Right?"
"Right," he reinstates, patting my hand. And because of that, I began to relax. There was something about him that didn't make me the raging stress hurricane I normally was. "I'm Harry," he said a few minutes later, smiling at me again.
"H-Hermione."
"Hello, Hermione."
"Hello...Harry." He was so formal...as if he was used to introducing himself this way, saying polite hellos and giving out handshakes.
"What were you doing in Sweden?"
"Oh, just some business. You?"
"Same." The conversation dwindled off after that, which was just as well. The lights turned off and I had to swallow a scream. I could hear roaring somewhere behind me and the airplane raced off, speeding along the small, frightingly small road we would have to eventually land on.
"Oh my God oh my God oh my God," I whispered, gripping my armrests once more. My knuckles were turning white, my breaths were shallow-I was going to have a heart attack, oh gosh I was going to die, I was going to die on this God forsaken plane with this handsome, delicious man sitting next to me. And when the paramedics ask what killed me, he'll-
"Hermione?"
I turned my head around like a paranoid bird before a warm hand rested on mine and I flinched, a small, sexy chuckle heard to my right.
"It's going to be okay, Hermione. We aren't going to die."
"O-okay. We aren't going to die, we aren't...we aren't going to die. I'm going to land and return back to my stressful, pathetic, pitiful life and it'll all be bloody okay." He chuckled again, that warm, sexy chuckle that sent blood to the tips of my frozen toes.
"That's right," he whispered.
"Yes. We're good."
"We're good," he reiterated.
"Harry," I said, nervously.
"Yeah?"
"Could you...could you put down your window?"
"Sure." He reached over and pulled it down, blocking my view of the height that might cause my possible death.
"Okay," I breathed out, counting numbers in my head as my shallow breathes slowly returned back to normal.
"Why're you so scared of flying?" he asked, his hand still on mine.
With a blush I answered, "I don't know, I've just always been afraid of it. Heights don't really scare me, it's just the flying. I guess when I'm on ground, it's stable, I know it can't fall out underneath me and I'll fall through a hole and crack my skull on the Earth's core. But anything can happen, a small pebble flying through the air could pierce the airplane's wing and we could all spiral away into death, that small pebble spinning us into a vortex of-"
"Okay, okay," he said, rushingly. I blushed even more, hating my talkative side effect of paranoia. But he didn't sound annoyed. It was more amusement...I could see it in his eyes.
"You probably find this so amazingly funny," I spit out, shaking my head.
"Well, as a matter of fact Ms. Hermione, I do."
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(Ginny)
Ginny Potter. Mrs. Harry Potter. Mrs. Ginny Potter. Ms. Ginny Weasley. Ginny Weasley. Virginia Weasley...
"Ginny Potter" just didn't have a ring to it, no appeal whatsoever.
I had been going out with Harry for years now...at first, I really thought I was in love. He was perfect, a perfect gentleman, a perfect boyfriend, perfect everything.
But with everything surrounding me perfect for all my life...I didn't want perfection. I really didn't. I wanted someone who would make me feel alive, as if I wasn't just this spoiled girl who got everything she wanted. Someone who could see...well, me. And I knew Harry could. But...it wasn't enough, what he saw.
I wanted someone who didn't see Virginia, Ronald Weasley's younger sister. Not Virginia, Harry Potter's girlfriend. Not even Virginia, mastermind behind Portkey advertisements.
But Ginny. Ginny Weasley.
Ron, probably the one person on the face of this planet who knew Ginny, was gone. I was all alone now...and that idea stabbed me in the worst ways possible, torturing me until I felt as if I was going to explode in bitter resentment. He was young, not even cracking the age of thirty, and already dead.
But I was sick of crying, of feeling sorry for myself. I was invited to a writing convention in Paris, and everything be damned if this wasn't a gift from God. I was going to get away from everything for four weeks, four glorious weeks.
It wasn't that I didn't like Harry. He was like a brother to me; we had all grown up together, him, me, and Ron. I knew he was hurting. I knew he needed someone to comfort him...but I couldn't do that. Because I don't think that I could've done it. Whenever I would try to comfort him, he would end up comforting me. And he didn't need that weight on his shoulders, that bloody burden. Harry should be able to mourn freely, and not be forced to deal with my depression as well.
So here I was.
France...is beautiful.
There isn't another word to describe it.
And I felt as if this is where I belonged...this ancient, glorious city full of love and warmth.
Something I missed.
It felt like home, and I had only been there for five minutes.
Immediately a man caught my attention as we walked to the same destination. His pale blonde hair fell over his eyes delicately, those stormy gray eyes catching my own as he gazed at me. He was tall, a lean build who emitted a sense of radiance all his own.
"Hey," I said, smiling.
"Hi," he muttered, remaining stolid.
"You...going to the Merlin Writing Conference?"
"Poetry division."
"Invited or attending?"
"Lecturing."
And I knew who he was. Draco Malfoy. The famous poet and lyricist...his work was dark, often gloomy and depression, but there was no mistake that it was art, beautiful movements of emotion.
"You're Draco Malfoy, aren't you?"
"That I am."
"I'm a huge fan of your work."
"Isn't everyone?"
"Maybe I'll attend some of your lectures."
"You better hurry, they're almost all full."
"Maybe you could reserve me a seat," I said, half flirting, half serious.
He glanced at me seriously and muttered, "Maybe I will."
But as we caught eyes I could feel something...chemistry maybe. But it was something. Something I hadn't felt since middle school.
"You here for the poetry?" I asked all of a sudden as we waited at the pillar that the letters had told us to wait at. I don't know why I asked it...I mean, of course he was hear for the poetry, what else would he be here for?
"Somewhat."
"Somewhat?"
"Yeah."
"What's the other some part?"
"I had to get away. Get some air. Breathe."
"Yeah. I know what you mean."
"Really."
"Yeah."
"Because I highly doubt you would know anything about what I'm going through."
"Don't pretend that you're the only wounded animal here, Malfoy."
"You don't know what wounds and scars I carry, so maybe you should just-"
"Welcome! To the Merlin Writing Convention! Mr. Malfoy, Ms. Weasley...I'm glad to see our top two lecturers here!"
"Hello, Mr. Fudge," we said almost simultaneously.
"Now, getting friendly are we?" I tried to give him a smile. Malfoy grunted. "Good! Because you two will be rooming together-I know that it wasn't what was agreed on, but Padma Patil suddenly had an engagement and she claimed she couldn't leave for four weeks...and of course her fiancé had to be Seamus Finnagin, who also claimed the same...so we had to room the two of you together. You two don't mind, do you?"
Oh. Bloody. Hell.
Room with Malfoy? The 20-second-prick? I glanced over at him to see that he looked surprised, amazed, horrified even.
Well, serves him right. I gave a wicked grin...Malfoy would have an interesting four weeks.
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reviewing's good for the soul...
A/N: I just might pull this story, because I have no idea whatsoever what to do next! I think it was just a relieve-the-brain-so-I-can-work-on-my-other-stories sort of thing...it really depends on the feedback I get. If I get less than, oh let's see, 10 reviews for this story, it's an outtie!