CHAPTER FOUR - Dealing With the Aftermath
She was right.
He hated her for that-had to hate her for something, really, because Pansy wasn't exactly a likeable young woman-for being right about Weasley and Potter and the whole sordid mess. It was far too easy to see her point in the light of day, in the immense quiet of the deserted office building. He had no use for Sunday, no use for the day of rest spent at an empty home. His mother wouldn't be there, and he couldn't blame her. She had plenty of lost time to make up for. He wouldn't begrudge her that. But nor would he sit in an empty house, playing lord of the manor while there was work to be done.
So he worked.
It had been easy, far too easy, to buy up property with the wealth his father had left, channeling dirty money into clean expenditures and turning a clean, if somewhat ruthless, profit from his ventures. It had been much easier than, for instance, making a living playing professional Quidditch. Not that he really wanted to play a game for a living, like that idiot Potter.
But just… for example.
Draco pushed aside the contract he'd been reading and used his wand to float the next stack of parchment from his 'in' tray. Predictably, the topmost envelope on the pile had a garish magenta kissmark on the front, as all the legal documents that crossed his desk did.
Fucking Parkinson. He didn't know why he'd ever given her a job.
He couldn't decide whether to ignore the advice, such as it was, she'd given him about the Weasel and Scarhead and do as he pleased, or take her advice quietly so she couldn't prove she'd been right.
And of course she'd been right. He could taste what he'd wanted for too long-the kind of rightness he'd wanted since the lines had been drawn starkly and clearly between good and bad, between right and wrong, between bloody Gryffindor and Slytherin.
Since it had become all too obvious who the golden boy would be, and who would become the black sheep.
And then there was her, the princess, the golden boy's paramour, and she fascinated Draco. Why had she left? What business had she had when she'd approached him at his reception?
This one blurred the lines. The beloved redhead had never been all good and never been all bad. She had somehow avoided the broad brushes wielded in the days of war and came out triumphant.
And sexy. Yes, somehow she'd emerged from the whole thing looking far above her station and far above her means.
"Tricksome witch," he muttered, flipping over Pansy's envelope to obscure the ridiculous lipstick stains.
He would forget it. The last thing he wanted was to look as though he were basking in Potter's leftovers.
He would just… let it go.
He found he couldn't concentrate for a damn on the rest of his work.
~~~
They could titter all they wanted, sneak glances all they wanted, but they didn't know. They had no way of knowing what she was thinking or feeling. Had they ever cared to know?
Probably not, Ginny reckoned, slinging the leather tote the twins had gotten her over the back of her chair. Though she couldn't see it, she knew well what was inside-the latest edition of the Daily Prophet, complete with a reprint of the Sunday Prophet picture of her with Draco, and the added bonus of a picture of a very forlorn Harry after his Quidditch match Saturday.
She was the villain.
To all but a few of the ministry people, however, at her best moments she'd been only the daughter of Arthur, the sister of Percy. At her worst moments, she'd merely been a set of Healing credentials with good office skills.
She'd never really been someone, but she certainly was now.
"You looked smashing at the party, darling," a matronly witch called from the hallway, her tone suggesting she was going to amend that compliment to the first person who would listen.
Ginny sighed and fingered the flap of the bag, both wanting and not wanting to read what was inside. Torn, she barely registered the squeak of the floorboard before the voice followed it.
"You could silence that, you know. I'd give it a go, but I'm as bad as I ever was with that sort of thing." Ron spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness and grinned at his baby sister, his hair unruly and falling over his eyes.
He'd missed her.
He hadn't seen her for two weeks, and though that wouldn't have ordinarily been a long time, he was worried about her.
Two weeks ago, she'd packed up the things that had inevitably accumulated at Harry's flat and moved back to her own place without so much as a word of warning or explanation to Harry or any of her family.
And Ron felt trapped between them.
"Ron!" She nearly tripped over her robes trying to get to him, and being embraced by him felt right. She'd missed him horribly, wanted to talk to him innumerable times, but found she couldn't do it.
She wouldn't do it.
Harry needed Ron, and she wasn't going to take that away from him.
"You look good," he said, and it puzzled him, because she really did look good. He'd expected… well, he didn't know. Something wrong, visibly and obviously wrong. Ginny didn't do things like this. She didn't leave Harry, and she didn't enjoy flirtations with Draco Malfoy.
But she had, and he was just going to have to come to grips with that.
"I'm on my way to the shop," he said, referring to the Quidditch supply shop he'd opened with money lent from the twins. "I thought I'd-"
"Sneak by?" she asked wryly, her lips quirking. "It's okay. I know…" I seem crazy? I know I've disappointed all of you? I know I'm just going to have to do this on my own? "This is hard for everyone," she finished, shaking her head as though to warn away tears. "Go, Ron. You don't want to be late." She kissed his cheek, lingered there for a moment, feeling the familiar warmth, smelling the soap he'd used since… forever. "You take care of him," she said, straightening and stepping back to herself.
Ron started to say something, feeling his own throat tighten a little. Things were just… so skewed. "Ginny-"
"I can take care of myself," she said firmly, and wondered if she was convincing him any more than she was convincing herself.
~~~
Pansy walked into his office without knocking and left the door open, an action she considered her second-favorite pastime. Few things rivaled the sheer enjoyment she got from seeing Draco Malfoy's faultless face mottle red with annoyance.
She had yet to catch him doing anything truly untoward, though today was a close call.
"Love, you missed an entire page." She stood in front of his desk and took her sweet time leaning over to pluck the offending piece of newsprint from his lap. He'd shoved the rest of the paper untidily into the center drawer of his desk, where photographed wizards squawked in outrage as the corners of their pages poked out of the drawer. "You weren't reading that drivel on the front, were you? What was the headline?" She pretended to think about it though she knew they both could state it by rote. "'Quidditch Player's Woman Woes'?"
He bared his teeth at her and snatched the last piece of the newspaper from her hands. "Is there anything else you had, Barrister?"
"I have plenty more, darling," she purred, leaping back at the threat in his eyes. He wouldn't hit her, but she didn't trust him not to hex her just a little. "You need to sign this with a witness at the Ministry. We don't have a Ministry person in our pocket… yet."
"Pity," he snarled, truly embarrassed that she'd caught him poring over that damnable newspaper. It was just press, he told himself. His people would manage things, it would all be swept behind him. "Well, never to worry," he said, forcing himself to recover. "If I haven't a Ministry person in my pocket, surely you've one in your pants?"
Pansy raised an eyebrow and dropped her eyes to her thighs, on which her pinstriped skirt stopped at an alarming height. "Well, not at the moment," she said indulgently. "Check back later."
She shoved the parchment across his desk with one finger-today tipped in a bizarre shade of metallic red-and made a shooing motion with her hand. "Go on, boss, be a good boy. Get over to the Ministry." She turned and started to walk out, not bothering to add a little swing to her step-he didn't appreciate it, anyway. "If you hurry, maybe you can catch her reading her copy, too."
She considered it a very lucky thing hexes didn't go through doors.