Ladies and Gentlemen, I'd Like To Thank You For Coming Out..

Chapter 1: Who's Coming Out Tonight?

Luna Lovegood was desperate. If you had asked her two days ago how her plans for the Ministry's "Annual Mingle with the Magical Media Ball" were going, she'd have been enthusiastic in her reassurances that things were, indeed, going swimmingly. Yet somehow here she was, with approximately twenty-two hours left to go before all of the wizarding world's eyes were turned to one of the most celebrated events of the year, and she was this close to jabbing her assistant in the eye with a quill. Hard. And perhaps even with a little twist for satisfying measure. Luna sighed at her stress-induced violent thoughts. Not that she hated her assistant - how could she, when the man could make a ridiculous cup of tea with both hands tied behind his back and a blindfold over his eyes? But he just so happened to currently be the one individual with the great misfortune of close proximity to the much-hassled Director of Events. It just isn't fair, Luna thought to herself. Why did she have to deal with all the stress of planning the Ministry's biggest fete? Who cared that she had poured all of her soul, time, and energy into building up The Quibbler in the five years since leaving Hogwarts? So what if her father had swiftly relinquished control over to his supremely talented daughter, the one with what all of Britain lauded as a "keen eye for not only truth, but art and business, as well"? What did it matter that The Quibbler had won numerous prestigious awards for excellence in journalism, currently employed the highest number of talented writers in all the industry, and was still growing at such an astonishing rate that the rest of the magical journalism world had long before let out a collective sigh in resignation and stepped aside to applaud its obviously superior member? Luna growled (not too quietly, either) to herself, quelling the slight swell of pride that had begun to timidly raise its hand in acknowledgement deep within her. Pride be damned (here it hung its head in shame), Luna thought, nearly bowling over one of those annoying Ministry paper-pushers who contributed nothing more to her cause at the moment than an uncanny ability to get in her way at the most inopportune times. If Luna couldn't pull this ball off, in her first year of heading it, then her pride would never be able to face the wizarding world again. She absolutely needed this ball to go off without a hitch. She needed to give Britain's wizarding society the best damn show they had ever seen.

Ginny Weasley stifled her laughter as she trotted to catch up with her best friend. She knew how much pressure Luna was under to dazzle all of the wizarding society with her hard work - not that anyone had any real doubt of Luna's abilities. Yet she also knew that Luna would not appreciate Ginny's laughter - at least not right now. Luna wasn't dubbed "The Perfectionist" by all of her friends for no reason. Ginny did not envy Luna's current position at all. All of the wizarding elite would be at the ball tomorrow night, and not just those from the media. The Minister of Magic would be attending with his family, and all of the greatest scions would never pass up such a prime moment to flaunt what they had. Ginny snorted quietly to herself. She would be going for the free food, the limitless drinks and the live music. Never mind the limelight. Thank God for being Luna's best friend and one of the most prolific and lauded writers of her generation (here Ginny's inner pride preened in the way that Luna's had not been allowed to). Ginny was determined to enjoy a splendid and well-deserved break from all of her hard work.

Seeing her friend's blonde head rapidly turn around a corner, Ginny sped up and called out her name.

Luna halted mid-stride and mid-rant, turning to see Ginny approach her.

"Ginny!" Luna exclaimed. Dismissing the assistant nervously hovering at her side, she grabbed a hold of her friend's arm and steered her into an empty Ministry office.

"What's happened?" Ginny asked once they were seated. "I heard you mumbling to yourself again, you're really starting to scare the Ministry drones."

Luna waved away the statement about the Ministry workers with an impatient hand. Much as she hated being around them for so long, she needed to work closely with them for the ball. At first, they had joked about the Ministry being her second home; she spent so much time and effort planning, that some nights she didn't go home, content to fall asleep sprawled out over her notes laid out on someone's borrowed desk. Yet eventually all the joking had ceased, only to be replaced by a widespread ripple of dread that charged through all of them every time Luna showed up. "She's here," they'd whisper, terrified to face the zeal of a woman hell-bent on perfection. "Duck!"

"Cassie," Luna began to explain with an irate tone. "I book her six months in advance of the ball, yet two nights before, our darling pop princess decides to fall ill with a sore throat and cancel her performance."

Ginny allowed herself a few chuckles at the look on Luna's face. Cassie was every wizard's wet dream: a reincarnation of a young Lauren Bacall, equipped with the smoky voice of a Nina Simone in her prime. It was a potent (and bestselling) combination. (Ginny was quite pleased with her comparisons. Trust her dad to inundate all of his children with a broad knowledge of all things Muggle.)

"C'mon, Luna," Ginny snapped out of her inner musings and refocused her attention on her friend's ranting. "It's not as though she did it on purpo-"

"No performer!" Luna interrupted wildly, grabbing at her own hair, though she certainly looked as though she wouldn't mind taking a stab at Ginny's as well. The stress was getting out of hand. "That was one of the biggest selling points of the ball, and now she's incapacitated!"

Ginny put on her sympathetic face and took Luna's hand, more to prevent her tearing out clumps of hair than anything else. "I'm sure you can find another performer, just as good, who's more than willing to step up to the challenge."

"That's just it! I planned the entire night around the theme in Cassie's set list. I can't think of any other performer who'd be able to fill her role. And it's too late to change the theme." More dramatically than was necessary, Luna flung her free hand over her forehead. "Oh, woe is me!"

This time Ginny burst out laughing. "Luna, you'll be fine, I love the music you chose! It won't be hard to find a performer eager to spend a night covering old Muggle standards."

"Yes, you do love the music, don't you?" Ginny began to worry as Luna suddenly resumed her quiet and slightly deranged mumbling. "You not only love the music, but you also know it all by heart, you've been singing it since you were a kid, you can actually carry a tune, you're mildly attractive..."

Ginny gaped at her friend. "Mildly attractive?" She couldn't help but feel affronted (and her inner pride growled, just a tiny bit).

"All right, really attractive, but I'm not a lesbian," Luna amended. Her eyes lit up as she took Ginny's other hand, squeezing both in a pleading manner. Puppy dog eyes, here we go, she thought to herself, allowing the tiniest of cackles.

Was that an actual cackle? Ginny vaguely wondered. "Luna, no way," she protested loudly, knowing how those mad cogs in her old friend's head turned.

Damn, Luna thought with a small frown, I might have to tie her up. "Oh, go on, Weasley!" she exclaimed feverishly. "Who else can I trust to do this right? I need a sultry songstress to act the part of a singing Forties' siren, and I want it to be you."

Ginny shook her head so hard that she felt dizzy after, shuddering inwardly at the thought of getting up in front of all the wizarding elite and belting her heart out for hours. As for a gown? Ginny frowned. Makeup? She shuddered. Hair product? She gagged. Heels? Get the hell out. "Sultry? But I'm not -"

Luna flapped a hand in what Ginny thought was meant to be a dismissive manner, but really just made her friend resemble an impatient chicken. "Where's that famous Gryffindor courage you're always banging on about?" Luna was a shrewd woman. She knew that nothing forced Ginny to act more than a taunt about the size of her balls. So to speak.

Ginny stared at Luna. Hard. She couldn't believe that Luna would call her out on her courage. Of all things! She was no coward, damn it.

Luna, for her part, knew that Ginny was now really close...

"You get all the free drinks you want." Luna pounced upon the silence that indicated a weakening of willpower, and tossed out the best offer she had.

"I thought I was getting those already!"

"Not if I have anything to say about it, you don't." Luna's eyes glinted with a militant light, her mouth drawn into a firm line that she'd obviously swiped from McGonagall.

"You drive a hard bargain, Lovegood," Ginny announced wearily. Then, after another pregnant pause, "I'll do it." The concession sounded weary and just a smidge amused. "But only because you have the power to deny me unlimited free drinks."

"It's because you love me, don't lie. Me and my drinks." Luna grinned in triumph, unable to contain her delight. She now had her performer, and nothing could stop her from this point on. Her night was sure to be a smash.

I've decided to get this show back on the road, folks. :D It's been a while since I've tinkered in the world of fanfiction.

Praise to elyaeru once more for a lovely beta. (I committed an atrocity by not mentioning her in the first chapter.)

Thank you to those who read the first chapter. :) Please review!

I have to admit, this chapter was written with the sole intent of messing with Luna a bit more.

And just in case anyone was wondering, DM will indeed be making his appearance soon (though sadly not in this particular chapter).

Enjoy!

Chapter 2: I'm Coming, I'm Coming!

Arthur Weasley, consummate lover of all things Muggle, had returned from work one day when Ginny was five with an aged record player in tow. For once, Arthur actually knew how to operate the contraption. Unfortunately, he had no records to try out with it. Not to be deterred in his fascination, he had returned the next day with a few dusty old records. Ginny's reading skills weren't yet up to par at that age, so Arthur had carefully pronounced each artist name and song title for his youngest child. While all of her brothers were bored with their dad's new toy within two hours (“You mean it doesn't fly? Or shoot things? Not even roll over?”), Ginny pleased her dad when she begged to hear all the records every night before her bedtime. Within a few weeks, her tiny child voice was singing along, word for word. Arthur somehow found more records; Ginny stowed all the melodies and lyrics in her head. The records were mostly old Muggle standards that Arthur took off the hands of an ancient Muggle-born colleague. No matter the genre, Ginny absorbed everything she had the pleasure of listening to. Her parents were slightly baffled by Ginny's burgeoning talent, as they did not know of any other family member on either side who could hope to hold a tune. Yet as the years passed, Ginny's voice developed into a rich and smooth alto, and her pitch was always perfect. Ginny sang everywhere, sometimes to the chagrin of everyone she knew - in the shower (“Er, Ginny? You've been in there an hour already!”), on the Hogwarts Express (“What do you mean this compartment's taken? It's just you singing!”), in her dormitory (“Ginny, honestly, we have Potions in six hours!”), even while perched on her broom during Quidditch practise (“Ginny! This is no time for arpeggios!”). Her family and friends had long since abandoned prodding her into singing on the spot, as they knew it embarrassed her a great deal. Yet Ginny loved to sing more than anything, and rarely went about a day's work without some tune stuck in her head. While various friends urged her to pursue a career performing, Ginny merely laughed off such suggestions, knowing that she wasn't a born performer. Despite her quick temper and her outspoken nature, when it came to performing, oddly enough, she was extremely shy.

After leaving Hogwarts, Ginny aided Luna in building her journalism empire by contributing various pieces. What started as a side thing quickly evolved into a full-blown profession, as it turned out that not only did Ginny have a knack for writing, but readers also seemed to love her, and critics couldn't get enough of her.

Thus, the girl with the lovely voice confined her singing to such unassuming locales as the shower, and focused on her career.

Luna really was a monster, Ginny decided, eyeing her beloved friend out of the corner of her eye. It was only eleven o'clock in the morning of the ball, and Ginny had already been rehearsing in the Ministry ballroom for three straight hours. Silently torturing herself with a bit of mental gymnastics (it really was way too early), Ginny growled in a way that would have made Luna proud when she realized that she still had about four more hours to go.

Peter (Oh, apologies, Ginny sneered, Pierre), the man whom Luna had hired to oversee the entertainment, was currently engrossed in forcing his fuchsia feather boa to drape in what he might have called an alluring way but Ginny merely termed “ridiculous,” as she'd whispered to Ralph earlier on in the morning. Ginny, personally, didn't find it too hilarious that Luna had taken the pains to inform a man in possession of a feather boa that he had the full power to drill Ginny “with all the intensity of a hunt for a Crumple-Horned Snorkack - tough love is best!”

The Ministry drones that Luna despised so much threw laughably grateful glances at Ginny as they scampered off when Ginny took Luna by the arm and pulled her aside, unable to take any more.

“Ginny, what is it?” Luna asked, exasperated with the way that the lighting and decorations were going. Honestly, she reflected, even an amputated Nargle could do the job better than these Ministry monkeys.

“I need breakfast! I need to use the loo! I need a bath and to sleep,” Ginny moaned, dropping Luna's arm and burying her face in her hands.

Luna goggled at her. “Are you serious? Ginny, the ball is tonight! You need to practise, practise and practise. Do you want me to spell your eyelids open? Would you like a catheter? I know how to insert one into…you know.” The look on her face could only be described as eerily eager. Luna thought she was being quite magnanimous.

A sudden yelp from Peter - er, Pierre - made both girls look around. I can't believe it, Ginny thought. Then, recalling the fact that the man was in love with a strand of fuchsia feathers, she rescinded her last mental notation. It seemed as though the man in question had somehow entangled himself in his own boa.

“Isn't he brilliant?” Luna beamed. “Nobody tops him when it comes to directing synchronized swimming sequences for up-and-coming competitive gnomes.”

“What the hell?” Ginny asked, momentarily bewildered by such an outrageous statement. “They do that?”

Luna nodded solemnly. “Oh yes, people are tragically underestimating their potential for-”

Shaking her head, Ginny interrupted by growling again, this time making even Luna jump, startled. After a deep breath, she resumed her earlier griping. “Luna, really, I can sing all these songs in my sleep - sometimes I do in fact sing them in my sleep. I've known all of them since I was a child, my pitch is perfect, my rhythm is spectacular, my tone is mesmerizing, my arse looks nice in my jeans, seriously! We do not need to have four more hours of rehearsal.” Ginny added a stern look for added measure. Not that those ever worked on Luna.

“But the decorations aren't all up yet, the lighting refuses to sort it self out, I'm about to rip out Ralph's hair…”

“Luna, you really need to lay off the hair-”

“Ralph!”

The man who made a spectacular cup of tea appeared instantly at Luna's side, and Ginny had to grin at the nervous twitch currently residing in his left eye. Surely he had it worse than her.

“Yes, Ms. Lovegood?”

“I'd like a cup of tea, if you please. And what the hell is that on your right cheek?” A beat. Then, sternly, “Wrong cheek.”

Ralph flushed, wiping furiously at the cheek in question. Ginny's grin widened a fraction as the ink merely spread.

“Never mind,” Luna interjected as Ralph fumbled for an answer. With a nod, Ralph ran off to work his magic, mumbling all the way - “One cup of tea, wash right - right! - cheek, save the world…”

Luna really is a bad influence, Ginny mused to herself, if everyone who spends enough time with her develops the nasty twin habits of muttering under their breath like a deranged person and growling like a cat with a hairball stuck in its throat.

“ - about that catheter?” Luna wasn't done with Ginny yet.

“NO!” The ballroom fell silent at Ginny's outburst, with all the suddenness of a Silencio.

Luna gaped at Ginny. Had she just said no to the Director of Events?

“I don't need to rehearse anymore, Luna. If all those years of singing along to my dad's records weren't enough, then I can't help you now. And I have absolutely nothing to do with the decorations and the lighting. I'll just be in your way. Not to mention, you don't want your star performer to tire herself out before the big show, do you?” Ginny felt slightly bad that she was selling out everyone else. But only slightly. Every man for him self, right?

“But Pierre hasn't even taught you the choreographed dance number yet.” Luna's suddenly misty gaze caused Ginny to pause. Only for a second, though. They hadn't been best friends since their Hogwarts days just because they both happened to have a thing for dancing in their underthings to the Weird Sisters' tunes. Definitely not lesbians, of course. No, Ginny knew Luna's modus operandi front-to-back and back-to-front, thank you very much.

“You know I don't dance, Luna.”

“I wholeheartedly believe in the goodness in people…in their ability to change.”

“Luna Lovegood!”

“Not even one little can-can?” Luna pleaded.

Ginny regarded Luna with narrowed eyes. “Don't force me to run over to Cassie's right this moment, so that I can snog her senseless and catch whatever it is that made her ill,” she threatened.

Luna was utterly appalled. This was supposed to be civilised warfare! “You wouldn't.”

“The six Galleons in my pocket and Professor Trelawney say I would.”

The tension was so thick that even Voldemort would have backed away very, very slowly. The ballroom waited with bated breath. Even Peter/Pierre and his fuchsia feather boa had momentarily desisted from grappling with each other; he was currently gaping at the two women from his head-locked position on the stage.

Sighing, Luna nodded in reluctant acquiescence, only to be rushed at by a newly energized Ginny. That level of squealing ought to be made illegal, Luna thought with a wince.

Ralph smiled as he turned to one of the Ministry workers. “That's two Galleons you owe me, mate.”

With promises to be back, all done up and warmed up, two hours before the ball, Ginny rushed out of the ballroom, mentally primed for a long bath and an even longer nap. The only thing that followed her out the doors (poor Ministry workers, indeed) was a barked-out, “I'm sending a stylist over later!” from Luna.

Luna, ever vigilant (she had always been rather fond of Mad-Eye), did not miss the envious looks that currently graced all the faces of her workers, as they stared in despair at the ballroom doors hiding Ginny's retreating form. Run, Ginny, they all thought. Escape to your freedom. The Director of Events rolled her eyes. Where's Pierre gone off to? She frowned. I don't remember telling him he could go for lunch this early. Luna shrugged.

“BACK TO WORK!”

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Chapter 3: Fly Boys

Draco Malfoy was exhausted. If you had told him two days ago that he'd be spending an entire day in Diagon Alley trotting to catch up with a wildly shopping Pansy Parkinson, while lugging all of her insane number of purchases, he'd have laughed a long, drawn-out laugh, and, gasping for breath, told you to get the hell out before he sicced his personal assistant on you. And you would have taken him very seriously indeed, because Natasha was not someone you wanted after you - not even if she had legs up to there and silky hair down to here and great big handfuls of-

No, none of that mattered, because Natasha was an absolute monster masquerading as the very lovely personal assistant to Draco Malfoy. Being the head of Malfoy Publishing was no easy task, and being his personal assistant was even more difficult. Both jobs required aggressiveness in spades, and both Draco and Natasha certainly filled more than their respective quotas.

I'd give anything to be Natasha right now, Draco thought desperately to himself as he slumped against the wall outside Pansy's twenty-seventh dressing room. Surely then he would have handled this situation better. Surely he didn't have to stand there gawping like an idiot when Pansy had showed up on his doorstep a mere twenty hours after his re-entrance into the country, demanding that he accompany his best friend - “Who you haven't seen for more than a few hours at a time since leaving Hogwarts!” - on a random shopping spree. And had Draco imagined it, or had Pansy mentioned his escorting her to the Ministry ball that night? Not to mention, surely if Draco miraculously found himself inhabiting his God-send of a personal assistant's body, he wouldn't allow himself to be used as a luggage trolley.

Ignoring what his mother had told him as a child about always maintaining proper decorum, Draco groaned and hung his head, not caring that one of Pansy's larger packages was currently digging into his back.

“What's that, Draco?” Pansy's voice floated through the gauzy curtains that separated her from the rest of the high-end shop.

“Nothing, nothing.” Draco rolled his eyes. He may have loved Pansy like a sister, but he'd be damned if he was going to allow her to get away with using him without exacting some form of retribution himself. At the prospect of retribution, the patented Malfoy smirk made a brief appearance. Nothing like developing an airtight plan for revenge to make being subjected to torture worth it, he thought to himself almost cheerfully.

The curtains flew open, as Pansy stepped out and onto a round platform facing a wall full of floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

“Pansy?” Judging by the reflected expression of the man seated behind her, Pansy thought it seemed as though Draco was concentrating very hard on something.

“Yes, doll?” Pansy spun so that her backside was facing the mirrors and craned her neck around, pushing her generous posterior out a bit.

The ghost of a smirk that had flitted onto Draco's face just minutes earlier was back, looking less like a ghost and more like a…well, more like a still-living person. “Won't you get into trouble?” His voice was the epitome of innocent curiosity.

“For what?” Here Pansy turned again to face the mirrors, stuck a hand on her right hip, cocked her left leg, and pouted. Shaking her head, she swiftly bent forward and pushed her silk-clad breasts together, nodding in a more satisfied manner.

“Well…for stealing a bit of the shop's dressing room curtains.”

Draco couldn't help but chuckle at the rude gesture that Pansy flashed in his direction shortly before flouncing back into the dressing room with her head held high.

Needless to say, when Pansy and Draco finally exited the shop an hour later, he didn't have to worry about having yet another shopping bag to drag along.

Shortly after the final battle at Hogwarts, Draco was sent away by his parents to stay with a few of his mother's relatives in France. Finishing his seventh year studies at Beauxbatons, he was subsequently ordered by his father to Malfoy Publishing's main offices in Paris. In the beginning, many of the seasoned employees there were torn between fear that the Malfoy heir would report back to his father with unfavourable reviews of them, and contempt that a seventeen-year-old boy was given all the same privileges as they, simply because his surname happened to be whispered with respect in the highest echelon of wizarding society. Although, you'd have thought that witches and wizards who worked with the published word on a daily basis would have cited: “Never judge a book by its cover” as their golden rule.

Draco was no fool. Acutely aware of the pressure placed upon him from the moment he was afoot in France, he set out to prove himself more than worthy of his famous surname. At Hogwarts, he had cultivated his reputation as the resident wealthy brat. If you had accused him of treating those outside of Slytherin House in a deplorable fashion, Draco would have retorted that he'd have liked to see you try to act the part of the Hogwarts angel when you happened to have a rich Death Eater for a father. If life pelted lemons at you, what kind of deluded idiot thought that he could somehow squeeze apple juice out of them? Not that Draco really was an angel in hiding, or anything. He always had thought that Hagrid was an oversized loaf, that Ron Weasley had a hilariously annoying habit of tripping over his own gigantic feet in much the same way that a blind flamingo would, and that Hermione Granger really needed to invest in a Gringotts vault's worth of Sleekeazy products. Some facts just couldn't be denied.

Yet France held no Hagrid, no Granger, and no Weasley — not that Draco would have been too surprised if a Weasley had turned up in France, considering his strong suspicion that the Weasley clan simply hadn't been around when the rest of the world was introduced to the concept of birth control. Thus, Draco left Beauxbatons at the top of his new French peers, with no new enemies, and amidst a gaggle of adoring witches who spoke in lilting accents that made Draco question his parents' decision to live in England. At his family's offices, he proved to be a more than capable leader - he never set out a task that he himself couldn't perform. Even the most cynical of employees grew to respect, and eventually to love, the youngest Malfoy. Within a year, Malfoy Publishing had been drastically revamped. Another year, and the corporation shifted from old-money hobby to malleable competitor. A month, and Draco had somehow acquired the personal assisting paragon that was Natasha. One more year, and Lucius officially signed everything over to his son. Word was spreading about the Malfoy who had more of a head for sharp business stratagems than mask-wearing, cloak-twirling theatrics.

Yes, Draco Malfoy had certainly come into his own. No more greasy hair products, no more juvenile-Death-Eater wardrobe (“Seriously, Mother, stop sending me knickerbockers. I'm eighteen years old now, for God's sake!”), and no more appalling behaviour. English Draco would not have recognized French Draco. At Hogwarts, Millicent Bulstrode and Theodore Nott had drooled over him. In France, Draco was king. And oh, was it ever good to be king.

“So.”

“Mmm?” Draco held a blouse up to Pansy, as she looked through some slip dresses in Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. They had just come from lunch, which had done an admirable job of infusing Draco with more energy. Bring on the dressing rooms, he thought to himself as he replaced the blouse (Hideous shade of orange, does absolutely nothing for Pansy's complexion, Draco had finally decided) and wandered deeper into the store in the vague direction that Pansy had gone off.

“Why are you back again? If it's to marry me, I'm sorry but I've known ever since we were in sixth year that I'm too good for you,” Pansy called from a display of evening shoes. “Not to mention, I've made quite a name for myself in advertising and I refuse to let you impinge on my hard-won independent woman status.”

Draco chuckled, taking a seat on a pink pouffe. “I've decided to rework the London offices myself,” he answered, watching as Pansy slipped a golden sandal onto her left foot and a red high-heeled pump onto her right.

“How long are you staying?” Pansy stood up from her own purple pouffe and took an awkward couple of steps.

“I'm considering moving back permanently, actually. Kindly refrain from stalking me if I do choose to do so.”

“Why are you worrying about me stalking you? You do know that Theodore's newly single and never likes to stay that way for long if he can help it,” Pansy retorted.

“Maybe I should look into opening offices in America. Not that I think a major ocean would keep Nott away,” Draco muttered darkly, recalling the terrifying time in third year that he had woken up in the middle of the night to find Theodore staring at him from across their darkened dormitory. When Draco had asked him what the hell he thought he was doing, Theodore had nearly smiled brightly and shut the curtains around his bed. Draco had tried to ignore what sounded a lot like muffled groans that hadn't ceased for another half an hour.

It seemed that Pansy remembered the incident as well (Draco had sworn her to secrecy the following morning). Pansy laughed out loud, though it was cut short when she caught her high heel on a shoebox and stumbled, flailing her arms around for a few moments before finally regaining her balance. “Blaise misses you,” she said as she glared at Draco, who was failing miserably at maintaining a poker face.

“Of course he misses me,” Draco replied, sounding bored now. “He's stuck all day working alongside Percy Weasley. I'm surprised he hasn't done anything drastic yet.”

“Drastic?” Pansy took off the sandal and put on the other red pump. “There was that time a few weeks ago that he slipped a Vanishing potion into Weasley's morning cup of tea.”

“I'd have paid to see that one.” Draco smirked. “The day that a Weasley finally lets his orange hair down.”

“Blaise has pictures, I'm sure he wouldn't mind gloating about it again,” Pansy said as she strutted around in front of Draco. Suddenly, she stopped. A dreamy look crossed her pretty features. “Who knew a Weasley boy was capable of packing that, anyway?” At the thoroughly revolted look on Draco's face, her lips curved up into a smug smile. “Oh, don't worry, darling. My virginal heart will always love you the best.”

Draco snorted. “Virginal my a-”

Bells tinkled as the door to Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions opened, effectively cutting him off. Madame Malkin herself swept magnificently from behind a back counter and moved to greet the newcomers in the front of the shop.

“Ah, Lavender, dear!” Madame Malkin called, air kissing the outrageously dressed brown-haired young woman. “Looking for a gown to wear to tonight's ball?” She smiled in an indulgent manner.

“No, actually,” Lavender answered, gesturing at the other young woman who had entered just behind her. “Nothing for me today, I'm styling Ginny Weasley.”

From a couple of pink and purple pouffes situated in the back of the shop just out of the line of sight of the three women currently gathered in the front, two former Slytherins stared in joint silence.

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