A/N: I'm sorry. My summer got out of hand when Laziness came over for a long sleepover. So, here I am, posting this as soon as I got it done and polished up a bit. Thanks for your heart-warming reviews. Every time I read one, I was a little closer to finishing up this chapter.
Disclaimer: Standard procedure of disclaiming applies here. Please note that the characters in this work of fiction have been stretched and exaggerated like silly putty. Meaning that they are purposefully OOC at times. Such is the price you must pay for writing a humor fic.
The opening phrase 'I'm going to freak right out' does not belong to me, but probably to the people who wrote the screenplay for the movie Once Upon A Time In Mexico. Yes, I enjoy taking quotes from examples of mediocrity just so someone might mistake the saying as mine and call me brilliant. It has not worked to date.
December 24
I am going to freak right out.
Really. I am not joshing, and no, this is not some petty, abnormally large spot on my nose that I am squawking on about. Even though there it remains, stubbornly so, no, a simple pimple won't not faze me now.
So, let us put it into list form. I seem most adept at that and right now, I need to be adept at something.
1. The Christmas ball is tonight.
2. Am having sudden, last minute doubts about plan for world destruction. Like it's such a big decision. Or something.
3. The great monkey we like to call Malfoy won't stop invading my private thoughts. It's quite unnerving, to be thinking about something as vague as a scrumptious piece of cake waiting for me down in the kitchens-when suddenly, a shiny blonde head pops out from a hidden window of your train of thought. Any normal girl would shit herself. But my pants still remain comfortably light. Thus, I defy this law.
Actually, it's probably not my fault anyway. I'll bet you my knickers that after a close examination of Malfoy's genealogy, you would find him closely in tie with Dementors. True, Dementors have got that whole hood-thing going, but it's only a matter of fashion sense. One thing is the same, however (you can't evade the power of genetics): if you let a Malfoy of the Dementor lineage kiss you, he'll suck out all of your coherence.
As for the Puking Pastilles Plan, or more commonly known as the PPP, I have got the whole get-up in the palm of my hands. The mask was transfigured form an old and worn black boot of mine, which might be why it has a strange, sour odor to it. But nowadays, everything seems to smell oddly. I've come to the conclusion that this world is just a very smelly place.
Along with the boots, I have a white blouse, courtesy of Ron, and a pair of tight breeches (actually, they're one of my old capri's, but no one will know that.) Under those I have on hose. I don't really want to talk about it.
I have also acquired a large, flamboyant (and feathered) hat to complete the outfit (again, Ron's). It was one of his…odder…hobbies. My hair should fit sufficiently in there, and I believe that will make me properly unrecognizable.
Now, to get over these 'butterflies' in my stomach. The least they could do, if they were to stay there, is to stop moving around so much.
Later
Right-o. In the time that I have left this diary to go and do other worldly things, I have penned a fresh to-do list.
1. Skip down and check on the Ball preparations. It's better to locate the punch bowl beforehand. This crosses out the possibility of wasting time, looking for target.
2. Take Harry's broom and bash it over my head. Hope that head breaks, not broom, and head will be successfully rid of the ailment Thinking About Malfoy Too Much.
3. Get rushed to the hospital wing.
4. Make miraculous recovery in time for Ball.
5. Watch people puke.
6. Go to sleep.
Sleep. Yes-number six is the only one I wholeheartedly agree with.
I haven't even accomplished number one, however. Instead, I found myself wrapping His present. …Hang on, why have I just capitalized 'him'? What are you doing, Brain, mocking my dignity? Are you trying to insinuate that I am likening Malfoy to a Godly being?
How dare you. You are lucky that you are essential. Be good, before I think to kick you out of my cranium.
I am getting off track again, aren't I?
As I was beginning to write: I was sitting complacently on the common room sofa, trying to decide what kind of wrapping paper to use. It was either a vellum-like textured paper, or those cheap, crinkly kinds, that if you rub too much, the silvery parts come off and onto your fingers.
Before I could Blue Shoe between them, Ron barged in the portrait hole. He's like a Niffler, really. He notices all the shiny, good things, and tries to take them away. Savagely.
"Who's that for?" he sniffed suspiciously. Well, this was the reason everyone gave him sweaters and boxers for Christmas.
"Draco Malfoy," I said airily, bravely stripping off a large piece of wrapping paper (the cheap, shiny one.) What was the point of lying? He wouldn't believe me anyway. That's how ludicrous the idea is.
Although, I never expected him to cry.
"Oh, God, Gin," he wheezed, bending over and placing his hands on his knees. "Sometimes…sometimes, you truly are…hilarious!"
Yes. Very droll, I am. I am sure the cynic in him finds my distressed state of being highly humorous.
He commended me a few more times for being unusually funny before getting to the point.
"So, not going to that ball tonight, are you?" he asked casually. All the other girls had begun preparing hours ago. I slipped on a smile.
"Of course not. I'll be here, studying." He's right, actually. I am funny.
He grinned. It was disparaging. "There's a good girl. I knew you would listen to me. You always do."
Oh, yes. Obedient little Ginny, wasn't I? Obedient Ginny who would never dare to secretly go to a ball and create chaos from my bare hands!
Cue evil laughter.
Even Later
New development in my disease: It's not Malfoy I can't stop thinking about. It's his kiss. Those are two very different things.
I'm Back Again
What do you do when you cannot stop lingering on something?
You indulge in it.
Perhaps, if I kiss the brat once more, I would finally break free of his freakish Dementor powers. Reverse psychology. Maybe?
PLEASE, GOD.
Minutes Later
Am beginning to entertain impure thoughts. This is ridiculous. I cannot be having slight affections for that boy. Everyone would laugh.
Well, not everyone. I can imagine what they would all say:
Ron: [Censored out for obscenities that would make Voldemort blush.]
Hermione: Where's Teenage Love 101 when you need it? [Rummages in bookbag.]
Harry: Oh, right. [Looks heavenward] Thanks, Voldemort. I get the message. I don't even deserve a fan club anymore, is that it?
[We are disturbed.]
Me: Harry, I don't really fancy you anymore.
Harry: Oh, fine. So you hate me now, do you? Is this your perverse way of getting revenge at me?
Me: No, Harry, please-
Harry: No, it's alright, I understand. It's not your fault Ginny. We all know whose fault it really is. [Looks heavenward again.]
[We do know whose fault Harry thinks it is. However, we are still disturbed that he looks heavenward when referring to him.]
On second thought. Am now fantasizing…
Cannot record fantasies, as they are very NC-17. Includes such things as CENSORED and CENSORED and a bit of CENSORED.
Noooo. I am lost. Throw me into the flames; it's the only way to rid a body of evil.
........
Noooooooo.
A Lot Later
Okay, fine. I've made it a personal rule in the past that one may not indulge, unless one is in deep stress.
This situation applies most definitely.
Revised plans:
1. Spike punch with PP.
2. Find Malfoy.
3. Alone.
4. Kiss wanker.
5. Make sure I am cured.
6. Go to sleep. Maybe forever.
A Few Minutes Before The Ball
Am in my costume. I put on Malfoy's cloak (after the House Elves were through washing it). I must say, I look quite fetching in the cloak. Not so fetching with the rest of my attire, but it'll do. Unfortunately, costume now includes a pair of black boots that I have stolen from Harry for the evening. Should I be glad that I've managed to get boots, or disheartened that I fit into them?
No time to worry about that. The bell has tolled--well, the ball is about to begin, okay?
Way Past Midnight
Well, hell. My toes hurt, like they've been stepped on over and over again by a pregnant Hagrid, and yet, I am still undoubtedly…complacent.
Happy, even. How I shudder to use that word.
I shall record the eventful happenings of the ball forthwith:
I arrived in the Great Hall early enough. There were not many students there, and the ones that had arrived huddled around in their own protective little circles.
The punch bowl, as it turns out, was huge and bottomless. It tasted of maraschino cherries and I was nearly sad to mutter the strange string of charms Fred and George had told me to say. The red drink turned momentarily purple, before returning to its normal crimson shade. I lithely turned around and leaned casually against the table, hoping I looked just like the next overly parched dancer. Although there was the part where I was dressed like…a fop, really.
More and more parasites of our school arrived, each one clearly thinking that she (or he) was the prettiest in the room. Everyone seemed to agree that this ball was a chance to become ostentatious, what with the fluttering of the eyes and the flipping of the hair, or the puckering of the lips. As a sudden observer, I noticed that human creatures were disgusting and therefore, interesting.
All seemed well, until a particularly sour looking girl approached me haughtily, eyeing my costume degradingly. Like her swollen plum-colored rag for a dress was any better. I thought I'd seen it in the clearance rack at Gladrags the other day.
" This isn't a masquerade ball, you know," she said. Snotty snot-face. I hoped she would take the first drink.
"Oh, isn't it, though?" I said vaguely, smiling just as airily. She curled an eyebrow up before seeming to decide that I was not worth it. I later saw her prancing around with Neville Longbottom. I remember when I was once so pathetic. Not that there's anything wrong with Neville. Really, there isn't. It's just that he really can't dance.
I hung around, enjoying myself a bit as I wandered about, forgetting briefly about Malfoy. The slightly disturbing part was, a few girls actually asked me for a dance. Did I really look so masculine? Is that why boys shy away from me? What does this say about Malfoy?
I declined them politely, telling them that I had a disgusting fungus growing all over me, and that they certainly wouldn't want to come near me. Then they looked rather affronted, as if I had told them they themselves were fungi. Women are very strange.
But I quickly abandoned pondering my possible masculinity, because people were beginning to look very green.
I admit it. This was mainly just a little surprise for Ron. I should have kept it exclusively for Ron. But a chance to follow in Fred and George's footsteps, for once in my life, was really enticing, you know. They were always quite popular. And I could not help a small smile, seeing people like Pansy Parkinson retch all over her sugary pink gown.
My eyes searched out Harry and Hermione, standing around still quite ignorantly. They seemed to be quarreling over something.
"What's wrong, mate?" I heard Ron ask, as he made his way over to his friends. Hermione crossed her arms, and Harry pointed at her angrily.
"She doesn't believe me," he accused. "Voldemort has stolen my bloody boots!" Hermione laughed raucously.
"Right! I'm sure the likes of Voldemort would wish dearly to obtain your silly pleather footwear!"
"Well, gee, you're right! No one can prove that, can they?" Harry said, his eyes suddenly alight with realization. "No, not unless you could get into the head of a Dark Lord-" he paused here, dramatically. "Oh, wait, pick me! I CAN."
"Oh, shut up," Hermione said irritably. "You're not about to tell me that you've had a vision about Voldemort planning to steal your shoes, are you? Even you aren't that stupid," she added, looking towards Ron.
"Hey," Ron frowned, not knowing whether or not to be insulted.
Harry decided to take Hermione's advice then, and sealed his lips before stalking over to the food table, where I was trying hard not to snigger. I heard Hermione sigh loudly. Ron shrugged.
"Not really a good way to get a guy to ask you to dance," he said, surprisingly sagely. Hermione's eyes widened, before narrowing angrily.
"Ridiculous. I don't want Harry to ask me for a dance! We're just friends! And Harry's not a good dancer!" She smacked him on the head, as if to punish him for even thinking that Harry could move his feet to a beat, before walking away also.
When Harry reached the gargantuan punch container, I was nearly wetting myself in excitement. I know what I did is a very sordid deed, but honestly, how often is it that I can make everyone puke at my command? It seems more of a dream than anything, really. Maybe now, Ron would deduce that very bad things happened when Ginny Weasley was held against her will.
"What are you looking at?" Harry turned to me and asked while taking the ladle and pouring himself a large ladle-full of cherry punch. I smiled serenely. He took a sip, before deciding to grow angrier.
"And who the hell are you, anyway?" he asked, jabbing a finger at me.
"Your friendly neighborhood ponce," I said patting him on the back and pushing him in the other direction.
"You've got that right!" he said as he stumbled towards the dance floor. I didn't stay around long enough to see him do any jigs.
The Professors had finally noticed that something was amiss among their students. A quarter of them seemed very ill or already very ill, as was shown by the thrown up dinners and snacks upon the floor-and even a wad of disfigured parchment from Goyle. Now would have been the prime time to get Malfoy. I turned about, looking around frantically for a spot of blonde, blonde hair. Or a distinctive aroma; either one.
I could not find him. Had he left? Had he left the Ball? Had he come at all? What if he had already drunk some of the punch? I was not about to indulge in tasting up-chuck.
"Well," came a sudden and familiarly irritating voice from behind me. "Are you really so disfigured?" I turned around. And there the bugger stood, a look of smug curiosity on his face. I relaxed. All was still right with the world.
I blinked for a long moment, watching in wonder as he casually reached over the table to reach for a cup to fill with punch. I waved a hand in front of me.
"No!" I cried heroically. "You really don't want to be doing that, Malfoy." Malfoy's face wrinkled into an expression of confusion.
"What are you on about?"
"Drop the cup," I ordered authoritatively. He looked bewildered now. And who wouldn't be, being suddenly and mysteriously restricted of their punch-drinking rights? That inalienable right to drink when you are thirsting-I might have almost felt sorry for him.
"Don't tell me what to do, you flamboyant ponce," he said, taking a look at my outfit disgustedly. My nose flared at the insult, and I stood with my hands on hips.
"Listen, you sod, if you don't listen to me right now, I shall hurt you." Which was technically true. I'd hurt him via my ingenious punch.
"Oh, really?" he sneered. "And I'm sure a big lad like you could do just that. Plan on giving me a couple black eyes, eh?" I puffed up.
"Who said anything about physical attacks? I'm a wit-I mean, wizard, too." Malfoy shrugged, and then cocked his head to the side.
"How come I've never seen you around before? Do you even attend Hogwarts?" Damn. There was that glitch in my plan.
"Uh," I said intelligently. "Sure. New exchange student from Spain." I blinked through my mask. Draco was looking skeptical. Why did he have to look skeptical? Our conversation kept digressing from the point.
"Speak Spanish, then, do you?" he asked. I sucked in a breath.
"No, not really, grew up in a small part of Spain where everyone speaks…English…." I drifted off, feeling lame.
"With perfect British accents?"
"Well, sure. Those bloody brits took over our small spit of land!" I said fiercely. "It was, um, a very small, unknown skirmish." He looked contemplative now, as if he were about to burst into a long, historical tirade any moment. This was my chance to distract him.
"Listen to me, though, Malfoy!" I said urgently.
"How'd you know my name?"
"You're…famous?" When I saw the look on his face, I swore to myself to never feed Malfoy's ego like that ever again.
"Malfoy, you are in grave danger," I whispered dramatically. "You need to get away from here, now. I have something to discuss with you. Follow me." He looked dubious. "Please," I added for emphasis.
I turned and walked away. When I stole a glance backwards, I saw to my glee that Malfoy was grudgingly following me, the cup completely abandoned. Upon entering the foyer that lead into the Great Hall, I pulled him aside to a small niche beside the stairwell. Boy, it was embarrassing, what I was about to do.
"So, tell me again how I'm in danger?" he asked with an arch of an eyebrow.
"Shut up," I snapped. "I was just kidding, you ninny." Draco immediately made to move away.
"I'm going," he said, sounding fed up. "I don't know who you are, or why you're trying to kill me, but I'm going." He turned to face me.
"And if you try to stop me, I swear on my grandfather's grave that I'll hex you!"
I tried very hard not to snigger, looking at his pale, pale face. The poor guy really was frightened of me. Perhaps it was the sight of the tight hose on my legs. I would go on and talk about how I wish they weren't so stubby, but I'll spare you the gruesome details and keep on track.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Malfoy," I said impatiently. "I just need a favor." I had rather just get this over with. I was half tempted to just bolt, but I'm very goal oriented. Once I get a thought into my head, I can't keep still until I do it. It gets me into trouble sometimes, sure, but I think it's a Weasley thing. I had built a strict routine in my head, too-lean, kiss, pull, run. Lean, kiss, pull, run. Lean, kiss, pull-
"What kind of favor?" I looked up and saw Suspicious Malfoy.
"Just stand there," I ordered, feeling more and more awkward now that the time grew near. Should I just kiss him, like that? What if he was so surprised? What if he fainted? What if he screamed, made a ruckus, and ran away? What if he reported me for sexual harassment? Perhaps it would be better if I warned him, at least. That would be courteous, wouldn't it?
"Alright," I said slowly. "On the count of three, I'm going to…er-kiss you." I looked down at my shoes and waited for his reaction, and I realize I shouldn't have. It gave him time to think.
"Kiss me?" he voiced back incredulously. Then, he sighed. "Listen, mate." His eyes widened and for a moment, he almost looked sorry for me. "I'm straight."
I gaped, before understanding his meaning. Boy, he was stupid. When I got myself out of this mess, I would tell him so, I decided.
"I am straight too!" I said indignantly.
"Obviously not!" he said, motioning to me frantically. Motioning to my masculinity, or what? I realized this whole farce was becoming rather insulting for me.
"I'm a girl, you insensitive wart!" Oh, how could he? Now the predicament was truly embarrassing.
"You're not a girl," he scoffed. I was silent. I could hear doubt crawling into his mind.
"Well, you certainly dress like a boy," he protested after a second.
"It's called a disguise, farthead."
"Prove it." Okay, so he wasn't going to bend soon.
"I'll pay you." God, I was pathetic. But Malfoy was just so annoying! How could I ever tell if I liked him or not if he wouldn't bloody kiss me?
"Oy! Prostitution, eh?" he asked with a wavering sneer. I growled and fished out a knut out of my pocket.
"What?" he exclaimed indignantly, looking at the dirty coin, covered slightly in melted chocolate. "I'm certainly worth more than a knut!"
"Prove it," I retorted whiningly. "Anyway, it's all I've got." He grew quiet, and I could tell he was considering it. A moment later, I could see his eyebrows lower in resignation.
"Fine," he said. "But it better be a quick one, you cheapskate," he muttered.
"Whore," I returned happily, before I scooted over on impulse and found his lips. It definitely felt odd. That was my first reaction, at least. Most likely because I had initiated the kiss, and most likely because we weren't really kissing. Malfoy was obviously awkward about kissing a stranger, which was comforting to know, although I don't know why, and I was equally awkward about it. So I think, mostly, we just stood there rigidly with our skin pressed up against one another. Boy, we must have created one big awkward situation. A hunk of awkwardness.
Finally, he pulled back slightly; not far enough to insinuate that the kiss was through.
"You suck at this," he said. His voice was cracking, and it sounded quite funny. "Really horrible." I blinked and said nothing. Then, he closed the gap and seemed to really have a good go at snogging me. My eyes fluttered close and I tried to clear my mind enough to assess how I was feeling, and whether or not this meant I fancied him, but I was becoming numb. Not cold-numb, but warm-numb. Tingling warmth was flowing up from the tip of my toes, and each time he moved, a flash of heat jolted down my spine.
In fact, these kinds of bodily distractions might have been why I didn't notice, his hand on my back. Or the way it snaked up towards my head. Or how he deftly and suddenly pulled off my large hat, leaving me exposed.
The second my red, traitorous hair came spilling out, I knew it was done. My instinct was to back away and cover my head, but it was too late.
"Weasley?" Draco mumbled in surprise, stumbling a few steps back. Yea, that's right, you insistent bugger! I leaned back against the wall of the niche, feeling shamed and utterly, utterly ruined. Oh, he'd never let me hear the end of it, being so pretentious and haughty.
"Well," he said after a moment. "This doesn't make sense."
"I spiked the punch," I blurted. He eyeballed me for a moment. Like I was loony. I wouldn't argue it, though.
"Good on that, then," he said uncertainly.
"I tried to get you away from it," I continued lamely.
"Thanks?" he muttered questioningly. Obviously, I was still not making sense.
"To kiss you." I was spilling my story in short, nonsensical blurbs. I hoped he could piece it together, because I didn't really want to repeat it.
"Oh, God," he whispered hoarsely, looking strangely at my face. Great. I'd probably developed hives or something. A perfect way to end the evening.
"You're crying!" he said uncomfortably. I blanched at his outburst.
"Am not!" I said. He reached over and wiped at my cheek. Oh. Something was wet, after all. How pitiful I must have been, being caught in the middle of this childish plan and crying over it.
Draco shook his head, as if utterly confused. I couldn't believe it. The stupid arse didn't understand! This made my job at least a million times harder.
"I don't understand," he confirmed. "Why?" I shoed the floor shyly, then remembered that I wouldn't assume shyness in front of Malfoy, and gave him my fierce warrior glare.
"Because I wanted to go prancing around in these," I rolled my eyes, pointing to my outfit. "Why do you think, halfwit?"
"Always those cute little names," Draco murmured thoughtfully. "I knew you sounded familiar."
"Glad you're so fond of me and my names," I said offhandedly.
"Well, you are, at least."
"What? I'm what?"
"You're fond of me." His lips were twitching up. I cursed him in my mind. "Fond of me enough to go through all of this to kiss me again?" He was nearly chuckling now. "Why, Ginny, all you had to do was ask!"
"Shut up," I growled through my teeth. "I didn't do this just for you, so you can't deflate that enormous ego of yours. I did it for revenge." Draco's face straightened at the word.
"Revenge? At whom?" He seemed very interested. I rolled my eyes again.
"Who do you think?"
"Not your baboon-like, red faced relation?"
"The one and only," I said tiredly. Why had I done it, I thought then. Mother had always told me revenge wasn't worth it. Mother had also always told me that she would always be right.
"Well, sure," Draco began sarcastically. "Now it all makes sense, how giving me a snog was part of your plan to get back at your idiot sibling." I put a hand in front of me as if to halt him. He stopped talking, anyway.
"Listen," I said exasperatedly. It was late, and I was pretty exhausted. "If you're going to be dense, then I'm going."
"Dense?" Draco looked almost injured. "Weasley, I want to understand the way your strange mind works just as much as the next person, but we don't always get what we want, do we? Just say what you mean, and be done with it."
I thought about it. What did I want to say? That I wanted to test out whether I wanted to screw him or not? Yea, right. I'd rather keep what little dignity I had left, thanks.
"No," I said stubbornly. "I'm not saying anything." Draco shrugged in a Can't-Do-Anything-About-That way, which infuriated me only further. Why couldn't he just be total jerk like he usually was? Why was I less annoyed by him than usual?
"Well, then, I guess I'll just have to assume," he said in a mock wistful voice. I frowned, wondering what the hell he meant. Instead, I set my jaw hard.
"Good night, Malfoy," I said. Draco gave another shrug.
"G'night, Weasley." I was going to walk away then, I swear. Except, he was suddenly kissing me again, and the ball of fire had lit again in the pit of my stomach. I was vaguely aware of the fact that a corner of the wall was digging into my back almost painfully, but obviously I was too preoccupied to care. When he broke away, I was trying very hard not to appear slightly breathless. He was very warm after all, and the cool air suddenly hitting my face felt chilling.
Not to mention, this was certainly a different way of bidding someone you supposedly hated goodnight.
"We've got to stop doing that," I said slowly, speaking the word 'that' like it was a sin. It probably was. Draco raised his eyebrows.
"Why?" he asked. I wondered if he was serious. I struggled for an explanation, while edging away from the wall.
"Because," I said lamely. I trailed off, and before I knew it, I was already a few feet away from him. Then I was speed walking up the staircase, then running towards Gryffindor Tower as fast as I could. I just needed to get away from Malfoy. Like most people. Except this was different.
That's where my story ends. I don't really know if all the trouble I went through was worth our cryptic conversation. I didn't really find out much, did I? And I still have to make sure whether or not Ron actually drank some punch and learned his lesson. If he mentions the strange epidemic, must casually comment how strange it was the something like this would happen while I was being kept in the tower against my will. Please, please, God. Let him look pale and sick in the morning, like he'd barfed the night away.
Post Script:
Maybe I do like kissing Draco Malfoy. Maybe I haven't been cured of my supposed disease. Maybe I need a new plan. Maybe I need a new identity. Maybe I'm finally, utterly loony.
Bollocks.