**Author's Note: This fic is for those of you who have missed D/G in my recent (and still a few upcoming) days of Ron/Luna cuteness. I'd call it PWP if I hadn't worked so darned hard on getting the angles down. This first chapter's a bit longer than the rest are likely to be. Now… go enjoy. Review and be merry. Unbetaed but read by a few, I hope you like it.**
CHAPTER ONE- Trick or Treat
"I've always said the old man was dotty-"
"Bloody hilarious, though, you have to admit that-"
"Well, yes, but this is a bit beyond his usual dottiness. It almost shows-"
"Poor judgment," Fred and George Weasley said in unison as they walked through their shop, plucking things off the shelves at random.
"I wonder if he told Snape?" George snickered, scrutinizing a chocolate that would make the witch or wizard who ate it turn pea-green all over for an hour. With a shrug, he threw it into a box, pointed his wand, and immediately the box was filled with the candies.
Fred rolled his eyes and tossed a few mixed candies into his own box. "George, seriously, how many times do I have to tell you that buggers up inventory?" He managed to keep the straight face for only a moment before dissolving into laughter, charming his own box to be full.
It took them the better part of an hour to fill all the boxes, then to separate the candies and (relatively) harmless toys into bags that would bite an intruder's hand if it was so much as a minute before Halloween.
The twins weren't the type to look a gift horse in the mouth-even if that gift horse happened to be Albus Dumbledore and his Halloween bash. Merlin only knew why he'd chosen the twins to outfit the whole of Hogwarts with bags of candy and less-than-innocent hijinks, but he had… after making them solemnly swear not to hand out anything harmful, anything with effects longer than an hour, or anything capable of using to skive off classes.
And though those two things were a bit of a restriction, Fred and George figured they could handle it quite well with no mishaps.
After all, they had promised.
~~~
It was positively frustrating, nigh to infuriating.
There was just no upward mobility in Ginny Weasley's life; no, none at all. Not even within her own family could she make her mark among the ranks. Each of her older brothers had something to distinguish them. Bill was the cool one, Charlie the daredevil, Percy was the smart one, the twins were… well, the twins… and Ron was part of the Terrific Trio.
Granted, Ginny thought, shredding a piece of scrap parchment to bits at her seat in the Great Hall, she'd done more than her fair share of things to help the cause, to be a part of things. It just seemed none of that mattered.
And perhaps none of it did, she thought sulkily, shooting another covert glance at Harry.
The prat.
She rolled her eyes and gave him a nasty look, knowing he wouldn't notice. He was mooning over Hermione so hard it nearly made Ginny sick…
But just nearly.
She was happy for Hermione, truly-it would just be much easier to be happy for Hermione, if only Hermione realized what she had right in front of her, appreciated the man who was so clearly in love with her and had been for years now.
Well, Ginny thought, shoving aside her pile of parchment and sending the pieces blowing with a sigh. This is their last year here. Surely they'll figure it out before they leave.
It only added insult to injury that Ginny had to watch the entire Great Hall have an absolute blast with her brothers' creations. Yes, she was proud of them, too, in the same way she was happy for Hermione.
It just… seemed as though everything good happened to everyone else.
"Everything all right, Gin?" Neville sat down next to her, carefully placing his unopened bag in front of him. For some awful reason, his had kept biting him even though October 31st had already come.
It was just his luck, he figured.
Ginny looked up at Neville and felt her heart soften just a bit. It was impossible to be bitter around someone who had lost so much but remained so sweet. "Fine, Neville. Just thinking a bit, that's all." She smiled at him reassuringly and cocked an eyebrow at his Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes bag. "Something wrong with it?"
Neville's cheeks flushed a mottled red and he mumbled something so lowly, Ginny didn't catch what he'd said. When asked to repeat it, he batted the bag toward her with his hand and said more clearly, "It bit me!"
And as much as she hated it, Ginny couldn't keep from giggling just a little at the forlorn expression on his face. "Here," she said, swapping bags with him. "I know how these bags work." She shook the bag a little, murmured something under her breath, then looked apologetically at Neville as the bag opened easily. "You just have to tell them what day it is, you know."
He laughed but cast a nervous eye to the bag, from which Ginny had dumped half the contents. "Now there's an interesting one," he said, pointing to a candy wrapped in garish purple wrapping with red stripes running through it.
Ginny shrugged and offered it to Neville. It wasn't that she didn't trust her brothers, but she'd seen a first year grow a spectacular-looking but disturbing unicorn horn just a moment ago. Making herself look like a fool wasn't something she particularly cared to do. When Neville looked hesitant to take it, she pushed it toward him insistently. "You know, that was technically your bag, Neville, you ought to have it."
When he took the candy without further complaint, lovely, compliant bloke that he was, Ginny sighed and plucked a plain-wrapped fudge piece from the bag and popped it in her mouth.
No harm ever came of chocolate, at any rate.
~~~
"What in the bloody hell is all this?" Draco stood in the entrance of the Great Hall, his nose turned up in a manner so eerily similar to his father that both Crabbe and Goyle shrunk back a little.
"Halloween," Crabbe answered warily, holding out the bag he'd gotten only moments before.
Draco looked down his nose and rolled his eyes. "Crabbe, what are you holding in front of me? Does that say what I think it says?" Before Crabbe could answer him, Draco flapped his hand in censure. "Don't bother, Crabbe, I haven't got the time to listen to you sound it out."
Why Goyle snickered at that, Draco would never know. It wasn't as though he was any better.
"Why are you holding a bag of Weasel Wares?" he asked wearily, wondering for a bleak moment if he was to be cursed with the lot of babysitting these imbeciles forever. It seemed of late they had precious few uses.
Though they always did make Draco feel much better about his own level of intelligence, and their incompetence never failed to amuse him.
"That's what they gave us," Goyle said. "One of them gave me a pig's snout earlier."
Draco closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and prayed for the urge to pass. He wouldn't stoop to the easy insult that came to his lips. He wouldn't do it. He wouldn't-
"Oh, for fuck's sake, give me that," he said angrily, yanking the bag away from Goyle and prodding through it with careless fingers. He finally settled on a tame-looking piece that looked as though it might have come from Honeyduke's rather than the Weasels and popped it in his mouth.
When nothing happened, he nodded stiffly and walked along into the Great Hall to watch the celebrating masses of students.
Idiots.
~~~
Ginny started to say something to Neville, who was currently trying to keep his newly double-jointed elbows under control until the candy he'd eaten wore off. But whatever reassuring words she'd had prepared dissipated when she saw that blond, smarmy git and his ever-present goon squad traipse by.
"What I wouldn't give to force-feed that… that ferret an entire bag of this candy," Ginny said, her fingers itching to pick up her wand and take aim. Something about him… everything about him just rubbed her the wrong way, and of course he had to turn his head and give her that look, that infuriating, superior, smug, condescending, just begging to be hexed look.
Neville's only response was a slightly worried countenance that actually went along rather humorously with his flopping arms, and Ginny was almost placated; her eyes, however, were drawn back to the Head Boy.
She shoves him into a wall in the dungeons, already threatening him with her wand, and before he can take points or assign punishment, she's stepped nose-to-nose with him, chin tilted back so she can actually look into those weird eyes of his, eyes like moonlit fog and heavy chains, and before he can do anything, she has her hands on his stomach, on his chest, on his shoulders, testing muscle through fine, heavy cloth, her lips on his, her peasant's lips tasting aristocracy and hatred and a bitter, addictive lust, and as she takes that one tiny step she has afforded herself, she feels him hot and hard and heavy through his robes, desperate as she is desperate, hating her just as much as she hates him, but with a want that borders on need. They don't wait, they don't speak, they unfasten hidden catches in one another's robes and she's taken him into her before he fully realizes it, both of them still in their robes, thrusting with a give and take motion that's unmistakable even here, standing up.
Ginny shook herself with a gasp, her cheeks flaming under the freckles, and she was startled, absolutely mortified to feel that pull between her legs, that twinge, that heat and dampness that meant only one thing.
"I… I have to go," she told Neville, finally tearing her eyes away from Malfoy with the fervent hope he hadn't noticed her gawking at him like some sort of ill-cursed first-year.
~~~
For a moment, he'd felt the back of his neck itch as though someone were watching him, and then the moment had passed, eerie and suspicious, and Draco whipped around to make sure no one-least of all that dangerous Weaselette-was holding a wand to his back, ready to inflame or enlarge or do anything else of the sort to any of his parts. But the redheaded bint had snatched up her ridiculous Halloween bag and was all but running from the Great Hall without so much as a glance his way.
He wants to make her notice, make her look at him, so he slinks up the stairs after her, using all the side corridors and secret passages, and when she gets to the deathly silent Gryffindor common room, he's already there, his Head Boy's password letting him into the tower, albeit a little reluctantly. Her eyes are wide on his as she sees him, and though she reaches for her wand, she cannot quite seem to gain the coordination to pluck it up and point it at him. He pushes her hard, as he's always wanted to, sending her spilling on the settee and sending her breath whooshing from her in a big, gasping gust, and he's calling her names, telling her exactly what he thinks of her, and the more those wide eyes are on him, the more her breath accelerates, the harder he gets, and he can feel himself ready beneath his robes and slacks, the long muscles in his thighs already tensing and relaxing as he tells her in an odd, dulcet voice to lift her robes and her skirts, and amazingly enough, as though entranced, as though cursed, she does so and he sees a flash of auburn curls, no knickers, and he moans and nearly comes in his pants at the sight of her.
"Bugger!" Draco yelped, flinging a hand up as though to cover his eyes and squarely smacking Crabbe mid-chest instead.
Where in Merlin's dungeon had that come from?
~~~
Ginny slammed the door to her room and locked it, laying her forehead to the wood with a shaky sound that was half-laugh, half-moan. Her legs had barely carried her there; the fantasy she'd briefly (insanely) woven had nearly brought her to climax in her seat at the Great Hall, rendering her knees wobbly and her thighs weak.
She wanted to be disgusted; her lips parted to form the single syllable of 'Ew!', but instead what wavered out was another moan, another confused, still aroused whimper as she thought of them fully dressed and taking one another wordlessly.
Still leaning against the door, her left hand planted to the cool wood alongside her forehead, Ginny thrust her hips, sending the slight mound between her thighs bumping against the hard surface, and she gasped and closed her eyes, her right hand shaking its way down between her thighs, expertly finding the part in her robes. She rubbed herself through the threadbare material of her skirt, the barest contact sending heat spearing up through her stomach.
He does this to her from time to time, seeks her out in the dark corners of the school and touches her fleetingly through her clothes, tweaking nipples through the starched white shirt, chafing tartan against her knickers, and her knickers into the oversensitive folds beneath, and he never needs to move anything aside to bring her to completion, never needs to penetrate or even touch her skin-to-skin, never needs to dirty those pretty, cruel, long fingers to make her shudder, and she can't stand so she clings to his neck, her breath heating a spot of unblemished skin near his throat as she moans and wetness floods through the fabric he rubs, giving him something to smirk at, something to be smug over, and he whispers to her that next time, he'll be inside her, and next time, it will be his pleasure and hers instead of just hers, and she can feel him pressing into her urgently, but this time, he doesn't take her, but next time…
Her hips bucked forward sharply, her hipbones smacking into the textured wood of the door, the pain of the blow lost in the power of her orgasm, her fingers still rubbing frantically through cloth to wring out the last of this sick, strange feeling, this overpowering, blinding feeling. Her knees buckled and she knelt on the floor, her eyes standing wide, her hand trapped between her fluttering thighs, her head throbbing with the suddenness of the action.
What was this?
Certainly she had an active imagination; how could she not, being who she was, being a Weasley? She'd led an active life of fantasy and had indulged herself in more than her fair share of lurid imaginings about Harry, but they'd all been sweet and safe and slow. In her mind, he'd always professed his love for her and taken her slowly, whispering in her ear and carrying her softly into the heights of climax.
Never had it been like this, so dark and animalistic and frankly, bloody amazing.
She didn't know whether to regret that or be grateful for it, but grateful was sounding like a fabulous choice; the small, secret part of Ginny that absolutely cherished her femininity-her only outstanding characteristic as a Weasley-brought a smile spreading over her face as she rested her palm on her stomach, a contented sigh slipping from her lips.
Perhaps Malfoy was good for something after all.
~~~
He was trying to control himself, really he was, but as Draco sat in the Great Hall, drumming his fingers against the
wood of the table, he felt himself breaking out in a cold sweat and trying to keep all the pretty (horrible,
they're terrible) mental pictures at bay.
He stood up so quickly he barked his thighs on the edge of the table, and his first few steps backward were stumbling and awkward. "This place makes me feel filthy," he lied, a bit less easily than usual. "I believe I'll go have a soak." If his voice was uncertain, his eyes faraway, neither Crabbe nor Goyle noticed, stuffing their faces as they were.
He walked out of the Great Hall and had to really and truly discipline himself against going up the stairs and to Gryffindor to see what the sneaky, hexing wench was doing (and wearing, his mind supplied cheerily, I wonder what she's wearing).
He didn't really think he could make it up that many steps, and his brain was so befuddled and so completely at odds with itself, he'd never be able to remember the password. So he did as he'd claimed he would and headed for the luxuries of the prefects' bathroom, needing somewhere to make his feet carry him to.
It really wasn't all that bad an idea, he tried to reason with himself as he locked the door of the bathroom behind him and strode into the resplendence. Using the Weasley for sex might actually have other uses than, well, sex.
He couldn't really think of any of those uses at the moment, and just thinking about using her for sex had his brain reeling back into fiction, into ridiculous fantasy.
The tips of her hair are wet and curling, her arms spread at her sides, holding her up in the massive tub, and the coquette, the tease, won't raise herself out of the scented, steaming water far enough for him to spot any more than the pale tops of the breasts he knows are just under the waterline. He knows they fit perfectly in his hands, that the nipples are a dusky, surprising strawberry instead of the cinnamon color of her freckles, and that they'd peak at the slightest of touches, that they seemed to yearn for him even when she was pulling away. He knows all these things but can not see them because she refuses to rise to him, refuses to give him any more than that sly, seductive smile. He kneels beside her, ready to slide his hands under her arms (perhaps taking a detour underneath the surface of the water just to see how those breasts feel when slick and wet), but before he can haul her out of the water and lay her on the tile floor, she's lazily extended one arm and unerringly found him with that tiny, clever hand, closing over him through his slacks and bringing whimpers from his lips. She strokes, she pulls, she's rough and gentle and maddening and sane, and he's about to tell her to come out (beg, he's about to beg) and then she raises her eyes to his and ever-so-slowly licks her lips, those lips the same color of the nipples she's hidden, and with a shocked shout, he does something he hasn't done since his first hectic, feverish, adolescent years-
Draco dropped his head back to the tiled wall of the bathroom and felt his groin tighten with the anticipation of release as he moved his fist one more time from root to tip through his boxers, and he came before he could even free himself from the expensive silk of his underwear, the discomfort of it somehow exquisite, the sheer filth of it somehow exciting; thinking of her making him make such a juvenile, inexperienced mess brought one more jerk, one more spurt jetting from him, and Draco felt his chest rise and fall as he tried to catch his breath.
He'd restricted his conquests to Slytherin, an action he'd always considered a necessity, and a necessity he'd often rued. But now, as he scrabbled with one hand for his wand to clean up the mess he'd made of himself and staggered toward the tub, tossing clothing left and right like so much rubbish, he wondered if that had perhaps been a mistake.
He was Draco Malfoy, after all, and he could have anything he wanted-anyone.
Even if they were inappropriate.