CHAPTER SEVEN - Hell in a Black Dress
"Hey, Weasley, when's the big date?" A piggish intern with no manners and even fewer brains clung to the edge of a doorway, swinging out just to ask her that one, asinine question.
"Tonight," Ginny answered, slamming into the young man's shoulder with her own as she passed, making him lose grip of the doorframe and fall stumbling into the opposite jamb. Arse.
She caught a glance, just a glance, of her father looking reproachful as he walked by, glasses ever-sliding to the tip of his nose, eyes ever-watery from staring at too many pages, too many contraptions, too many everything. The twins had joked more than once-and with some seriousness-that Arthur's eyesight had started to falter when he'd watched his wife have a baby boy… and seen double.
She'd never been so bloody relieved to see her own office, confining or not.
Truth be known, she'd seen precious little of anything but her flat and her office for two straight days, cleaning and purging her life of reminders of Harry. No photographs remained, no articles of clothing. The only reminder she had was her own persistent memory, intermittent and painful and unrelenting.
Now she just had to make it through the evening, and she'd be home free.
~~~
"What are you wearing?"
She'd been standing in his office for several minutes, and he'd treated her silently, knowing she'd either leave or finally speak up. If there was anything Pansy couldn't abide, it was silence. Or perhaps abstinence. Draco strongly suspected to Pansy, they were very similar. She was a woman who got off on the sound of her own voice, he thought, or else she wouldn't talk so fucking much.
He put down his quill and rubbed his eyes, loathing the thought that he'd eventually need reading glasses. His sense of vanity was absolutely appalled at the notion. "Regardless of whether that question was leveled out of genuine curiosity or prurient interest, Pansy, I should think the answer quite self-evident."
He was tempted to ask her what exactly she was wearing, as the skin-tight white ensemble was quite beyond his comprehensive abilities to label, but he decided he didn't want to know the answer. He could practically see her-
"Not right now, you great git," Pansy sighed theatrically, boosting herself onto the edge of his desk and swinging her feet like a spoiled child, knocking the chunky white heels of her shoes against the side of his very expensive desk. They might have been uncomfortable as hell, but Pansy found Muggle shoes positively darling.
Besides, they made her legs look bloody fantastic.
She turned her head so she could keep her eyes on him-he'd poked her in the rear with an ink-laden quill once when she'd sat on his desk, and Merlin knew she didn't want black ink all over her new white suede mini-and pursed her lips. "What are you wearing tonight, you thick-headed goat?"
Draco looked up at her. "Are you going to help me choose something, Parkinson? Please do. I often feel there isn't enough gaucherie in my wardrobe." He contemplated commenting on the amount of his desk she was taking up, but the last time he'd done so, she'd actually taken offense and nearly cursed him bald.
It wasn't as though he'd really meant to imply her arse was big.
"I hate you," Pansy responded, checking her French-manicured nails.
"Do you really mean it?" Draco asked, sounding obscenely hopeful. When he didn't get an answer, he went back to the list of people he needed to owl before the day was out, striking several of them merely out of spite. They didn't get follow-up owls if they couldn't owl him in the first place. He wasn't their bloody nanny, after all.
"I won't dress you unless I get to undress you," Pansy said, spinning around so she faced Draco, one of her legs bumping his arm as she kicked her feet. "Now, what are you wearing this evening?"
The tip of his quill broke off when he pressed on it just a bit too hard. He'd really been trying not to think about the evening's engagement until he absolutely had to. He'd also been trying not to think of the heat of her, of how beautifully a mess she'd looked when he'd burst into her home.
His own home had always been spotless, his own mother impeccable. There had been no playing in the gardens for the sole Malfoy heir, no dirtying the knees, no play clothes. That explained his preoccupation, he thought. It was simple novelty.
"It doesn't matter if I showed up in my pajamas," he snapped, "I'll still be better dressed than the Weasel. So I believe, dear Pansy, I'll just wear what I have on."
Pansy slid forward to pat Draco on the cheek, fully aware her skirt was clinging to the desk and riding high on her thighs. "Draco, honey," she said, stroking his cheek lightly and seeing exactly how tired, how mixed up the poor baby was.
Then she pinched his cheek hard enough to have him yelping. "You're an insensitive bastard," she said decisively, playfully slapping the sore spot she'd left with a stinging swat of her palm. "Don't wear your work clothes." She hopped off his desk, helped herself to one of the toffees he kept in a dish, and shrugged. "Unless, of course, you're planning on taking them off directly after dinner."
"I loathe you," Draco said, his hand pressed to his throbbing cheek.
"Do you really mean it?" Pansy asked sweetly, popping the toffee into her mouth and knowing with a certain satisfaction it would probably settle straight in her arse. "Put a cooling spell on that cheek, love. Wouldn't want it to bruise for your big night."
She sauntered out, her hips rolling, and she tapped her fingers against the doorframe consideringly. "Don't go empty-handed," she added. "Sometimes a pretty face just isn't enough for a girl, love."
He'd have called her foul names, but she'd already cast a silencing spell around his office.
~~~
She refused to be nervous. She had taken off work simply because she had the hours coming, darn it, it had nothing to do with him or her nerves or her stomach or the fact that she didn't really know if she could manage to fix an entire dinner in an hour and a half. Ginny Weasley certainly wasn't stressed about her clothes, about what to wear.
She wasn't throwing shoes all over her room. It was her fucking flat, for Merlin's sake, she'd go bloody barefoot if she wanted. She paused in mid-toss, a shoe poised in one hand. Barefoot, indeed. She needed to be comfortable. She needed the upper hand.
She painted her toenails a deep, racy scarlet and figured it was good enough. He couldn't expect her to be dressed to the nines when she had to fix His Highness's bloody repast. She threw her hair into a sloppy bun, rather enjoying the irreverence of it, of dressing down. No doubt he'd show up in clothing so expensive it would put her whole wardrobe to shame, and she hoped he felt uncomfortable. Not that anything made that bastard uncomfortable.
Once she was dressed, it was nothing at all to lose herself in the cooking, in the familiar rhythms instilled in her by her mother, the soothing patterns she'd known since birth.
She'd cooked for Harry occasionally, when he'd taken the time to eat, when he'd had time to sit down with her rather than whisking her to some Quidditch reception or insisting they go to the Burrow instead. He'd always been on the go, that one, and sometimes she missed the bustle.
Ginny shuddered and pushed the thought away from her.
Tonight was about pushing it all away.
~~~
He'd been knocking the doorknocker for the better part of a minute, and was starting to wonder if it would really
be untoward to let himself in. The only problem was, an arse-brained reporter from the Prophet was lurking behind him,
snapping a picture of him on the doorway.
Draco contemplated tossing a bottle of wine at him, but refrained, imagining what glee Pansy would take over that.
Sadistic bint.
Finally, at his wits' end, he tried to look casual about putting his mouth near the Muggle-style post slot in the door. "Weasley, bloody let me in before I'm photographed by the entire country."
And when she opened the door, he wished she hadn't.
The black dress she wore certainly couldn't have been approved by any of her brothers, or her ex fiancé, for that matter. It wasn't really all that short, he thought, thinking of Pansy's usual fare, but it was snug as hell from her breasts to just above her knees, and though the sleeves were long and belled, there was absolutely no back whatsoever to the garment.
Her legs were bare, no stockings to speak of, and her feet were also bare.
For the devotion of all that's good and magical, he thought. Her fucking feet are bare. Except, of course, for the tarty red paint she'd put on them.
"Surely Potter could afford to get his mistress shoes," he said before he really thought about it, and for the second time in the day, his cheek was accosted by a scantily clad female.
"Shut your fucking mouth about Harry," Ginny said, her voice low and dangerous. "Unless you brought another bottle of wine, neither of us is going to get drunk enough to tolerate the consequences of your disrespect." She'd been poised and collected right up until that moment.
Dammit.
He looked magnificent, of course, the charcoal suit underscored by the pale gray shirt he had under the jacket, throat unbuttoned, no tie to be found. She could see the dip of his throat and wondered if she could charm a knife right into that spot sometime during the main course.
"Make yourself at home," she said, turning her back to him to compose herself and pop the cork on the wine. She wasn't accustomed to being around a man, even one so vile as Malfoy, and it was shooting her nerves to hell.
She couldn't do this.
What he wanted was to stand right where he was and rub his abused jaw. But that would be completely uncouth, not to mention at cross-purposes with his intent, so he sauntered up behind her, placing his hands to either side of her on the sideboard, his breath skimming along her neck. The occasional soft, wayward curl stirred under the motion and nearly distracted him. "What say you to a truce, Ginevra? That way I don't end up with wine on my clothes tonight."
His thumbs brushed her hips and Ginny shuddered, wishing the only fantasy she was entertaining was to bash his head in with the wine bottle.
"Never to fear about your precious clothes, Malfoy," she said, turning uncomfortably in the cage of his arms to hand him a glass of wine. "Not a stitch will be touched."
He was starting to sincerely hope that wasn't going to be the case, and he refused to listen to Pansy's snide voice in his head, talking about shedding his clothes just after dinner.
So what of it if things progressed in that direction? That's where he wanted things to progress to. All the better to bring it down from there, to watch Prince Potter tumble from his exalted throne as he realized what he'd handed over, what he'd lost, how he'd been bested by Draco.
"Sit," she insisted again, moving one of his arms to walk toward the kitchen even as she gestured to the table she'd dragged into the living room. "I'll bring out the food."
He gaped at her for a moment, never once having thought of her serving things herself. She didn't have a house elf… and he'd never thought twice about it. He was going to have to eat something she had cooked?!
In the kitchen, Ginny laid her forehead against the cabinets and took a deep, unsteady breath. The feel of him, warmth, and the smell of him were enough to set her teeth on edge, to put her right at the edge of quavery tears. She just wanted it over with, wanted to complete the picture she'd started to paint. The photo opportunity would have done that, of course, would have completed her status as villainess.
But she didn't want to use him. She didn't want to use anyone.
She pasted on a polite, if chilly, smile as she carried dishes back into the main room, startled when he stood to help her set them down. At her visible shock, he raised an eyebrow, daring her to challenge his aid, so she said nothing.
They settled into the meal with interspersed silence and casual conversation, Ginny occasionally glancing across the table at him and feeling terribly guilty for the handprint she'd marked his face with. But she couldn't stand to hear Harry's name from anyone, much less from his lips.
She needed a change of subject, and fast. "Are you… do you…" She thought about how she wanted to say it, then tried for the most direct tack. "How long have you and Pansy been together?"
The wine slid smoothly down. Only it slid smoothly down Draco's windpipe when he registered her question, and he began to choke, his skin flushing to match the wine he'd inhaled. When he finally stopped coughing long enough to open his eyes, he saw her looking at him with frank curiosity and no alarm at all. "Bloody hell," he managed. "She's my barrister, Weasley. She's in my employ."
She merely gave him a look that clearly said "so?"
"We're not fucking shagging, Weasley, if that's what you're trying to imply!" he shouted a bit more loudly than he'd intended. "For Merlin's sake, just because she's a tart doesn't mean I have to drop trou for her, as well, you know."
Ginny held her hands up, biting back a smile. It was rather funny to see him so defensive. After all that coughing, even his hair was a bit out of place.
"How long were you and Potter together?" he asked, slamming the wind right out of her sails and reminding her all too keenly of why he was here, of what his motivation was. She might not want to use him, but he certainly wanted to use her, and well she knew it.
And wasn't that the way of things? She wasn't really wanted for who she was, precisely. It was more a matter of associations, of expectations.
"A year," she said quietly, finding it hard to breathe. She took a deep breath as though about to add something and let it out slowly, needing the heavy silence. "I believe I'll get dessert."
He didn't anticipate the rage, didn't anticipate the sheer, blinding crimsonjade feel of it, anger and envy at her reaction, at how beaten she'd seemed the moment he'd said his name. "Are you thinking about him, then?" he asked, forcing brightness into his voice. "When you're sitting across the table from me, is it easier to stomach if you're thinking of him?"