Rock and Roll Queen

Title: Rock & Roll Queen

Summary: Some light dusting, heavy spying, inappropriate sniffing, and . . . a rock ballad? Things are going to get very weird when Ginny and Hermione, super spies extraordinaire, take jobs as maids at Malfoy Manor!

Author's Notes: Thanks to the very awesome Aduro for the beta! If you haven't read her After the War, wow, you have a treat in store for you! It is D/G at its finest. (But you don't have to take my word for it! ::cue Reading Rainbow music:: )

Disclaimer: Nothing but the plot and the terrible song lyrics are mine. Frankly, J.K. would probably be appalled at the things I'm making her characters do. The story's title comes from the song of the same name by The Subways.

Chapter 1 - Job Decisions

"Stop fidgeting!" the brunette hissed under her breath.

"I'm nervous! There's nothing wrong with being nervous before a job interview!" her friend hissed back, tapping her foot even faster than before.

"Well, you're making me nervous, too! God, you'd think I was applying to be Minister of Magic, my heart's going so fast!"

"I told you this was a bad idea," the redhead said, ceasing her foot tapping to turn and stare accusingly at her companion.

"Not arguing with you there," the other woman replied. "But all the same, here we are. It's not like we have a choice."

Her sigh was cut short as the heavy oak door swung open and a portly witch poked her head through.

"Next," she said in a bored voice, and disappeared back into the adjoining room.

"Well, here goes," said the redhead as she stood and ran sweaty palms down her robes. "Wish me luck."

"Good luck. You'll be fine," her friend replied, smiling reassuringly at her as she pulled open the door and entered the next room.

"Sit down," the portly witch said, indicating an uncomfortable chair in front of the desk. "Name?"

"Ginny Weasley, ma'am."

"It says on your application you graduated from Hogwarts two years ago - correct?"

"Yes."

"And how many N.E.W.T.s did you receive?"

"Er, are N.E.W.T.s really necessary for this line of work?"

"Just answer the question, please."

~*~*~*~

Draco Malfoy stood in front of a long oval mirror framed in bronze fleur-de-lis. He was contemplating a nipple piercing.

"Sexy or scary?" he asked, holding a small silver hoop against his bare chest. There was no response; she was ignoring him again.

"Sexy or scary?" he asked in a louder voice.

"I'm thinking! Hold on, you three-dimensional arse!" the mirror replied.

Draco chuckled. "Distracted because you were looking at it again, weren't you?" He turned slightly to give the mirror a better view of his posterior. "And Mirabel, you're as three dimensional as I am - you're just rather flat."

"That's it, isn't it?" the mirror huffed. "You never liked the flat girls!"

"Not again, Mirabel," Draco replied wearily. "You know it would never work between us. It's the whole human/furniture thing. And I respect you too much," he added as an afterthought.

Mirabel sniffed.

"Which is why your opinion is so important to me," he coaxed, wiggling the silver hoop.

"All right, fine," the mirror said after a pause with feigned reluctance in her voice. "I'll give you my opinion. Let's see . . . scenario: you're with one of your trollops-"

"Watch it."

"One of your . . . lady friends, and in the heat of the moment, she reaches up, and yoink! There goes the whole nipple."

Draco winced and covered his chest protectively with the palms of his hands.

"Right," he said. "Scary, then."

He tossed the hoop onto his dresser and slumped onto the bed. "It's just that I need an edge - something to make me stand out."

"Draco, you have an edge," Mirabel purred. "Look at yourself. Come on, look up. That's a boy. Give us a smile then. Now see, that is an edge. You, Draco Malfoy, are the sexiest man alive, and when women look at you, they will not be able to resist."

"Oh, I know I'm sexy - that's not the point though! I want my look to say" - Draco stood and gestured dramatically - "'Rock Star!'"

~*~*~*~

Ginny leaned against one of the stone columns flanking the entrance of Malfoy Manor, waiting for Hermione to emerge. Finally, the brunette burst through the doors, practically skipping in relief.

"It went well, I take it?" Ginny asked with an amused smile on her face.

"Yes! Got it! Though that Mrs. Abbott is one scary witch, isn't she? It felt like being in detention with McGonagall."

"Hermione, you never had detention with McGonagall."

"Hypothetically, I mean."

Ginny rolled her eyes as the two walked down the long curving drive away from the manor. When they exited the gates, Hermione turned and smiled at Ginny triumphantly.

"Shall we?" she asked, and Ginny nodded. The two Apparated away.

~*~*~*~

Later that day, Draco sat in his study - his father's study once upon a time - and flipped through the endless pile of parchments in front of him. Business was boring and his mind was elsewhere.

" . . . under your spell . . . under your spell, baby . . ." he sang under his breath.

The latest Weird Sisters' hit had been stuck in his head all day. It was bloody distracting, and bloody brilliant. But that, of course, was because he had written it. Draco had stumbled upon his talent for songwriting in his fifth year at school, when he had penned the Hogwarts classic, "Weasley is our King." It was then that he had discovered the power of music, the power it had to penetrate the mind, to affect the emotions. It had decimated the Weasel's spirit; it had brought joy to Slytherin House; it was magic without wands or incantations.

Once the war was over, and Lucius, much to Draco's relief, had been killed, Draco took over the family business. He had been exonerated by the Ministry of all wrongdoing due to the valuable information he had provided them. Draco was no fool - he knew who was bound to win, and his heart had never been in serving the Dark Lord. No, his father might have been fine with being some half-blood's lapdog, but Draco was his own man. He turned traitor, and didn't lose any sleep over it.

But post-war, life was boring. The various businesses owned by the Malfoy Corporation practically ran themselves, and Draco, used to the more exciting life of a double-agent, soon grew frustrated with boardroom meetings and dignitaries' luncheons. He found relief in songwriting. Under the nom de plume "Desiderio Glacé" Draco had sent out his compositions to the most popular wizard bands, and watched as his songs climbed the charts. It was satisfying work, for a while.

Lately, however, Draco found himself more and more unsatisfied with life. Songwriting was great - he loved having a secret identity even his mother knew nothing of - but he was not one to sit quietly on the sidelines. Draco Malfoy wanted his share of the spotlight. And while watching the seriously addicting wizvid, Draco formed a plan. Why should the prancing nancies in dragonskin pants get all the glory? Draco could write the songs; why not sing them as well?

~*~*~*~

Ginny rolled her eyes as Harry gave Hermione an unnecessarily long and wet-sounding kiss.

"We were barely gone an hour," she muttered under her breath.

Ron coughed.

"Right," said Harry, assuming his "boss" voice despite the fact that he was blushing like a schoolgirl.

"Progress report, Agent Granger?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she replied with a bit of a cheeky grin. "Ginny and I succeeded in obtaining positions within Malfoy Manor, and we will be reporting to work there at seven tomorrow morning. We've both been hired as part of the cleaning staff, reporting to a Mrs. Abbott. We will be housed in the servants' wing. While there, neither Ginny nor I saw any sign of the target."

"Very good," Harry said. "Ron, please see what you can find out about this Mrs. Abbott. I'd like a report on my desk by tomorrow afternoon, if possible."

"Sure thing," Ron replied, jotting down a note on his parchment pad.

"All right," Harry said, eyeing each person sitting around the conference table. "Let's make sure we all know what we're doing. Herm, Ginny, everything's to be aboveboard - do the work required of you, and do it well. It is imperative that you keep those jobs at all costs. That said, keep your eyes open. Take every opportunity to monitor the target, get as close to him as you can. And if anyone asks, you took the jobs why?"

"Down on our luck," Hermione answered with a bright smile.

"Down on our luck," Ginny sighed, a beat behind her.

"Good. Now, Luna, Colin, you'll be running the Diagon Alley operation. Our target has been spotted there a number of times recently, and it is up to you to tail him, find out what he's up to. You are to exercise the utmost caution - do not get caught."

Colin nodded eagerly.

"Right boss," Luna said. "I'll be on him like mud on a three-toed Plutoose, or like Ron on my cherry-"

"Luna!" Ron exclaimed, his eyes widening in alarm.

"I was going to say 'pie,' Ron. You know my cherry pie is your favorite - you told me so yourself. After that you like the blueberry I make, and the banana cream," Luna said innocently.

Ginny tried to hide her chortle in her sleeve. Her brother's steamy romance with Luna Lovegood was one of the bright spots of Ginny's life - especially because Luna's often seriously inappropriate comments were a constant source of embarrassment to Ron.

"For shame, Ronald. What were you thinking?" Ginny whispered to the blushing redhead beside her. In reply, Ron smacked her leg under the table.

Harry cleared his throat. "May we continue?" he asked, giving the two Weasleys a reprimanding look.

"Okay, so that leaves Ron and me. Ron will be on the research end - if any of you come upon a name, a place, a date, anything, owl it to Ron at the Burrow immediately. There is nothing suspicious about owling him there - we're all friends and family, after all. I'll be running the operations base, obviously. I expect progress reports daily from you, Hermione, and from you, Luna. Ginny, you'll report daily to Hermione and she'll include your findings in what she sends me. If any of you feel yourselves to be in danger, activate your locator badge - Aurors will be standing by around the clock. Mad-Eye will check on things periodically, but this is our mission, folks. Our chance to prove ourselves as the newest members of the Ministry's Elite Spy Squad. And believe me, once we catch that smarmy git red-handed, we will have shown ourselves to be the very best of the M.E.S.S. Dirty Slytherin thinks he can hide what he really is! Thinks he can start up a new band of Death Eaters right under my nose, does he?" Harry's last sentence drifted into angry mumblings.

"Harry?" said Ginny, raising an eyebrow. "Okay, there?"

"Fine," said Harry. "Questions, anyone? Good then. Meeting adjourned."

Quickly, everyone but Ginny rose from the conference table. The two couples, Luna and Ron, and Harry and Hermione, exited together already discussing their plans for dinner at a new restaurant in Diagon Alley, leaving Colin alone with Ginny.

"Er, Ginny, would you like to stop off for coffee, perchance?" he asked with a nervous smile. Ginny looked up at the overly-excitable blond and smiled regretfully.

"Sorry, Colin, can't. I've got to get my stuff packed for tomorrow. Maybe next time, yeah?"

"Oh, sure, Ginny! I completely understand. I'll let you get to it, then. Good luck with the mission!" And with barely concealed relief, Colin left the room. Ginny rolled her eyes. She just knew Ron was pressuring Colin to date her; Ron would do about anything to see her with someone "respectable" - meaning someone he could keep an eye on.

Ginny had succumbed to his pressuring and tried dating Neville Longbottom a few months ago. Neville was a great guy - very considerate, always polite - but Ginny had been bored stiff. Luckily, Ginny's black thumb had left Neville with little regret when she called the relationship off. She still cringed at the memory of him coming home after a three-day herbological conference to find the brugmansia sanguinea she'd been asked to water a dry, shriveled waste.

"Edna!" he cried, falling to his knees beside the pot and shaking his fists skyward. "No! Nooooooo!"

Two calming draughts later, the two decided to go their separate ways.

Ginny sighed. She wanted to be in a relationship, but work kept her so impossibly busy she never had a chance to meet people. And this new mission was going to isolate her even more. Stuck in Malfoy Manor posing as a maid - the idea was crazy. Secretly Ginny thought Harry was a bit off his rocker for believing Draco Malfoy was trying to start up the Death Eaters again. Malfoy was a slimy git, but he had been helpful during the war, and he'd never struck Ginny as particularly diabolical. Annoying, sure. A complete prat, definitely. But the embodiment of evil? Ginny had her doubts.

She'd be stuck with Hermione the whole time, too. Not that Ginny didn't love Hermione, but she knew dealing with her around the clock could get wearing. Hermione took the M.E.S.S. almost too seriously sometimes. She was very rigid about following protocol, whereas Ginny liked to follow her instincts. Hermione, however, was the commanding officer, which meant that Ginny often had to bite her tongue and follow the older woman's orders.

Ironically, it was Hermione's short-lived career in politics that made this new mission possible. Fresh out of Hogwarts, Hermione had taken S.P.E.W. straight to the Ministry, and with Harry, war hero and all-around great guy backing her, the initiative was soon made law. House-elves were freed from slavery and a minimum wage was established for them. The majority of the wizarding world didn't care one way or another, but the elite, the pureblood families who owned the house-elves, were enraged. Owl posts arrived daily with loads of anonymous death threats and hexes. Hermione quickly decided that politics weren't for her, and joined Harry and Ron as an Auror. It had been three years since the House-Elf Freedom Act became law, and Hermione had only recently stopped receiving owled hexes.

~*~*~*~

Draco's humming was interrupted by the housekeeper, Mrs. Abbott.

"I've finalized the list of new hires, Mr. Malfoy. I just need your signature at the bottom to send on to accounting."

"Leave it there, Abbott. I'd like to look it over first."

"Right, sir," the portly witch replied, depositing the parchment on Draco's desk.

Sighing, Draco glanced at the list. Maintaining a staff of wizards and witches to run the manor had been a bit of a headache to him. It was all the fault of that self-righteous mudblood Granger and her stupid Freedom Act. At least she got what she deserved afterwards. The pureblooded families had drummed her out of politics following the passage of the Act. Draco smirked; his mother had only recently given up on the weekly hex she'd been owling her for the last three years.

"Stupid Granger," Draco murmured. Back at school that girl had lived to annoy him. He had a sneaking suspicion it was because she had a crush on him - not surprising given his inherent sexiness. But speaking of the mudblood, what was her name doing on the list of new maids? And Ginny Weasley, too? Surely Granger could find some other work after her failed political career? And the girl Weasel, sure she must be poor, but was she so bad off that she needed to be a maid? In Draco's experience, only near-Squibs and Hogwarts dropouts took those types of jobs. Something was fishy about this . . . .

"Oh, I get it now," Draco said, a low chuckle erupting from the back of his throat. Granger had been in love with him at Hogwarts. And the Weasley girl, he'd seen the way she looked at him sometimes. He could tell she wanted him.

"They can't get over me. They're so desperate that they're willing to become maids just to be near me." Draco laughed. "Oh, I'm going to have some fun with this," he said with a wide smirk.

-->

Title: Rock & Roll Queen

Disclaimer: Nothing but the plot and the terrible song lyrics are mine. Frankly, J.K. would probably be appalled at the things I'm making her characters do. The story's title comes from the song of the same name by The Subways.

Author's Notes: Thanks to all of you who are reading, and especially to those of you who reviewed! If you want to review again, I wouldn't mind a bit ;)

Thanks to the very awesome Aduro for the beta!

Chapter 2 - Inspecting

“And these are the quarters you'll be sharing,” Mrs. Abbott said, pushing open a narrow door to reveal a dimly lit room. Two beds and a wardrobe took up nearly the entire space.

“Lovely,” Ginny muttered under her breath as she dubiously eyed the cramped room.

“Bathroom's down the hall, last door on the right, your uniforms are in the wardrobe there, and missus would like to see you in the entry hall at 8 a.m. sharp. She's inspecting all the new staff, so see that you look smart. And don't take the main staircase, that's for family and guests only. Use the servants' stairs - same way we came up.” And with that, the portly witch waddled away.

Ginny slumped down onto one of the beds. “This is really quite wretched, isn't it?”

“I'll admit, it's a bit small,” Hermione agreed. “But perhaps these are the horrible conditions the Malfoy house-elves had to endure. Now we can see what they've suffered!” Hermione sounded slightly excited by the idea.

“Well won't that be fun!” Ginny replied in mock enthusiasm.

“Oh, stop it! This isn't going to be all bad, you know. Hey, we get new clothes - that's always nice!” Hermione threw open the doors to the wardrobe and pulled out one of the uniforms hanging there. She spun around to show Ginny, holding the garment against her body.

“Merlin's saggy man-boobs! What is that?!” Ginny exclaimed.

“Merlin's saggy what? Eww, Ginny, that's just wrong.”

“A sagging bosom is a natural part of the aging process, Hermione. Don't tell me you're a gerontophobic - that's very close-minded of you,” Ginny said in a reprimanding tone.

“You sound like Luna, you know.”

“I did, didn't I?” Ginny giggled. “But seriously, what is that?”

Hermione held the clothing out at arms' length and frowned.

“Goodness,” she laughed. “I must have grabbed a wrong size. Let's see . . . .”

After each of the identical uniforms - ten in all - had been removed from the wardrobe and thrown onto one of the beds, Hermione finally admitted defeat.

“I don't see how I can wear that,” she said with a slightly panicked note in her voice. “Honestly! It's barely an outfit at all. It doesn't even look large enough to cover everything!”

Ginny, who was equally dismayed at the thought of wearing one of the “uniforms,” momentarily forgot her own feelings as a small smile crept onto her face.

“Gosh,” she began, tapping a finger against her cheek as if she were lost in thought, “these are so small they seem more appropriate for a house-elf than a human.”

Hermione immediately saw where this was going. “Ginevra Weasley, don't you dare say it! This is not-”

Ginny cleared her throat loudly to interrupt.

“Perhaps, Hermione - just perhaps - these are the same outfits the house-elves had to wear. Now we can see what they suffered!” Ginny fell over on the pile of uniforms giggling wickedly.

“Not funny, Ginny,” Hermione humphed. “Really, as you well know, house-elves didn't wear clothing.”

“Then I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky, huh?”

“You're impossible!” Hermione said as Ginny once more fell to giggling.

~*~*~*~

Draco yawned and tapped his fingers idly against the polished surface of his desk. It was too early to be out of bed, but he had much to do today. His office door was open slightly, and Draco smirked as he saw the household staff begin trickling into the entry hall for the weekly inspection. Watching his mother frighten and confuse the help was always a good time. Plus, there was the little matter of Granger and the girl Weasel, and he was just dying to get a closer look at them.

When the first newly hired maid - some squib girl whose name Draco couldn't recall - entered the hall, Draco decided his accountant needed a raise. Stan had been in charge of updating the maids' uniform; Draco had grown sick of the frumpy robes these witches were wearing around his house and told Stan to find something more classically “maid-like.” When Stan had reported back saying he had purchased uniforms using some Muggle machinery called “the internet,” Draco had been skeptical. However, given the sight before his eyes, Draco admitted that perhaps Muggles weren't all bad. And the designer Stan had used - Frederick was it? - from some city stateside clearly knew a thing or two about dressing women.

The squib was wearing stiletto heels that were just made to puncture mattresses and a pair of opaque, black stockings. Traveling up her legs with his eyes, Draco was impressed with the short, flared black skirt that barely covered her tight little arse. She had a white apron hugging her waist - a completely useless little thing - but gods, how it showed off her curves. The best part of the outfit though, in Draco's opinion, was the low-cut, tight bodice, trimmed in lace, that practically shoved her—

Draco's thoughts were horribly and painfully interrupted as he happened to glance up from the squib's breasts to her face. He winced and turned away. Eww. He chanced another glance, in case he had made a mistake, or had gotten something really ugly in his eye. Nope. She was hideous from the neck up - multiple-wart chin, horse-like overbite, mustache, and bug eyes. Draco shuddered.

“A bagger,” he mused philosophically, shaking his head slowly at the many injustices in the universe.

At that moment, Granger and Weasley made their way into Draco's line of sight. Granger, Draco had to admit, didn't look half bad: she had decent legs, though she wobbled in the heels as if she'd never worn a pair before. Her waist was small and flat and the uniform certainly flattered it. She was, sadly, a pirate's delight, but not every woman could be blest with a big, bouncing rack that made a man want to blow raspberries in it for hours. Draco smiled to himself, momentarily lost in a very pleasant memory.

He snapped out of it as his eyes focused on the Weasley girl. She was no girl any more, that was certain. Impossibly long, coltish legs, a juicy little arse he could just take a bite out of, the tiniest waist he had ever seen, and her tits - Merlin! Her perfectly rounded bosom rose from the low-cut uniform revealing smooth, white skin, with just the faintest dusting of freckles. Now that was something he could bury his face in. She was so stunningly perfect so far, Draco was almost afraid to look any higher and risk another disappointment. But Draco was nothing if not a risk-taker, and he bravely ventured a glance at her face.

And promptly felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. She wasn't cute; she wasn't pretty; she wasn't even drop-dead gorgeous. There weren't any words in Draco's vocabulary to describe how beautiful she was. So perfect, so lovely, so . . . so . . . .

The vaguely disconcerting, girly fluttering in his stomach was a more eloquent testament to Draco's feelings about the she-Weasel than anything his brain could come up with. Her delicate skin seemed almost translucent along her swan-like neck as it rose to the soft lines of her jaw. Her pale pink lips were set in a half-smirk as if she was secretly laughing at the world around her - an attitude Draco could understand and admire. She had a cute little nose with its smattering of freckles, but it was her eyes, a swirl of dark and milk chocolate - so warm that Draco inexplicably thought of sitting before the fireplace in his bedroom on Christmas, the secret, stolen moments of his childhood; all of that happiness and warmth and comfort were somehow in her eyes, and Draco could only stare, mesmerized.

He was broken out of his reverie by the entrance of his mother, the widow Malfoy, a woman who made a constant state of inebriation look easy. Draco watched as Abbott bowed deferentially before the wine-skin masquerading as a human being and then proceeded to point out the new staff. Narcissa, imperious even when she was three sheets to the wind at eight in the morning, sniffed disdainfully at each person she was introduced to. After going down the line with Abbott to inspect the troops, Narcissa deigned to speak.

“You are not house-elves,” she began, somehow making that sound like an insult, “so you will have to work extra hard to try to make up for it. I do not desire to see any of you unless I call, or hear any of you unless I ask you a direct question. Furthermore, I cannot be bothered to learn all of your names. From now on, you will all answer to the name `Smootchy' - is that understood?”

Draco grinned widely as he watched the new hires exchange confused glances and then nod their assent to his mother. The “Smootchy” bit was always good for a laugh, and somehow, no matter how many times he'd heard his mother give this particular speech, it never seemed to get old.

~*~*~*~

Ginny, Hermione, and the squib, Maisie, trailed behind Mrs. Abbott as she guided them through the manor, going over their many duties. She had just finished explaining that the main rooms of the manor - dining room, study, library, billiard room, sitting room, solarium, etc. - would have to be cleaned by hand. Apparently, wizard magic, unlike house-elf magic, reacted particularly badly when, say, something like a dusting spell was cast on the various “knickknacks” strewn about the manor. Ginny grimaced as Mrs. Abbott muttered something about “first maid,” “ears” and “permanently covered in dog fur.”

“The bedrooms, however, can be wand-cleaned safely. Laundry and sheets should be sent every morning to the laundry room in the dungeon, and refreshing charms should be cast on the carpeting and draperies,” Abbott droned. “Now listen up, girls, because this is important: the Missus likes her refreshing charm to smell of hops and barley - if you're unfamiliar with that particular scent combination, I have a sample in the kitchen - but the young Master prefers an unscented refreshing charm - strong perfumes give him headaches. Is that understood?”

Ginny nodded dully and rolled her eyes behind Mrs. Abbott's back. Hermione, on the other hand, looked like she had just read something particularly fascinating in Hogwarts, A History. Ginny threw her a questioning glance - did I miss something? - to which Hermione only smiled brightly.

Simultaneously, all four women began emitting a soft ringing from the Malfoy crest pins each wore affixed to their uniforms.

“Smootchy!” Narcissa's voice rang out. “I've broken another glass in the solar!”

The squib's eyes widened in panic and Ginny and Hermione exchanged glances.

“Would you like to get that, Smootchy, or shall I?” Ginny asked.

“Oh, by all means, Smootchy, she's all yours,” Hermione replied.

“Tank goodneth. Mithuth Malfoy ith a bit thcary,” said Maisie, her overbite causing her to whistle slightly in a way Ginny would have found cute in a small child. Maisie, on the other hand, could put on a bonnet, suck on a lolly, and play with a room full of kitties and puppies and she would still be horribly, hideously uncute.

“Good of you to volunteer, Miss Weasley,” Abbott said, ignoring Maisie's comment and sounding for all the world like a general sending a soldier out to battle. “And when you're done helping the Missus, please mop and wax the floor in the portrait gallery.”

~*~*~*~

“Finally! It took you long enough!” Pansy whined as Draco entered the Diagon Alley studio. He was the last to arrive apparently, and nodded in greeting to the rest of the crew.

“We have so much to do! Do you want to start with image or sound first?” Pansy, her annoyance forgotten, was nearly squealing. Draco cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Take sound - she's been going on about this new mystery song for the last half hour and I'm bloody near to killing her,” Blaise drawled.

“All right then, Pans, let's see it,” Draco said, hesitant to look at a song he didn't write himself. And given that Pansy Parkinson's twisted brain spawned it, he was right to be leery.

Pansy handed him the parchment excitedly, and he glanced it over.

“Pansy! What the bloody hell is wrong with you? I can't sing that about myself!”

Pansy's face fell into a dramatic pout, complete with droopy eyes and protruding lower lip. Blaise snatched the parchment from Draco and he, Crabbe, and Goyle bent over it.

“Draco's got an ass so tight / Makes me want to take a bite,” Blaise said in a monotone. “Or perhaps give it just a little lick, / Spin him around and suck his - Pansy! That's got to be your worst pick up attempt yet! Not to mention a complete rubbish song. Shame on you, Miss Parkinson, you naughty bird, you!”

Crabbe and Goyle just shook their heads at the blushing brunette. Every week she attempted some new plot to seduce their lead singer, and every week she failed miserably. The closest she had come to bagging Draco was when she brought in chocolate cupcakes for his twentieth birthday laced with a “see it, want it” love potion. Unfortunately, Crabbe took an unlucky step into Draco's line of sight at the most inopportune moment, and both men still had painful memories of the incident.

Draco cleared his throat and everyone gave him their complete attention.

“Let's try this song,” he said, passing out parchments to Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle. Goyle immediately picked up his bass and began strumming the low, rhythmic bass line. He nodded his head slightly to the beat.

Pansy took her sheet music over to the drums and absently twirled one of her sticks as she read over the part, her brows furrowed in concentration.

Crabbe perched himself on one of the woofers and fingered the electric guitar part. Soon a cacophony of sound filled the room as everyone practiced. Blaise, who had assigned himself the role of “band manager,” strolled from one person to the next, reading the music over their shoulders.

“This is bloody brilliant, Draco!” he finally exclaimed.

“Of course,” was the reply. “I wrote it.”

Practice lasted a couple of hours until finally Draco pronounced them good enough for their first performance the following evening at a small Muggle nightclub.

Pansy stretched her back and twirled a drumstick, her favorite trick from the correspondence course she had taken - “Drum Like Meg White!”

“Gods, my back is so sore,” she whined, eyeing Draco reproachfully. “We still need to work on your look for tomorrow, Draco.”

“What's wrong with my look?” Draco asked indignantly, running a hand through his hair. “I already have my outfit picked out for tomorrow: black dragonskin pants and a t-shirt I had specially made for the occasion. You'll love it, trust me.”

“I suppose that's fine,” replied Pansy. “But image for a rock star is more than just the clothes. Here, come and look at these pictures.”

The boys gathered around Pansy on the couch - Draco and Blaise on either side of her, and Crabbe and Goyle perched on the couch's arms. Pansy began pulling large glossy photos from a manila envelope on her lap.

“I've been doing some research on big Muggle rock stars. Here, look at this one - his name's Billie Joe, from a band called “Green Day” - very popular. What do you think?”

Draco eyed the photo critically. “Well, his skin tone is similar to mine, but that black hair makes him look very washed out. I like how he styles it, I suppose. Wait, though - is he . . . is that makeup around his eyes?” Draco looked up in disgust.

“A very astute observation, Draco,” Pansy smirked. “He is wearing quite a bit of eye-liner. His whole band does. Let's look at the next photo, shall we?”

The five former Slytherins went through a variety of head shots: Vince Neil from Motley Crue, Bret Michaels from Poison, David Coverdale from Whitesnake, Sebastian Bach from Skid Row, Scott Weiland from Velvet Revolver, Justin Hawkins from The Darkness; when they got to Gene Simmons from KISS, they all started laughing.

“Oh, those crazy Muggles,” Blaise said, shaking his head. “What will they think of next?”

But despite the over-the-top look of the KISS frontman, a decided trend had emerged from the series of photographs: Muggle rock stars liked to wear makeup, and they all had very bad hair stylists.

“How did I never notice this before?” Draco asked in shock. “How did I not see that `rock star' is equivalent to `poofter'?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “One, you didn't notice the makeup before because on stage, this look isn't as noticeable. Plus, you were looking at the whole package - the sound, the clothes, the attitude. And wearing a bit of makeup won't make you gay, Draco. Stop being so melodramatic.”

“Yeah, Draco, the day you become a knob-slobberer is the day women cease to exist,” Blaise laughed.

At the mention of knob-slobbering, Crabbe threw Draco an uneasy look and edged away from him slightly.

“Pans, I'm not wearing makeup, and that's final,” Draco said firmly.

“I had a feeling you might say that,” she replied. “I saved one photo for last that I think might change your mind.” Slowly, she pulled the last glossy from the envelope. “This is someone quite unique. Apparently, he is well-known as a Muggle rock star, but secretly, he is a dark and powerful wizard, one who likes to steal Muggle babies and possibly eat them. His self-proclaimed title is `Goblin King.'”

There was a moment of awed silence as they stared at the photo.

“He's rather wicked looking,” Blaise said in a hushed voice.

“He's uh . . . well,” Goyle began, squirming uncomfortably.

“It's okay, Gregory, lots of men find him attractive. It's quite normal,” Pansy said reassuringly.

Goyle blushed but didn't reply. Four heads turned toward Draco, waiting for the verdict.

Finally, he spoke. “I like it. Pansy, show me how to look more like this David Bowie.”

~*~*~*~

A/N: The maid “uniform” can be seen here: http://www.fredericks.com/product.asp?catalog%5Fname=Holiday2002&category%5Fname=Costumes%2DPlus+Sizes&product%5Fid=92158

Pirate's Delight = Sunken Chest

D/G interaction coming up in chapter 3! Like it, hate it, have suggestions? Review and tell me what you think!

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Title: Rock & Roll Queen

Disclaimer: Nothing but the plot and the terrible song lyrics are mine. Frankly, J.K. would probably be appalled at the things I'm making her characters do. The story's title comes from the song of the same name by The Subways.

Author's Notes: Thanks to all of you who are reading, and especially to those of you who reviewed! If you want to review again, I wouldn't mind a bit ;)

Thanks to the very awesome Aduro for the beta!

Chapter 3 - Discoveries and Disguises

This is bloody crazy, Draco thought as he Apparated into the foyer of Malfoy Manor clutching a black purse tightly to his chest. He had no idea how the hell Pansy had talked him into it.

After glancing around quickly to make sure he was alone, Draco took another peek into the purse. Tubes of lipstick, blush, a tray of eyeshadow in vibrant, shimmery colors, mascara, various brushes and poofs - the sight of it all made him shudder in horror.

“Take it home, practice putting it on, get used to the idea,” he said in a sarcastic falsetto. “Easy for her to say, she's a bloody witch.”

First things first, though. He needed to get all this crap to his room before someone saw him walking around with a purse. Draco headed in the direction of the main stairs and then changed his mind. It wouldn't do to run into his mother - she was eagle-eyed even in her worst states of intoxication, and she had a sixth sense when it came to designer labels. Of course, the purse he clutched so tightly had to proclaim itself a Louis Vuitton in large, trademarked “LVs” all over. Damn Pansy.

He turned toward the portrait gallery and the servants' stairs that lay beyond it. Gamely ignoring the rows and rows of Malfoy ancestors who smirked down at him, he strode quickly through the gallery.

And then fell flat on his arse.

“Argh!” he shouted as his tailbone connected with the hard, apparently freshly waxed, marble floor. “Merlin's nose curlies, that hurt!”

Even worse, he had dropped the purse when he fell, and now its contents were scattered all over the floor.

“Bollocks!” Draco exclaimed as he scrambled to his feet and hastily gathered the incriminating products back into the purse. As he bent over to retrieve a lipstick that had rolled across the floor, he heard an appreciative whistle from behind him. Straightening, he turned to find a rather guilty looking portrait of his great Aunt Mildred staring back at him. Of course, all the portraits of the Malfoys looked guilty; they all were of one thing or another.

“See something you like, you old saucebox?” he drawled, waggling an eyebrow at the wrinkly old witch.

That's when he heard the giggling.

~*~*~*~

Ginny placed her hands on her hips and arched her back. Gods, mopping and waxing without magic was hard work! Not to mention the fact that she had to do it in bloody three inch heels! The worst part was that she had slaved away all morning, and hadn't learned one useful thing for the Ministry or M.E.S.S. Unless the fact that Narcissa Malfoy might be single-handedly supporting the firewhisky industry counted as useful information, but Ginny suspected it was hardly news. And with the way she was feeling right now, she thought Mrs. Malfoy might have the right idea.

“Mmm, a firewhisky sour with two maraschino cherries, a nice, hot bubble bath . . .”

Ginny was torn from her fantasy by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. Masculine-sounding footsteps. Quickly, she ducked behind an enormous vase and was gratified to see the target walk into view. He was moving fast, and holding something to his chest protectively. Ginny's heart began to race. Could it be a Dark Artifact?

Before she could get a better look at it, Draco's foot slipped and he went down, hard. Ginny had to clamp both hands over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud and giving herself away.

With enormous effort, she got herself back under control and dared to peek at Draco again. He was gathering very small objects into some sort of satchel; from her position behind the vase, she couldn't make out what they were. One of the objects, a very ominous looking black cylinder probably no longer than Ginny's middle finger, rolled across the floor and Draco scrambled after it.

Ginny was surprised when she heard the whistle, but when Draco turned and confronted the portrait of some old hag ancestor of his, she lost it. She began giggling madly, and even her hands covering her mouth weren't enough to muffle the sound.

When Draco whirled around and spotted her, his expression became livid.

“Do you think that's funny, Weasley?” he growled. “Smear a half-inch of wax all over the floor and see how many people you can knock down? What kind of maid are you? Don't you know anything about floor cleaning?”

Ginny blushed. “I'm sorry, really! I didn't mean to make you fall! And I wasn't laughing at you. I mean, it was funny . . .” Ginny trailed off, a smirk forming on her lips. Then she noticed the murderous look in Draco's eyes. “But I wasn't laughing at that, I swear! It's just, you thought that old witch whistled at you, but it wasn't her. It was him.”

She pointed to a portrait of a regal looking wizard clothed in ermine and silver. The portrait scowled openly at Ginny, but had the good grace to blush faintly. Draco looked speculatively from one portrait to the other.

“So the rumors about great-great-great Grandfather Nero are true,” he said. “Well, I can't really blame you, old man. If I were a bum aficionado, I'd want to tap this arse, too.”

The portrait of great-great-great Grandfather Nero sputtered indignantly, and Ginny rolled her eyes at the egotistical Slytherin. Sure, he was drool-inducingly hot, with his tall, sinewy frame, his cool gray, mysterious eyes, his soft white-blond hair, his long, graceful fingers, his-

“Weasley! Snap out of it!”

“Uh,” Ginny said, coming out of her reverie, “what did you say?”

“Damn these good looks,” Draco muttered under his breath. “I said, are you going to get back to work, or stare at me all day? The wax isn't going to come off of this floor by itself, you know.”

“Oh, right, yeah,” Ginny said, inwardly cringing at her lack of eloquence. Her gaze shifted to the item in Draco's hand. He was holding it partly behind his leg, but it looked unmistakably like a purse. A purse with large “LVs” all over it. LV? Were they someone's initials? Ginny gasped. Lord Voldemort?!?

“Er, Malfoy . . . I mean sir, may I ask you a question?” she said hurriedly before he had the chance to walk away.

Draco eyed the she-Weasel warily. Sure, she looked innocent, and sexy, not that it was relevant. She might have seen the makeup though, and neither innocence nor sexiness would save her from an Obliviate if she had.

“What is it, Weasley? I haven't got all day,” he drawled in what he hoped was a bored, not at all panicked tone.

This is it, Ginny thought to herself. Act casual, but get information from him. Time to find out something useful for M.E.S.S. So many questions were going through Ginny's head that she felt like she was experiencing some kind of brain overload: Where have you been all day? What are your thoughts on campaigning for world domination? Tortured any poor, defenseless Muggles today? Why are you walking around carrying the Dark Lord's handbag?

But the question that popped out of Ginny's mouth was, sadly, none of these.

“Why does your mum call all of us `Smootchy'?” Ginny mentally cursed herself as soon as the words left her mouth. She'd been wondering about it all day, but damn it! Some “elite spy” she was turning out to be.

Draco, to her surprise, actually cracked a grin.

“Ah, Smootchy. It's a sad story really,” he replied, talking fast. “Smootchy was Mother's house-elf - been with her ever since she married the Wanker. I don't think anyone knows my mother so well as that elf, nor knows how to fix a bourbon on the rocks exactly how she likes it. But with the whole House-Elf Freedom Act business of Granger's, they had a falling out. After the Act passed, Smootchy had no choice but to accept wages. She approached my mother shortly before her first paycheck was to be issued and asked, quite humbly of course, if ten percent of each check could be deposited into a little IRA she had set up for herself. Mother, naturally, had her thrown into the lake, and sent all of the house-elves away that very day. We've been hiring squibs and the like since then.” Draco here paused and pointedly looked Ginny up and down. “Now if you'll excuse me, Weasley, I'm a busy man, and you have a floor to fix.”

~*~*~*~

When Ginny wearily trudged back to the small room she shared with Hermione in the servants' wing, she found the brunette scribbling away on a long roll of parchment.

“Ah, Ginny, just in time,” Hermione said. “I'm just sending off our report to Harry. So much to tell him! What did you learn today?”

Ginny felt a moment of panic. What indeed?

“Well, um,” Ginny stalled, mentally reviewing the information she had gleaned over the painfully long day. There was the fact that Narcissa drank too much - not a surprise. The mystery surrounding the “Smootchy” business was solved, but was that really relevant to the M.E.S.S. operation? Ginny doubted it. Then there was the fact that the target apparently had a great-great-great grandfather who was a Fairy Mary, but again, the issue of relevancy came up. Suddenly, Ginny brightened.

“I saw the target today, and he was carrying a Dark Artifact!” she said triumphantly.

Hermione gasped. “Are you sure? Did you get a good look at it? Oh, this is big, Ginny! This confirms everything!”

“I'm sure,” Ginny replied. “It said `Lord Voldemort' right on it!”

“What do you mean? Was it something he signed before he died?”

“Er, no. It didn't spell out `Lord Voldemort,' but it had his initials on it, so it was unmistakably his.”

“That's odd. Could you tell what it was?”

“Well,” Ginny hesitated. “It was a purse.”

Hermione was silent for a moment and then burst out laughing.

“Oh, Ginny! You almost had me there!” she exclaimed as her giggles subsided. “Voldemort's purse. That's a good one. But seriously, did you find anything out today?”

“Hermione, I wasn't joking! I saw Malfoy carrying a purse that had `LVs' all over it!”

“So let me get this straight. You're saying that not only did Voldemort own a purse, but he had it monogrammed?”

“Apparently so,” Ginny huffed.

“And somehow the target acquired this purse and was actually walking around with it?”

“That's what I saw.”

“Okay, two questions to follow up. One, was the target also wearing Voldemort's silk knickers, and two, were these also monogrammed?” Hermione began giggling at her own joke before Ginny even had a chance to respond.

Ginny narrowed her eyes and glared.

“Fine, don't believe me. And how would I know about his knickers? It's not like I peeked under his robes. But for all I know, he might have been!” With that, Ginny stormed off to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open, and Hermione hesitantly entered. Ginny was perched on the edge of the tub, her fingers drumming against the porcelain in agitation. She didn't bother looking up when Hermione came in.

“You're being serious, aren't you? You're not just pulling my leg?”

“I know what I saw,” Ginny replied, still in a huffy tone. Hermione sank down onto the tub edge beside her.

“It doesn't make any sense. Why did Voldemort have a purse? He never seemed like the type - ”

“Hermione, carrying a purse doesn't make you gay. Plenty of wizards carry man-bags. It might have just been convenient for him,” Ginny said sagely. “You know, a handy place to keep his vials of poison and his torture implements and the tiny shrunken heads of his enemies.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at the redhead.

“Right,” she replied. “And how many straight wizards do you know who carry around `man-bags'? I mean, seriously, even in the Muggle world `man-bag' is synonymous with `poofter.'”

Ginny shrugged her shoulders in defeat and nodded. “You're right. But Voldemort? I guess his rage and hostility might have come from some sort of repression.”

Hermione looked thoughtful. “You know, it certainly casts his obsession with Harry in a whole new light.”

Both women shuddered.

~*~*~*~

Draco stormed into his bedroom and threw himself onto his bed, tossing the wretched purse down beside him. A very un-Malfoyish feeling of panic welled up in him. Part of it stemmed from the whole rock star thing. He was beginning to have doubts about it. Was he really ready to degrade himself by performing for the amusement of Muggles - in makeup no less? If the Wanker, a.k.a. dear old dad, had been alive, he would have skipped the ball-hexing stage altogether and gone straight for the kill, under the assumption that his son must have lost his set long before he agreed to anything so demeaning and girly as makeup.

But no, Draco didn't have the loss of his manhood as a convenient excuse for his foray into feminine paraphernalia. Ugh.

And then there was the total fool he had made of himself in front of the Weasley girl. Gods, he had rambled on about his mother's former house-elf like some first year Hufflepuff. All thoughts of his smooth seduction of her had flown out the window when he was holding that damned purse. Damn Pansy. It was all her fault. And now he was supposed to ruin the rest of his evening actually putting the makeup on.

He wanted to just call the whole thing off, crawl into his bed, and drink a vat of hot chocolate to soothe his ruffled nerves.

A niggling voice at the back of his head began shouting at him. Snap out of it, it said. Malfoys aren't quitters! Sure they are run-awayers, particularly when confronted with anything even remotely dangerous or larger than a puffskein, but they are never quitters! Think of the spotlight on you, think of the glory! You were born to be a rock star! Seize your destiny! Take it!

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Draco exclaimed, and then realized he was talking to himself. He heaved a sigh and grabbed the purse, heading into the bathroom.

A badly shaken, very frazzled Draco emerged from the bathroom a half hour later. His hair, usually perfectly kempt, stuck out at all sorts of odd angles. On trembling legs, he sank down onto the edge of the bed.

“Eeep!” Mirabel exclaimed on first catching sight of him. “Er, darling, what's happened to you? Have you been hexed?” she asked, her voice laden with concern.

Draco looked up at his mirror and sighed. “No, I've done this to myself,” he replied in a choked voice.

Mirabel wished, for the first time in her long career of serving the Malfoy family, that she had the ability to look away from the image reflected on her smooth surface. Her beloved master was a frightful mess. Whitish-purple shimmery eyeshadow was painted thickly on Draco's eyelids all the way up to his eyebrows, giving him an owlish, shocked expression. Dark smudges of charcoal liner rimmed his lower lashes, casting his pale skin tone into an even lighter shade - the pallor of death. His eyes had taken on a zombie-like stare.

Bright pink shimmery circles of blush stood out on either cheek, not in any way blended into the surrounding skin.

A pale pink shade of lipstick had been liberally applied to his lips - so liberally, in fact, that he had gone far wide of his lips and drawn a lip-shaped circle around his mouth about a half-inch out.

He looked like a demented clown.

“Why, darling? Why have you done this to yourself?” Mirabel exclaimed in panic.

Sighing again, Draco explained the whole situation.

“Oh, Draco. You poor darling,” Mirabel cooed when he had finished. Draco got the sneaking suspicion she was trying not to giggle. “We can fix this darling. It's going to be just fine.”

“Really?” Draco responded, a slight note of hope in his voice.

“Yes, but first thing's first. You need to get all that stuff off your face - we'll have to start over again. And you'd better brush your teeth - you have lipstick all over them.”

This was going to take a while.

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Title: Rock & Roll Queen

Disclaimer: Nothing but the plot and the terrible song lyrics are mine. Frankly, J.K. would probably be appalled at the things I'm making her characters do. The story's title comes from the song of the same name by The Subways.

Author's Notes: Thanks to all of you who are reading, and especially to those of you who reviewed! If you want to review again, I wouldn't mind a bit ;)

This chapter is unbetaed, so any and all stinkiness - totally my fault!

Chapter 4 - Performances

“Seven. Right side pocket,” Blaise said as he lined up his shot, his left hand arched and spread-fingered as he slid the cue backwards and forwards along the skin between his thumb and pointer finger. Draco had invited him over to play billiards before their show that night, partly to help calm his nerves, not that Draco would ever admit it.

The seven ball struck against the side of the pocket and Blaise cursed under his breath.

Draco surveyed the table.

“Two in the right corner,” he said and then in one fluid movement, like a cat stretching after a long nap, he sunk his ball.

“Nice,” Blaise commented. Draco smirked.

“So how did the whole” - Blaise made a circular motion around his face - “thing go last night?”

“Fine,” Draco replied with a non-committal shrug, moving around the table.

“Really? So you actually put that stuff on?” Blaise looked genuinely surprised.

“I don't want to talk about it,” Draco replied. He and Mirabel had worked something out involving a bit of eyeliner and some lip gloss, but the painful memories of the previous evening were still too fresh.

Blaise shrugged. “Eh, I think Pans is worrying too much about appearances anyway. I mean, it's the sound that matters, right?

“Here, here,” Draco murmured distractedly as he lined up his next shot.

“Speaking of sound - can we get a little music in here? This place is quiet as a crypt. It's spooking me out.” Blaise shuddered melodramatically.

“How did you ever survive seven years in the Slytherin dorms?” Draco asked.

“Hummed a lot.”

Draco snorted and rolled his eyes at his best friend. “Wireless is right over there. Be my guest.” He gestured to the ornate cherrywood and pewter device beside the bar.

“Sure it won't disturb your mum?” Blaise queried.

“What's it, eleven? My mother is doubtless down for her midmorning booze-snooze by now. A marching band rehearsing in the foyer wouldn't wake her.”

Blaise shook his head at his friend's casual disregard of Narcissa's drinking problem and turned on the wizarding wireless, fiddling with the dial until he found a current hits station. The end of “Under Your Spell,” the Weird Sisters' hit that Draco wrote, was playing:

“Seduced by your looks,

Seduced by your charms,

I've got to have you in my arms!

Under your spell,

Under your spell,

You've got me under your spell, baby!”

“Still popular, huh?” Blaise asked as the song wrapped up.

“Yeah. It's funny how even a load of rubbish can do well when a bunch of hot chicks are singing it.”

“Nonsense, Draco. The song is good. Really catchy.”

The wireless announcer interrupted them: “Next up, a song that's climbing the charts from the wizarding world's hottest rapper! It's `Cauldron Bottom Gals!'”

“Hey! That's two of yours in a row, Draco,” Blaise said, sounding impressed.

Blaise was right. “Cauldron Bottom Gals” was one of Draco's latest effusions, and one he found immensely entertaining due to its sheer tastelessness. He paused to listen.

“Don't want no broomstick witch,

Give me a cauldron bottom gal!

That's right! Don't want to mount no broom,

Rather be stirring a cauldron bottom gal!”

The song broke off into mindless beatboxing at that point and Draco grimaced. The artist was the wizard rap star “The Nasty Wiz,” a moniker Draco found more than a little amusing. His father taught him when he was a small boy that “the nasty wiz” referred to the aftermath of a three-day bout with a bevy of Asian prostitutes, and it was something that generally required medical attention. Draco shook his head. Whatever. “Nasty” had paid well for the lyrics, and the song was quite catchy.

As he mused on stupid band names, it dawned on him that Nasty wasn't the only one he was listening to. A feminine voice was singing along just outside the door. His interest piqued, Draco decided to have a look.

Silently motioning Blaise to keep quiet and follow him, Draco crept to the door of the billiard room and slid it open. The sight that met his eyes was even funnier than he had hoped.

Standing in the hallway, in her gods damned sexy uniform, was the She-weasel, singing “Cauldron Bottom Gals” - into the handle of her feather duster, of all things - with all her might. She was thankfully facing away from the doorway, and had no clue she was being watched. As the chorus came around again, she decided to add dance moves to her performance.

Draco bit down on a snicker as Weasley bent forward and shimmied her arse in a circular motion accompanied by a slight hop. It was ridiculous looking and incredibly sexy at the same time. And effing adorable. Wait. Did he just think that something was adorable? Fuck. He knew it! That makeup had seeped into his skull and messed with his brain. He was becoming downright womanish. Tomorrow he'd wake up to find he'd sprouted breasts, and where would he go from there? A training bra? Draco shook the unwelcome thought from his head and continued to admire his favorite maid.

After the chorus came another round of wordless rhythm, and here Weasley decided to step up her dance routine. She waved her arms in a circular motion over her head as an accompaniment to her rotating rear, and Draco wondered at this point how she managed to do that and stay upright in those stiletto heels at the same time.

The song came to an end and Weasley bowed dramatically to the portraits lining the wall.

“Thank you! Goodnight!” she exclaimed. The portrait of Ethelberta the Meek, from the wilting branch of the family tree, clapped politely. The other portraits rolled their eyes.

“Great audience here tonight!” Weasley said, laughing. Draco and Blaise exchanged a sideways glance and then began to clap, loudly.

~*~*~*~

The irony of her situation did not escape her. As Ginny slid the bronze polish back into the caddy beside her, she reflected on the major battles she had fought with her mum over enrolling in the Auror Academy. The work would be too dangerous, unsuitable for the youngest, and only female, Weasley child, Molly Weasley had argued. Being top in her training squad and gaining a spot in the M.E.S.S. had done nothing to smooth Molly's ruffled feathers and Ginny had to endure constant nagging on the subject. The joys of marriage, motherhood, and the domestic life were expounded upon at length while poor Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin became the embodiment of all the evils of female Aurors.

“Do you remember the time Tonks knocked over the Christmas tree? The fairy lights set the curtains on fire and we all nearly died. No grace, that girl. She's almost mannish, don't you think, dear?”

Or,

“Remus stopped in for tea yesterday afternoon and mentioned that he and Tonks had decided to wait on starting a family. She'll always put her career first, mark my words. Remus will never have a proper home, the poor dear.”

Ginny unsuccessfully brought up Hermione and Luna as examples.

“Oh, of course it's proper for them to be with Harry and Ron. If I hadn't had you lot to raise I would have loved to be right by your father's side in the Ministry. It would have been a joy to stand by my man.” This, despite Molly's general dislike of all things Muggle.

Nothing Molly said could dissuade Ginny however, and the matron of the Weasley clan was stuck with her fears for her daughter's safety, and worse, her anxiety over whether her daughter would ever wear a skirt again.

Thus Ginny had to laugh as she found herself not only wearing a skirt, but doing housework, and involved in nothing more dangerous than avoiding Narcissa Malfoy's drunken glass-throwing sprees. And given the Malfoy matriarch's weak wrist and terrible aim, even that wasn't much of a challenge.

The spy business was definitely not as glamorous or exciting as popular belief held it to be, Ginny thought as she eyed her dried out hands. That bronze polish was not good for the skin. Another irony of her current assignment was that she finally had proof of her mother's skewed version of reality. If this sort of work was domestic bliss, Molly Weasley must really have a screw or two loose.

Ginny shook her head and pushed her mother from her mind. She had more important things to think about. She was polishing the busts in the hall outside the billiard room, and she knew for a fact that the target was inside, entertaining company. Perhaps if she lingered outside the door, she would overhear something useful . . . .

For a long time, the only sounds Ginny could make out were the click of billiard balls hitting together and the low murmur of conversation - nothing loud enough to understand. She was developing a crick in her neck from holding still so long in an uncomfortable position and began rubbing her shoulder, trying to ease the dull ache.

It was almost a relief when the wireless came on, blaring that stupid Weird Sisters' song that always got stuck in her head. At least it was entertaining, though. And right after it, came one of her favorite new songs. A terribly sexist rap, but so much fun to dance to. She couldn't resist.

~*~*~*~

As soon as they began clapping the She-weasel whipped around, her flame-red hair whirling about her face. Instead of embarrassment, Draco noted the guarded look on her face, and grudgingly admired her for it. It was Blaise who spoke first.

“Those were some nice moves, Weasley,” he said with a soft, insinuating tone. “It looked like you could use a dance partner, though.” He moved closer to her as Ginny backed away.

“Blaise, leave off,” Draco snapped. “As . . . entertaining . . . as the Weasel is, she's actually being paid to clean. Isn't that right, Weasley? Don't you have any real work to do?”

Ginny looked from Blaise to Draco quickly and nodded.

“Yes, sir,” she said, her eyes meeting Draco's and holding them for a moment. “I apologize.” She grabbed her caddy and moved swiftly down the hall. Before she disappeared around the corner, however, she turned and Draco saw the corners of her lips quirked into a devious grin.

“Oh, Mr. Malfoy, sir,” she called back to them, “I've thoroughly tested this hallway, and I think you'll find it entirely safe for walking - in case you were worried.” Before Draco had a chance to respond, she was gone.

“What gives, Draco? The fun was just getting started,” Blaise said, disappointment and surprise evident in his voice. “And what was that last bit about?”

A low growl emitted from Draco's throat, startling Blaise.

“That one's mine,” Draco replied tersely and returned to the billiard room, leaving Blaise gazing after him with both eyebrows raised and a smile playing upon his lips.

“Interesting,” he murmured to the empty hallway.

~*~*~*~

Pansy was getting annoyed. It was one thing for the stupid Gryff and that lunatic Ravenclaw to be constantly following her, for whatever reason. But it was completely another thing for them to be doing it so obviously. As if she was too dumb to notice. She was a Slytherin, for Hades' sake! Cunning, suspicion and wariness were in her blood! The two blonds hounding her might as well have been a troupe of dancing hippogriffs for all their efforts at concealment.

Take the present instance, for example. Pansy had exited the Diagon Alley studio and was on her way to the Muggle pub, Boozy Sue's, where the band would be playing that night. Sure enough, her two tails were right behind her. For a few minutes, they managed to keep reasonably well hidden, ducking into a store when she turned to glance behind her (to keep them on their toes, of course). But then that Ravenclaw freak, Looney or whatever her name was, dashed right out into the street actually shouting! Pansy couldn't figure out what she was saying - it sounded like complete gibberish. And then the madwoman Disapparated right then and there!

Pansy almost marched right up to the blond Gryff, who to his credit looked equally baffled by his partner's sudden departure, to give him some pointers.

“If you're going to spy on me, for whatever sick pleasure you're getting out of it, at least try, try not to be so effing obvious, you fuckwit!” she wanted to shout at him. But she didn't. Instead, she gritted her teeth, lifted her chin, took a deep breath, and kept walking, all the while hearing her tail's footsteps behind her.

She couldn't arrive at the pub soon enough.

~*~*~*~

Draco learned two very important lessons from his band's first public performance. One, dragonskin pants really chafed. Between the lights and the number of warm bodies crowding the pub, he worked up quite a sweat - no, scratch that - quite a glisten, because of course, Malfoys don't, under any circumstances, sweat (how plebian!), and that glisten increased the friction between his skin and his tight, tight pants, and he was sure he was going to have a rash down there in the morning.

The second thing he learned is that Muggles have no taste in music.

Constellation had played a three-song set, the new, original song they had been practicing all week, and covers of two Broomstick Jockeys songs (of course, it was all new to the Muggles). No one had booed them off the stage, but the crowd's reaction was less than enthusiastic.

“They're no Arctic Monkeys,” he heard one of them say. He had no clue what that meant - there are no monkeys in the Arctic! - but he gathered it was an insult. His suspicion was confirmed when he took a seat at the bar.

“Better luck next time, eh chap?” said the bartender, a beefy man with a ruddy face and sandy hair.

Draco rolled his eyes and ordered a scotch on the rocks.

“Hey,” said a voice by his side. He turned and encountered a bleach-blond with huge knockers and . . . huge knockers - he was so distracted by her breasts he couldn't be bothered to examine the rest of her.

“I liked your singing,” she said in a slightly slurred voice.

“Thank you,” Draco replied, glad that someone, finally, appreciated his work.

“What's your shirt mean?” she asked, close enough now that Draco could smell the cloying sweetness of cheap beer on her breath.

Draco looked down at the t-shirt he had handpicked for his first public performance. It was black, a soft pima cotton, and said “MUGGLE” in large white lettering across his chest.

“What do you mean `what does is mean'? It's just a reminder that I'm just like you - nothing different about me at all,” he told the blond, eyeing her suspiciously. Had she somehow seen through his perfect “blend-in-with-the-Muggles” disguise? Was she even now toying with him?

Big Knockers blinked at him, drunkenly and uncomprehendingly.

“You're real pretty. Wanna come back to my flat? It's close by,” Knockers said finally, leaning forward and exposing miles of slightly flushed skin.

“Er, no, thank you,” he replied curtly and turned away from her. Honestly, sex with a Muggle? What kind of animal did she take him for? No matter how great her tits were, he would never stoop so low. Of course, he mused inwardly, it was his own fault he was in the position to be propositioned by a Muggle. Him and his rock star ambitions. If only he could have been content with his fabulous wealth, his playboy lifestyle, his dashing good looks, his sexual prowess, the fear and/or respect of the wizarding community . . . but no, he wanted more.

“Merlin's back hair! What's wrong with me?” Draco whispered harshly to himself.

“Another scotch,” he told the bartender. “And make it a double.”

~*~*~*~

They were all trashed when they left Boozy Sue's. Blaise, who kept erupting into random giggles, was being frogmarched between Crabbe and Goyle, though neither of them could move in a straight line and kept pulling him in opposite directions. Pansy had the hiccups, and, like every other time she had too much to drink, she was both really randy and addicted to the word “fuck.”

A sample of their conversation:

“Fuck, Blaise. Can't you” - hiccup - “quit your fucking giggling” - hiccup - “it's giving me a fucking headache, for fuck's sake!”

“Teehee,” Blaise replied.

“I need to get these pants off,” Draco whined to no one in particular.

“I can help with” - hiccup - “that,” Pansy said, trying to focus her eyes enough to leer at him.

“Back off, witch,” Draco replied. “Why do women constantly try to use me for my body? Am I only a piece of meat? When will someone care about the Draco inside this beautiful façade? Am I too sexy to be loved?”

Pansy, along with the others, had wandered away by this point, and so, with a much-put-upon sigh, Draco Disapparated.

~*~*~*~

Pansy was once more alone. Draco had Apparated home some time ago, and Crabbe and Goyle had finally gone to take Blaise back to his flat - the sot was too gone to get home himself without splinching.

Pansy glanced around. Abandoned, deserted in Muggle London, in some dark alley, and gods, she needed a good screw. She hiccupped in frustration.

Just then, she heard a garbage can crash to the ground further up the alley. Her first feeling was alarm - even if she was a witch, she was still alone, and not at all sober, in a strange place.

And then she remembered her tail, and chuckled to herself. The gods had sent her a solution to all her problems.

She crept up the alley, swallowing her hiccups so that she didn't make a sound.

“Hello, little Gryff,” she whispered into the blond's ear.

“Eeep!” he exclaimed, and then gulped loudly.

“Um, why, Pansy Parkinson? Is that you? Fancy meeting you here,” he said, his voice cracking every couple of words.

Pansy chuckled. “Yes, how fucking odd,” she murmured. “I know you've been following me, Gryff.” She moved slowly, deliberately closer to him, and he retreated until his back bumped up against the brick wall of a building.

Her prey looked at her, his eyes wide with fear.

“Tell me, Gryff,” she said, her lips brushing against his earlobe, “are you as virginal as you look?”

He gulped again.

“That's what I thought,” Pansy said, and then seizing his arm, she Apparated them both away.

~*~*~*~

Draco was stumbling along a second-floor corridor, humming to himself (damn Blaise, it was quiet as a crypt in the Manor!), and searching for his bedroom. The fact that the entire building was spinning didn't help matters.

He heard shuffling footsteps behind him and decided to wait, hoping that whoever it was could help him find his room.

Ginny Weasley emerged out of the darkness, clad in blue and pink polka-dotted pajama pants, a large Cannons sweatshirt, and fuzzy purple slippers. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders and she smelled faintly of hot chocolate.

“'ello She-weasel,” Draco said amiably. Ginny eyed him suspiciously.

“She-weasel,” he continued, blithely unaware of the expression on her face. “I used to call you that, remember? Good times. She-weasel. . . . Sheeee-weasel. . . . Shweasel.” He hiccupped loudly.

“Merlin, you're blitzed off your arse, aren't you?” Ginny demanded.

“You know what sounds like shweasel?” he asked, completely ignoring her question. “Sha-wing! I love that word! Sha-wing! Sha-wing! Sha-wing!” He made this speech even more bizarre by thrusting his hips out awkwardly with each “sha-wing.” Ginny was mesmerized at first by his strange, slightly horrifying dance.

“Stop it! Stop! That's really creepy!” she exclaimed finally, her hands covering her eyes.

Draco halted abruptly. “Okay,” he said. “Hey, Weasley, I can't find my bedroom.”

Ginny had to hide a smile at how earnest and forlorn he sounded. Like a five year old looking for his mum in a toy store.

“Fine,” she replied, “follow me.” She turned and led him down the dark hall to his room.

“Nice outfit,” she said as they reached his bedroom door. “I especially like the eyeliner.”

“Thanks,” Draco replied absently, and then stiffened. “Are you making fun of me, Weasley?”

Ginny smiled. “No, I wouldn't dream of it . . . sir,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do for you, or can you take it from here?”

Even drunk, Draco could see the laughter she was just barely containing, and he valiantly struggled to sound sober.

“Actually, Weasley, I do have another task for you,” he said. “Turn down the bed while I get changed.”

The suspicious look was once more on Ginny's face, but again Draco ignored it and disappeared into his bathroom.

When he emerged, his face washed and make-up free, the cursed pants removed and a salve applied to his much abused skin, clad only in satin drawstring pants, and feeling slightly more sober, his bed was neatly turned down and the She-weasel was standing stiffly in his doorway.

“Will that be all, sir?” she asked curtly, averting her eyes from his bare chest.

Draco climbed into bed and smirked.

“Tuck me in,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard me, Weasel.”

“Malfoy, that is not in my job description,” Ginny said hotly.

Draco yawned. “Weasley, tuck me in. I don't care if it's in your job description. I'm sleepy, and I'm the boss.”

Ginny spluttered and stomped over to the bed. “Fine,” she spat, and roughly tucked the comforter beneath his shoulders. Draco smiled beatifically at her, ignoring the brutal treatment.

“Thank you, Weasley,” he said, closing his eyes. Ginny didn't reply, but he could feel her standing there, glaring down at him.

“If you're going to stay, you could sing to me. I'm partial to `Kookaburra' or `Hush Little Malfoy' for bedtime.”

“I am NOT singing to you,” Ginny replied.

Draco shrugged, but didn't open his eyes. “Well then, you could climb in - my blankets are still awfully chilly.” He wondered in his sleepy, partially drunken way how close the She-weasel was to slapping him.

“You are such a prat,” she said after a moment, “but you still don't seem really evil to me.” That last bit seemed more to herself than to him, but his eyes shot open anyway.

“Evil? Of course I'm not evil,” he replied. “Evil takes work, and sacrifice! You really have to care about your cause and all that rubbish. Honestly, look at everything Voldemort went through to be evil - ending up a red-eyed, noseless freak. Or my father - he was nearly mad before the Aurors finally put him out of his misery. Complete idiots if you ask me. I'm far too selfish and lazy to be evil.”

“Now that I can believe,” Ginny murmured.

“So are you getting in, or what?”

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” Ginny said firmly, moving toward the door. “That is never going to happen.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Weasley,” Draco called after her as she disappeared into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her. “But it will happen.” And with that thought, he drifted off to sleep.

-----

A/N: “too sexy to be loved,” from http://www.thesuperficial.com

“sha-wing,” from Wayne's World

-->

Title: Rock & Roll Queen

Disclaimer: Nothing but the plot and the terrible song lyrics are mine. Frankly, J.K. would probably be appalled at the things I'm making her characters do. The story's title comes from the song of the same name by The Subways.

Author's Notes: Thanks to all of you who are reading, and especially to those of you who reviewed! If you want to review again, I wouldn't mind a bit ;)

Here's an extra long chapter, just for you!

Chapter 5 - The Inappropriate Sniffing Chapter

With a flick of her wand, Pansy undid the handcuffs and watched as her little Gryff rubbed his chafed wrists. The first rays of morning sunlight were streaming through the window, and Pansy lay back on the bed, feeling sleepy, sated, and a little bit sore.

“Well, little Gryff, you proved yourself very teachable. I'm happily surprised. You may kiss me before you go,” she said, offering him a cheek.

Colin, naked beside her in the bed, still had that fearful look in his eyes, but now it was tempered with a healthy dose of wonderment. He quickly leaned over to obey her, brushing his lips to her cheek in a hesitant, almost worshipful way.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his voice wavering slightly.

“Thank you, what?” Pansy replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Thank you, Mistress Pansy,” he said quickly. Pansy smiled.

“Very good. Perhaps we'll do this again, if you're very, very lucky. Now get your clothes and go.” Pansy rolled away from him dismissively.

Colin didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled from the bed and threw on his discarded clothing in a haphazard manner. Then, with one last look at the figure in the bed - the graceful curve of her spine, the roundness of her buttocks just visible above the satin sheet - he Apparated away.

Pansy waited for the cracking sound that signaled her new toy's departure, and then rolled onto her back and stretched her arms above her head. When she kidnapped the little Gryff the night before, she hadn't expected much in the way of pleasure - not much beyond the joy of frightening the boy half out of his wits - but truly, she had been surprised and impressed. He had, quite literally, risen to every challenge she set him, and she couldn't remember the last time she had bedded a man who could keep up with her.

“Who knew he had it in him?” she murmured, smiling again. Yes, they'd definitely be repeating that performance.

~*~*~*~

“Put that effing light out!” Draco groused, throwing his arm over his eyes protectively.

“Well, somebody thinks they're all-powerful today,” Mirabel chuckled.

Draco peeked out from beneath the crook of his arm and realized that the “light” was in fact the sun coming in through his window. Effing cosmos, never doing what it was told.

With a groan he rolled over to the edge of his bed and rang the bell. Within minutes, he heard a soft knock on his door.

“Enter,” he said impatiently. In came the Squib whose name he couldn't remember, the one who'd be a perfect physical specimen if only she had a paper bag over her head.

“You called, Mithter Malfoy, thir?” she asked in a squeaky voice.

“Bring me up a hangover potion, and make it quick,” he told her.

After she scurried from the room, Draco tried to piece the previous night back together. He remembered performing at Boozy Sue's, and the absolute rubbish response they got from those damned Muggles. He remembered drinking at the bar; in fact, the five of them had spent the entire paycheck they had gotten for playing on drinks. He remembered them all leaving together, but it was pretty hazy. He must have Apparated home at some point . . . and then what?

Draco rubbed his temples.

“Mira, what time did I get in last night?”

“Oh, around two. You came in with that little red-headed maid. You know, you never ask me to sing lullabies to you. I have a lovely singing voice,” Mirabel pouted.

Draco groaned. Oh, gods, Weasley - it was coming back to him now. What a fool he'd made of himself in front of her! Again!

“I asked her to sing me a lullaby?” he asked with a grimace.

“And she refused you, darling. Don't forget that. No woman who refuses my darling a lullaby is good enough for him!”

“Of course she's not good enough for me! She's a damned Weasley!” Draco snapped, feeling unreasonably angry.

“Well, I'm glad you realize it,” Mirabel said with a delicate sniff. “You certainly didn't seem to mind her last night.”

Draco threw the covers off of him and slapped the mattress in frustration.

“Damn it! Where's that hangover potion?”

~*~*~*~

Colin entered the Ministry's M.E.S.S. office looking frazzled and slightly shell-shocked. His usually carefully combed hair was sticking up at odd angles, his white oxford shirt was buttoned up wrong and untucked, one of his shoes was untied. He smelled faintly of cigarettes and perfume.

He took a seat at the conference table without a word, ignoring the quizzical expression on Harry's face.

“All right, then,” said Harry after a moment. “Let's get this meeting started. The girls are having a rather slow time of it over at the manor. Hermione's discovered one or two things that might be useful to us, but nothing that really clues us in about the target's plans. Luna, Colin, you tailed some of his followers into Muggle London last night - what did you find out?”

“Oh, well, Colin and I did start to follow Pansy Parkinson to Muggle London when she left the Diagon Alley location, but then my Wott fell out of alignment and I had to go home,” Luna said.

“Your what?”

“Yes, exactly,” Luna replied with a smile. “But it's all fixed now, so you needn't worry.”

Harry blinked. Luna continued to smile. Ron carefully examined a hangnail on his thumb. Colin stared at the table and didn't appear to have heard the exchange.

Harry swallowed hard, making a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Colin, tell me you continued to follow the suspect into Muggle London.”

Colin looked up, a panicked expression on his face. “I did,” he said, his voice pitched a bit higher than usual.

“And?” Harry demanded. “What did you find out?”

“N-nothing really. She went to a nightclub called Boozy Sue's, stayed a few hours, came out and Disapparated. That's all I know.” Colin began studying his fingers as intently as Ron had a moment before.

“Damn it!” Harry exclaimed, frustration evident on his face. “This operation is going nowhere fast, people!”

No one replied.

“Okay, we're going to have to change tactics. Luna, I want you to continue to monitor the Diagon Alley location, but Colin, I think it's time you got closer to Malfoy's followers.”

“C-Closer?” Colin repeated in a small voice.

“Yes. I'd like you to become embedded within the group.” Colin winced, but Harry didn't notice. “Do whatever it takes to get within their folds, Colin.”

Colin's face drained of color.

“You've always been good with showing your enthusiasm. You just need to put that enthusiasm toward demonstrating that you find the Dark Side very, very attractive. Once you get them convinced, you can pump them for information. We will know all the ins and outs of their organization!”

Colin slid off his chair and under the table.

“Blimey, Harry! I think he's fainted!” Ron exclaimed.

~*~*~*~

Ginny strolled down the upstairs hallway of the East Wing with a very silly grin on her face. She passed scowling portrait after scowling portrait, pretentious busts and overwrought urns, gruesome tapestries depicting bloody battles, and occasionally, a potted plant, but she simply ignored it all. Her mind was elsewhere. Even the brilliant squares of early morning sunshine that lit the rich carpeting in front of the many windows failed to attract her notice.

She'd been in an excellent mood since she woke up - even Hermione had noticed it.

“You seem awfully bubbly,” the brunette remarked as they stood in line in the foyer, waiting for Mrs. Abbott, the housekeeper, to hand out their day's assignments. “What time did you finally get back to bed last night, anyway? You were gone for that cup of hot chocolate a long time.”

“Yeah, it did take a long time. I kind of ran into Malfoy on my way back to bed,” Ginny said, smiling at the remembrance of Draco's appearance the night before.

“Did you?” Hermione's interest was immediately piqued. “What time was it? Do you know where he had been? Did you find out anything at all?” She whispered in rapid-fire succession.

Ginny glanced down the line and made sure Abbott was too far away to interrupt or overhear. Sure enough, the portly witch was still arguing heatedly with the head cook.

“Well, I think it was about two, maybe a little before. I don't know exactly where he was, but it was definitely someplace that served alcohol.” She laughed. “I'm sorry, Herm, not to have found out more, but he was really snockered. He could barely get out a coherent sentence, and couldn't find his room.”

Hermione looked aghast for a moment, and then began giggling. “I wish I could have seen that,” she laughed.

“Yeah, where's Colin with his camera when you need him, right? Oh, Hermione, he was too funny. He looked so cute, all stumbling around and bleary-eyed.” Ginny had to cover her mouth to contain her giggles. Hermione, however, had ceased laughing abruptly, and was now staring at her friend.

“What? What is it?” Ginny asked, finally noticing the look of surprise on Hermione's face.

“You just called Malfoy `cute,'” she whispered in horror.

“Did I?” Ginny asked, and then shrugged her shoulders. “Well, he did look cute. What's the harm in thinking that? Even you would have thought so if you'd seen him last night.”

Hermione was shaking her head vehemently. “Not good, Ginny. Not good at all.”

“What? What's the big deal?”

“Ginny, what is the most important M.E.S.S. rule?” Hermione asked impatiently.

“Um, never steal one of Mad-Eye's doughnuts? The man always knows, I swear!”

“No, not that one! The other most important rule.”

“Oh! Never eat at the conference table because that's where Harry and Hermione like to sha-” Ginny abruptly stopped talking. “Uh, what I meant to say, was-”

“Do people really say that?” Hermione demanded, red-faced with embarrassment. “Who saw . . . I mean, how can anybody think such a thing?”

Ginny swallowed. “Just kidding?” she said with a small laugh.

“Oh, this is horrible! I swear, it was all Harry's idea! I didn't want to, but he gets this look in his eyes, this `I-defeated-Voldemort-because-I-am-so-powerful-and-dead-sexy' look, and I can't resist him! I told him we'd be caught, I told him-”

“Hermione, stop! Stop! That's more information than I wanted, thanks.”

Hermione harrumphed and glared at Ginny, who did her best to look contrite.

“That wasn't the rule I was referring to either,” Hermione continued after a moment. “The number one M.E.S.S. rule is `Never develop personal feelings for the target!' Honestly, Ginny, what are you thinking?”

“Are you kidding me? I said he was cute, not that I wanted to run off with him and bear his evil, pale-arsed babies!” It was Ginny's turn to look indignant now.

“Oh, Ginny, please! I know you. You got that exact same look on your face when you used to talk about how cute Harry was!”

“How dare you bring that up? I was just a kid! And at least I never fell over in a `take me, Harry' swoon on one of the tables in the Great Hall every time he looked at me!”

Hermione's mouth dropped open, and for a moment, it looked like her response was going to be in the form of a small explosion rather than in anything verbal.

“WHY YOU- YOU- ” she spluttered.

“Ladies! What is the meaning of this?” Mrs. Abbott interrupted. “There shall be no fighting while you are on duty! Now apologize to each other, this instance!”

Each mumbled a “sorry” without looking at the other, but Abbott seemed satisfied.

“Good. Now, Miss Granger, please clean the windows in the solarium and then help Cookie with the canning. Miss Weasley, clean the Missus' and Masters' bedrooms, and then help Maisie with laundry in the dungeon.”

Both girls nodded and were on their way.

Ginny rolled her eyes at Hermione's preposterous notion. Her, develop feelings for Malfoy? It wasn't even possible. Weasleys were practically born hating Malfoys, and vice versa. It was just the natural order of things. But still . . . she smiled again, as her mind reverted back to thoughts of the usually icy blond begging her for a lullaby.

And thus, with a bounce in her step, despite the stiletto shoes, she sallied into Narcissa's suite, humming something that sounded suspiciously like “Hush little baby.”

~*~*~*~

Draco walked into the studio in a foul mood.

“What's got your knickers twisted, mate?” Blaise asked jovially.

“Can it, Blaise,” Draco snapped, throwing himself down on the leather couch beside Pansy.

“Would you look at this, boys,” Blaise continued, addressing Crabbe and Goyle, who stood a little way behind him. “Here we have quite a pair of opposites.” He pointed at Pansy. “This one comes in with a dragon in the sheepfold smile, and this one” - pointing to Draco - “comes in with a scowl scary enough to frighten Snape. Whatever could be the cause of such vastly dissimilar moods?”

“Uh, Pansy had breakfast already, but Draco skipped it? It's the most important meal of the day, you know,” Goyle ventured.

“The question was rhetorical, dimwit,” Blaise said, rolling his eyes. “I'll tell you what the cause is. Our dear Miss Parkinson got a little action last night, didn't she?”

Pansy's smile grew wider. “Perhaps,” she purred.

“Pans, you wound me. Inviting a man other than me into your bedroom?” Blaise said, clutching both hands to his heart.

“Spare me, Zabini,” Pansy replied. “You could barely stand last night; I'm sure the General wouldn't have been able to.”

Goyle snorted in laughter, and Blaise shot him a death glare.

“So Miss Parkinson,” he continued, “do you confirm then that you spent last night in some mystery man's passionate embrace?”

“I did.”

“Ah ha! And thus, by logical deduction, I must assume that the reason Mr. Malfoy here looks so particularly vicious is because he wanted to spend the night in someone's passionate embrace, but was rejected! Do you deny it, sir?” Blaise finished, pointing at Draco dramatically.

Draco's scowl, if possible, deepened. “Blaise,” he growled, “I think you've been watching too may reruns of Matlock on your Muggle telly.”

“First of all, I was watching Murder, She Wrote, and secondly, you're not going to distract me that easily! You propositioned that hot little Weasley number didn't you? And she turned you down!”

Draco glared, but didn't say anything.

“No way!” Crabbe exclaimed. “The Weasley girl turned you down?”

“So she turned me down, big deal. Your mother was happy to console me,” snapped Draco.

“Hey, don't you talk about my mum that way!” Crabbe retorted angrily.

“Too right! Let's not talk about her at all. She's a terrible lay,” Blaise threw in.

“That's not-”

“What, Crabbe? Are you going to disagree? Do you think your mum really is a good lay?”

“Guys, c'mon. That's my mum . . .” Crabbe almost whimpered, which caused Draco and Blaise to snicker.

This restored, for the most part, Draco's mood, and the group settled down to business. All five former Slytherins concurred that the show the previous night had not gone well, and they also all agreed that it was to be blamed on Muggles' inherent bad taste.

“But if Muggles can't appreciate our music, how are we supposed to practice our performing skills? If we try to play for the wizarding world now, we might flop. We're just not ready,” Pansy said.

The group silently mulled this over for a minute.

“Screw it!” Blaise suddenly announced.

“Huh?” asked Goyle.

“You guys don't need any more practice! I watched you perform last night, and trust me, you were brilliant! I say, let's stop screwing around with these Muggles and bring our show home to our own kind.”

Draco looked thoughtful for a moment, and then slowly nodded his head.

“Let's do it,” he said.

Later, after the group practiced for a bit and were all filing out, Blaise stopped Draco to ask him about the “Weasley situation.”

“There is no `Weasley situation' Blaise. She works for me, she's a menial laborer, for Circe's sake, and on top of that, she's a Weasley! She's pureblood vermin,” Draco said harshly.

“Sure, all that's true,” Blaise conceded. “But she's also gorgeous, she's got legs so fine I wish my animagus form was a dog so that I could dry-hump the hell out of them, not to mention a pair of blouse bunnies that could hop all over me any day. But more importantly, she seems to be able to get under your skin, and I've never seen a witch do that to you, Draco. Seriously. You need to forget all that Weasley-Malfoy rubbish. She's a woman, you're a man, there's some sparks between you. That's all you need to know about each other.”

Draco sighed, but didn't look completely convinced.

“Mate, don't bollocks this up. It might be your one shot at real happiness,” said Blaise.

“And how would I bollocks this up?” Draco demanded.

“You know, by doing that whole `I'm Draco Malfoy, I'm richer than you, and I'm a Very Important Person' routine.”

“You mean, by being myself?”

“Er, yes. Don't do that.”

“Gee, Blaise, thanks for the advice. That's really helpful. I can see now why your love life is going so well.”

Blaise smiled cheekily. “You're welcome,” he replied.

~*~*~*~

Ginny finished cleaning Mrs. Malfoy's suite within a few hours, and, her head still spinning from the hops and barley scent she'd used as a fabric refresher, she made her way to Draco's set of rooms. The difference between the suites was striking. While Narcissa's suite was all pale blues and golds with a velvet brocade wallpaper and more tassled throw pillows than Ginny could count, it wasn't nearly as cozy as Draco's somber green and silver décor. Ginny hadn't noticed it the night before, too intent on avoiding Draco's drunken advances, but the room had a definite soothing quality to it.

It was simply done: a large four-poster with a thick down comforter, two squashy armchairs on a rug before the fireplace, and a large armoire on one wall. Windows curtained in green velvet flanked the bed and reflected sunlight in a large gilt mirror in the corner farthest from the door. From what Ginny knew of Draco, it didn't seem suited to his taste. It wasn't nearly austere enough, nor was it dark and gloomy, despite the darker coloring of the room's fabrics. Perhaps, though, Ginny thought, I just don't know Draco.

He'd certainly defied her expectations since she'd begun working at the manor. The day she'd seen him fall in the portrait gallery - sure, he'd been carrying what appeared to be the Dark Lord's purse, a clear indication of evilness - but he'd been nearly civil to her, and he'd even smiled when telling the story of his mother's former house-elf. Then, just yesterday, he'd actually come to her rescue when Blaise was advancing on her. Surely that's what had happened, and that made him downright chivalrous - something Ginny never expected to think about a Malfoy.

Last night had taken the cake though. When Draco was drunk, all his guards were down; instead of wearing the mask of the cold prince of Slytherin, he seemed almost vulnerable. Ginny didn't even want to think about how tempted she felt to brush the hair off his forehead as he lay there begging for a lullaby, or how much she actually did want to climb in the bed with him and feel his arms wrap around her and hold her to his bare chest.

It was just because he was attractive, right? She didn't actually have feelings for him, did she?

“Gah! That's impossible!” she exclaimed to the empty room, dropping her caddy and sinking down onto the unmade bed. “He's a Malfoy, for Circe's sake! I could never like him in a million years! And I certainly don't like him, like him!”

She flopped backwards and slapped the mattress with her palms - an act of frustration that, to an outside observer, would have looked eerily similar to another slapping the mattress had received that day. Luckily, Ginny had no idea that she and Draco shared a mattress-slapping habit; the thought might have made her even angrier given her current insistence on the ironclad, irreconcilable differences between Weasleys and Malfoys.

Strangely though, as Ginny lay there on the unmade bed, her stilettoed feet dangling over the side, she felt all the frustration in her dissipate. The bed was just so comfortable . . . .

And then her eyelids slid shut and suddenly she was imagining Draco leaning over her on the bed, his fists pressed into the mattress to either side of her as his warm breath tickled her neck . . . any moment she was going to feel his lips brush softly across the pulse point below her jaw, and unconsciously, her body arched upwards slightly and she raised her hands to touch his bare chest . . . and then she shot off the bed as if it had stung her.

“Merlin's effing unibrow! That snake must have put a seduction charm on the mattress!” she exclaimed (he hadn't). She glared at the bed reproachfully.

“Miss Weasley! What are you doing? You're behind schedule!” Mrs. Abbott exclaimed, entering the room.

“Oh, right,” Ginny said, looking sheepish and hoping her face wasn't as flushed as it felt. “Uh . . . Mrs. Malfoy's room took a bit longer than I thought it would. I just wanted it to be really perfect for her.” She put on her winningest smile, which seemed to placate the housekeeper.

“Well then, carry on,” Abbott said. “I only came to remind you to use the unscented refreshing charm on this suite.”

“Yes, ma'am. Will do.” Ginny picked up her caddy and got to work.

An hour later the bedroom was completely tidied, the linens were changed, the old bedclothes were sent to the laundry room in the dungeon, and the room smelled like, well, nothing. Ginny had spent some of the time snooping around Draco's things, hoping to find evidence of Death Eater activity, but apparently, Malfoy was too cunning to keep such stuff lying around his bedroom. Hermione, who had done the bedrooms yesterday, hadn't turned up anything either. Ginny moved on to the bathroom.

She wasn't surprised to see some makeup scattered across the vanity. Malfoy had been wearing eyeliner the night before, after all. Even that didn't surprise Ginny. She'd seen Fred and George go out to Muggle London with makeup on; they'd become awfully trendy since their joke shop took off, and they explained to her that the look was “metro” - something Muggle women apparently enjoyed. Trust Malfoy to be similarly versed in attracting women.

Draco's clothes from the night before were crumpled in a heap near the large garden tub. Ginny stooped to pick them up and caught a whiff of scent. Unable to resist, she held his t-shirt up to her nose and inhaled deeply. She could smell smoke and beer - a distinctly bar smell - but underneath it was something musky and male and unmistakably Draco. It was intoxicating.

“What are you doing?” a cold voice asked from the doorway.

Startled, Ginny dropped the t-shirt and met the cruel gaze of Malfoy himself. He was regarding her like she was an interesting insect in a specimen jar. Her first thought was just to run - anything to avoid explaining why she'd been sniffing his gods-damned dirty clothes! The only thing that could have possibly been worse is if he had found her prancing about with his boxers on her head, and, Ginny thought ruefully, he might have if he'd been ten minutes later!

Running was not an option, however. Malfoy was blocking the door.

“Well, Weasley? I'm waiting for an answer.”

“Um, I was just checking these clothes to see if they were dirty,” Ginny said lamely, unable to meet his eyes.

“Weasley, when you find clothing on the floor, clothing that you've actually seen me wearing recently, it's safe to assume it's dirty. Merlin's overgrown happy trail! You must be the worst maid ever!”

Ginny, who usually would have been fired up over the insult, was still feeling too embarrassed, and merely nodded in reply.

“You're finished here. Go find some other part of the house to muck up,” Draco said, his voice dripping with arrogance.

That did make Ginny angry. All morning she'd been thinking of him as “cute” and “almost nice” and “completely shaggable,” and now here he was being his usual arse-faced prat of a self.

“Are you sure you don't want me to sing you a bit of something before I go?” she taunted.

“Weasley, if you value your job at all, I suggest you leave this room now,” he scowled.

It was on the tip of Ginny's tongue to tell him just how much she valued her job, and exactly where he could shove it, but she remembered just in time that she would be letting the entire M.E.S.S. team down if she did that, and so she clamped her mouth shut.

As she marched past him out of the room, he smirked and said, “That's what I thought. Can't let all the blood traitors in the Shack or the Hovel, or whatever you call your home starve, can you?”

Ginny whirled on him. “You may be my boss, Malfoy, but you're a real bastard, you know that?” With that, she stormed out of the room.

~*~*~*~

What did Blaise know? Draco asked himself as he made his way to his bedroom. He didn't have a thing for the Weasley. She infuriated him! Always mocking him, always making him look like a complete fool.

That was the thought in his head when he entered his room and saw the She-weasel in the bathroom, sniffing disdainfully at his discarded clothing.

And now she's going to decide I smell, he thought angrily.

He hadn't meant to insult her as much as he had, but she just couldn't resist bringing up the lullaby thing! He would not be laughed at in his own house!

“Well, you made short work of that one, darling,” Mirabel purred after Weasley stomped out of the room. “She was getting far too comfortable in here for my liking.”

“What do you mean `comfortable?'” Draco demanded.

“Lying about on the bed, rummaging through your things - I swear, love, I've never seen a chit so besotted with you!”

Draco felt an electric shock run through him. Weasley liked him? Was it possible? Blaise's advice suddenly sounded in his head.

“Don't bollocks this up . . . one shot at happiness . . .”

“Weasley, wait!” Draco shouted, bolting from the room.

Ginny was moving quickly down the hall, and didn't turn around as he ran after her.

“Weasley!” He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him.

“How dare you?” she exclaimed. “Let go of me right— ”

Ginny didn't get to finish her sentence because at that moment, Draco's lips crashed down onto hers, effectively silencing her.

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A/N: “blouse bunnies” from http://www.adulttoyreviews.com/words/titword.html, a list of “breast” synonyms

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