CHAPTER THREE - Escape
The nature of scandal-lovers was, at least in this situation, beneficial to Ginny's escape. After Malfoy had so outrageously lied to the press and the public, the guests had swallowed them up, separated them by sheer force of their questions and nattering and bothering, and Ginny was finally able to duck out the doors, a room-span away from Draco Malfoy.
Once she was outside, she ducked to the side of the tremendous office building, laid her back against the cool black
marble, and took a deep breath.
What the hell had just happened?
It would have taken someone a great dealer smarter and savvier than her to really sort it all out, but Ginny Weasley was fairly sure several things had just happened.
She'd made her debut without Harry Potter, and had more than sufficiently let the world know they were apart.
She'd been flirted with by Pansy Parkinson.
She'd managed to get Draco Malfoy's attention.
It wasn't that she hadn't wanted to, exactly-she'd been intentional from the moment she'd walked in the door-but there was something the matter, something not quite wise about trying to use a user.
She may not have been Hermione, but she could at least see what was thrust right in front of her nose. Draco Malfoy hadn't a genuine bone in his body, and his hatred of Harry had spanned a great deal of time. Long enough, it seemed, to still want everything Harry had. Or better yet, to prove he could get what Harry didn't have.
Well, Ginny thought, looking left and then right before preparing to Apparate. She'd let him think he could get whatever he wanted.
She'd play the fool for him just long enough to turn the tables and seal her own deal, of sorts.
~~~
His mood could not have been fouler.
The bloody press and the bloody public, plebes all of them, had mobbed him. People had had the gall to touch him. As though being seen with a Weasley made him approachable. Pah. He felt filthy. And what was more, the little bint had actually managed to escape without him noticing.
Draco Malfoy didn't like things happening without his approval, or at the very least, his attention.
But he fully intended not to let that slip by him. Oh, no, there was plenty of follow-up to be done with Miss Weasley, he thought as he turned the knob of his offices, kicking open the door. He had already shed his tie, tossing it on his desk as he headed for the massive private bathroom that occupied one corner of the penthouse suite, and was working on kicking his shoes off when he stilled.
He sensed her. He smelled her before he heard her, and he heard her before he saw her.
"Parkinson," he said, leaning down and switching on his lamp. "How many fucking times do I have to tell you my office is not your hotel, not your bloody apartment, not your home away from home, and not…" he trailed off, looking at the state of her clothes, the other tie still left on the floor, and the way she was sprawled lazily on the black leather couch against the wall. "Your boudoir. Perhaps I should have put that one at the top of the list, eh?"
Pansy stretched, pointing her toes at one arm of the couch while scratching her chartreuse-lacquered fingernails against the other arm. "It wouldn't have mattered," she said, not bothering to move as he wrapped his fingers around her ankles, lifted them, and sat with her legs across his lap. "I wish I'd gotten his name, though, he really deserves a promotion." At his glare, all Pansy could do was laugh, full-breathed and unapologetic. When the laughter-but not his chastising look-had died down, Pansy bit the inside of her cheek and continued to talk, knowing he wouldn't unless goaded. "Why aren't you with Miss Weasley? You know, I would have vacated the couch if you'd wanted it."
Draco made a chuffing noise anyone else would have taken for disgust.
Pansy decided it was much more fun to see it as avoidance.
"Or you could have gone back to her place."
Draco stood, dumping her feet rudely to the floor. Leaving her skirt hiked up much higher than was decent, Pansy crossed her legs and watched him pace the floor. "You know," he said, brushing one hand over his hair, "You think about sex more than any man I know."
"Thank you," Pansy answered sincerely.
"It wasn't a compliment."
And all she gave him in return was that damnable, predatory grin. It would be so much easier to be worried about her, to feel protective of her, if she didn't look as though she'd chew up anyone she wanted to.
"I know what you're doing," Pansy said, though he hadn't asked and certainly hadn't encouraged the topic. "Don't you think it's a bit late for these childhood squabbles, love? You have to have the toy Potter just… couldn't… get?"
It boiled his blood to hear her say it out loud, to ridicule it like that.
"It's not that," he lied. "Or not just that. Damn it, Pansy, where's the Slytherin in you?"
She stood then, crossed to him, put her hands to his shoulders.
For a moment, he thought she'd say something serious.
Then she ruined it.
"Oddly enough, the only Slytherin I had in me was Marcus. Good man, Flint. Poor lover."
He pushed her away, trying not to crack a smile. But this time, she stepped back to him, assumed the same pose, and he knew she would be serious this time.
"The only reason I was ever a Slytherin is because I would do whatever it took to please me. Clearly I've mastered that. We've graduated, Draco, some years ago. We're done with those days, and it's not about a house anymore, or about school. It's not even about who had the bigger broom." She raised an eyebrow, unable to resist. "You're a grown man, act like one." She kissed his cheek, then pinched it as she leaned back. "Don't pout, baby. You and Harry are equally pretty."
She was nearly out his door before she turned and added, "But that Weasley? Honey, she's much prettier than both of you combined."
Her headache was excruciating.
If it had been a hangover, she could have blamed herself and had done with it. But she'd only had the two drinks the night before, so that wasn't it.
No, the Sunday-morning headache came from two things. Stress… and family.
"I realize," Molly's head was saying carefully from the fireplace, "That Draco Malfoy is now a contributing member of wizard society, and the rules of polite society indicate you have to get along with him because of your position, but darling, dinner?"
It wasn't about what she was saying, really… that came as no surprise to Ginny. It was about what was between the words, that underlying disappointment that seemed to lie in the ashes just beyond her mother's talking head, that seemed to shine from Molly's eyes with every other word.
Why aren't you with Harry anymore, dear? Why won't you tell us what happened?
Why won't you let us decide your life for you?
"It was an accident, Mum," Ginny said wearily for was seemed like the thousandth time. "Just an accident. I couldn't say to the press 'Oh, I'm a clumsy git and don't mind that I just spilled something all over the wizarding world's richest man.'"
"But you could indicate to the press that you and Harry were apart?"
Ahh, and there it was, that nearly shrill tone. Molly was almost to the point of saying exactly what she meant, but Ginny knew she wouldn't.
No, not on this topic. Not with the baby of the family, and not about Harry. Harry, the celebrity, Harry, the surrogate son, Harry, who was currently brokenhearted about what had happened with Ginny.
Harry, who didn't belong with her, Ginny thought. Well, she had her reasons. And she'd be thrice hexed if she shared them with anyone else. She didn't want to share them.
"Can you just… be with me on this?" she finally asked her mother, afraid of what the answer would be. She was afraid they'd pick Harry over her, if they had to choose.
She was afraid her mother would say no.
But Molly said nothing, nodding instead to indicate her acquiescence of sorts. She said her goodbyes, popped out of the fire, but she looked back in just a bit later to watch her daughter napping on the couch in her flat, and to wonder what was going on in that pretty red head.
Perhaps all she needed was time.