Happily Ever After

mynewgenesis

Rating: PG
Genres: Romance, Humor
Relationships: Draco & Ginny
Book: Draco & Ginny, Books 1 - 5
Published: 13/07/2009
Last Updated: 13/11/2009
Status: in_progress

Ginny Weasley has an unfortunate habit of dating only the lecherous sort of men who wish to see the interior of her pants. After yet another relationship gone awry, she finally decides, enough is enough. Never again will she go for her 'usual' type. Instead, she's going to go for the polar opposite. And who should come along, but Draco Malfoy.

Chapters

1. The Bet

2. A Dance

3. Jealous

4. Backlash

5. Reparte

6. Daisies

1. The Bet

Her date leaned towards her, covering her smaller hand with his own, and smiled at her seductively. “So,” he said, his voice low and throaty, “How about we go back to my flat for drinks.” He didn't state it as a question; it was phrased as a rhetorical statement. As far as he was concerned, she was a done deal. Her eyes narrowed.

The entire date had been like this- full of thinly veiled expectations and salicious comments-and Ginny, no fool, nor a stranger to lecherous men, was growing tired of it. She had hoped that Nicolas might be different from the rest of the idiots she normally went out with, but, alas, he was just the same. She fought the urge to roll her eyes.

“Your place?” she repeated, sounding doubtful. He missed her tone, and nodded slowly, like she was a bit slow, and added a sly wink for good measure.

“Yeah, you know,” he moved his hand slowly up her arm and ran his knuckles against her skin, “my place.”

“No, I don't know.” she said waspishly, pulling her arm and hand back. “And no, I'd like to go home now.”

“Aww, cummon, love,” he entreated, “Don't leave me hanging,” he raised sorrowful eyes to hers and made to take her hand again. She moved out of the way.

“No, Nicolas. We've been on, what, three dates?”

“Yeah,” he said, not understanding.

“Three dates, Nicolas.” she slapped his searching hand away. “Stop that.” she growled. “Three. I will not sleep with you after only three dates.” In fact, she thought, I will not sleep with you after a thousand dates!

“So how many more?”

She actually gaped. Was he serious? Her mouth must have opened a little bit in awe, because he grinned at her, shaking his head.

“Love, you can't take and take and not put out a little.”

Her previous annoyance blossomed into a dull anger, and when his hand, for the enth time, came looking for her wrist, it blew into full grown rage. She could feel her cheeks starting to glow with the heat of her blood boiling under the surface of her skin, could hear the beating thrum of her heart in her ribs and in her throat, could taste the dry texture of her tongue against the roof of her mouth.

“Take and take,” she repeated, her words clipped and low.

“I paid for all our dates.” his tone was proud, like he was like a little boy, saying 'See? See? I'm a big boy now!'

“Perhaps, Nicolas,” she paused, giving a half laugh, “next time you think you deserve sex from a woman you hardly know, you should explain your expectations in the beginning- before you waste all of your time and money.” She looked him up and down and then leaned in so close that he had a nearly unobstructed view of her chest over the top of her flowy blouse. “Although,” she said, making her voice breathy and full of promise, “even if you had explained it to me,” and she ran her fingers up his arm, raking her nails lightly over his skin, “I probably wouldn't have slept with you anyways.”

She stood. “Goodbye, Nicolas,” she called over her shoulder, and she turned to walk away.

Nicolas, though, had slightly more brains than she had given him credit for. He stood from their table sharply, knocking over the chair and sending it clattering to the ground in a mess of cocophonic noise, and strode stiffly over to her, grabbing her arm and yanking her to face him. Ginny gasped, with anger and astonishment. Would he really make a scene in public?

She could see that he was angry. Furious even. His skin was mottled and red and the veins in his neck were standing out and throbbing.

“Don't you dare insult me.” he snarled. His lips curled over his teeth and his eyes were narrowed. Ginny had thought him handsome to begin with, with his black hair and light eyes and olive complexion, but now, with what she presumed to be his true nature coming to the foreground, she realized that he was quite ugly.

“Or what?” she taunted. “You'll uninvite me to the dance?”

He squeezed her arm tighter. She tried not to grimace. “Let go of my arm.”

“You will regret this,” he told her dangerously. “When I'm through with you-”

“What? No more bastards will come knocking on my door? Good!” she spat. “That takes care of that problem!” His eyes narrowed to slits.

“Never,” he jerked her shoulders and her teeth clacked shut painfully over her tongue, “call me a bastard again.” He enunciated each word with another jerk and she tried to stiffen her spine to keep her head from being whipped around like she was a little doll. She scrambled in her pockets and found her wand. She jabbed the tip into his stomach.

“Let go of me,” she said, and then he was blown backwards into the table. He flipped over the table, taking the tablecloth, the remnants of their lunch, and the bottle of very expenisve wine he had ordered to impress her with him. The waiter rushed to his side and tried to help him up, but Nicolas batted him away angrily, intent on wringing Ginny's neck. She was sure that no woman had ever treated him like this before. He was Nicolas Dessin, heir to the largest Wizarding shipping company in Europe. Women flocked to him. Well, Ginny thought, not this one.

She looked at him with contempt once more before spinning away and apparating back to her flat with a final sounding pop.

***

Draco Malfoy was watching from a tiny patio cafe across the street. Nicolas Dessin was a particularily annoying competitor in his field of buisness, and he had been spying covertly from underneath the great umbrella that spun lazily in the wind over his head, its stem piercing the table he shared with Blaise Zabini, for over an hour.

He couldn't quite place the woman. She was stunning, with scarlet hair and porcelein skin, and a fit, lithe body enveloped by a cute little black dress, but she wasn't Nicolas's usual type-buxom and blonde and dumb-and Draco couldn't figure out why they were together.

Blaise had been good naturedly trying to win him back into conversation for over twenty minutes; but Draco just kept watching the strange woman. Finally, after a one sided conversation about the current state of the Nimbus market, Blaise demanded to know who he was staring at.

“That girl with the red hair. Sitting with Dessin.”

“Ginny Weasley?” Blaise raised his eyebrows. “Why are you watching her?”

“Weasley?” his own brows rose. “No, that can't-”

“It's Ginny.” he nodded confidently. “Shall I call her over? Looks like she's leaving.”

And sure enough, when Draco looked back, she had turned away and was fishing for her wand in her dress pockets. Dessin rose and followed, grabbing her and hauling her roughly back. Draco started to rise in his seat, his gentlemanly instincts kicking in, but arrested himself mid motion when he remembered who she was.

Sure enough, within seconds, Dessin was blown backwards with a reflector hex. He couldn't help it, Draco had to smile. Obviously, Ginny Weasley hadn't changed much.

“You only smile like that when you're interested.”

“Interested? Don't be absurd.”

Blaise grinned. “It's true. You see a girl, you decide she's attractive, you smile, like that, and then you relentlessly pursue her until you get bored -usually within the month- and then you dump her. And then you see a different girl, and-”

“I get the point,”Draco said, his lips quirking into a good humored smile despite himself. “But I do think you're docking some credit. I have most certainly stayed with one girl for longer than a month.”

“Really? Who?” Blaise asked mockingly.

“Well,” he struggled, “Rachel?”

“Three weeks.”

“Jenise?”

“One week.”

“Annabelle?”

“Three weeks,” he raised an eyebrow, “and a half.”

“Are you sure,” he refuted, but Blaise leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed behind his head, a position of triumph.

“Yes. You will never ever last with one girl long enough to get heirs.”

“You mean get married?”

“Well, if the heirs are to be legitimate, you'd have to be, wouldn't you,” he said, as though he were explaining something to a small child.

“I could get married some day,” Draco said.

“I bet you won't,” Blaise leaned back into the table.

“I bet I will.”

“I bet you a thousand pounds that you will never, in this lifetime, get married.”

“That's a stupid bet.” He looked back over to Weasley, only to notice that she had gone. Blaise noticed his direction, and smiled.

“Fine.” his smile turned lethal. “I bet, a thousand pounds, that you will never in this lifetime, get Ginny Weasley to marry you.” Draco nearly lost all composure and fell off his chair.

“Weasley?” he coughed. “Are you crazy?”

“No.”

“But, my father, -she's a blood traitor!”

“But she's still a pureblood. He can have no objections there.”

That was true, at least, Draco agreed regretfully.

“You can't let this bet slide, Draco.” he held his hand out, waiting. “Your mother would love her.”

That was also true. Narcissa had always been fond of the more headstrong girls Draco brought home. She had no use for simpletons. He shot his hand out and shook Blaise's hand before he could change his mind. “Done,” he said.

Blaise looked surprised, but hid it well. He started to grin like a cat.

***

Ginny sat alone in her flat, staring morosely at the dregs of her tea, wondering why the only men she seemed to be capable of attracting were idiotic dunderheads. Was there something wrong with her? Did she have some sort of sign above her head which was visible only to men that screamed, in flashing letters, 'Easy Woman Here!!'

It wasn't as if she looked for them. She didn't go to sleazy bars, she didn't party. She didn't really even drink that often; only on special occasions. Where did they all come from? They always seemed so wonderful, right up until the first date. Then they would get a little bit less suave, less interested in appearing gentlemanly. More interested in sex.

Perhaps it was Harry's fault. Since his death, she had gone, subconsciously, maybe, for men like him. Tall, dark, handsome, polite, caring- and, apparently, jackasses.

Well, that would have to stop. Starting now. She set her cup down on the table with a clang. No more looking for Harry.

She was going to look for the complete opposite.

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2. A Dance

Ginny was still staring at the dregs of her tea when a sharp rap sounded on her window pane. She looked up to see a sleek black owl with uncanny yellow eyes staring at her impatiently through the glass, hammering away on the pane with an annoyed expression when she didn't immediately make to open it. She pushed her way through her unorganized flat and opened the window. The bird thrust a crisp white letter at her, and resumed his staring in stony silence.

She raised her eyebrows at it, but turned back to the letter. It was thick paper- the kind one could only find when a pretty penny was to be spent. Her name was written with ink that shimmered gold so brightly that she had to turn it directly into the sunlight to read it properly.

Miss Ginevra Weasley, it read, and her eyebrows rose again. No one but the Ministry ever called her Ginevra; it was too formal, too stiff sounding. No one had called her Ginevra since she was just starting at school and the other students were just learning each other's names.

She tore open the envelope and pulled out a postcard sized sheet of embossed paper. The ink, like the envelope, was gold, and the glimmer made it hard to read. She struggled for a moment to figure out what it was saying, and once she had figured it out, struggled to understand why on earth it had been addressed to her, of all people.

You are cordially invited

To Malfoy Manor's

479th annual Gala

At 7 O'clock, on the Twenty Seventh of June

Black Tie

Latecomers will be turned away

By invitation only, no guests

Please bring this note to the door.

She stared at the invitation for a long while before coming to the conclusion that the issuer of the note was deficient in some of the more necessary mental faculties. Firstly, the Twenty Seventh of June was today; Secondly, by rote, at least a months' notice was usually the norm with such an event, with the exception being less rather than more; Thirdly, it was no small secret that she had been the girlfriend of Harry Potter, and she had made her allegiances quite clear during the war. That she would be invited to a Gala hosted by one of the most illustrious former Death Eaters was preposterous, even though the Malfoy family had recanted some time before the final battle and had been vocal in their opposition of Voldemort in the end. The coldness between the Malfoy family and the Order remained strong and noticeable, and it was widely thought that their purpose in changing sides was that they had seen the futility of staying with the losing side, no more. Personal gain. Very Slytherin.

Even should their political differences be disregarded, there was still the matter of personal dissidence to be considered. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter had been marked enemies in their youth, and that she was invited to Draco Malfoy's family Gala was something to be considered from a distance, held at arms length for the time being. Unfortunately, Malfoy had not given her much time to weigh her options with any thoroughness.

Her war experience sat wedged firmly in the back of her mind, screaming with great tenacity that going would most definitely be a mistake. But, truly, the fore of her thoughts were coyly playing with the idea of attending, and from her current vantage point, the outcome didn't look too horrible. Certainly, there would be some awkwardness, slipping into the den of the Death Eaters, or former den, as it was, but she had never been one to back down from a challenge.

And, her subconscious put in mischievously, did she not just make the decision to throw away her past habits and start anew these ten minutes ago? She felt her face break into a smile.

It would be adventurous. It would be completely out of character. It would be- fun? Maybe?

She glanced quickly at the clock hanging above her parlor door. Three thirty. She had just enough time to squeeze into Madam Malkin's and find something on short notice, if she hurried.

She scraped her hair into a scruffy pony tail high on her head and grabbed the better of her three coats, and leapt lightly into the floo. She took more powder than she had intended to, and her trip was much faster and entirely dirtier than was absolutely necessary, and she stumbled into the entryway of the shop covered in a thick layer of soot and ash, with tendrils of her hair floating messily around her face. A few of the more snooty patrons snickered behind their hands at her less than statuesque entrance, but their snark soon dissipated when she made her way to the back of the store with her head held high.

At the back of Madam Malkin's store was where the great designers were kept, and where patrons consisted of the richest of the pureblood nobility, the high society darlings, and those with a very important event to dress for. The gowns in the back of the store were expensive and exquisite, and one had to have a fair bit of coin jangling in their purse to even consider heading in that direction.

Ginny had a good deal of extra money of her own waiting to be spent due to some extra credit jobs she had taken on during the summer for her editor, who had been short staffed at the time. It never hurt to splurge a little, she decided as she climbed the ornate stairs that led to the upper level.

The upstairs was obviously catered to the rich. No expense had been spared in the matter of patron comfort. It was a single room, with two great bay windows on each wall, each separated by a thick slab of marble. The windows overlooked London, both muggle and magical, and sun shone directly from one side of the room to the other in the warm afternoon. Plush chairs were strewn around the place, and in the center was a raised platform, where Ginny assumed the fittings took place.

Beside each chair stood an ornate silver platter, stocked with crystal decanters and glasses, and fine china saucers and tea cups. Ginny instantly felt out of place, her upbringing leading her to prefer rugged, mismatched styling and homely accents, complete with signs of loving use in each crack and chip. She ignored her dislike and called out hesitantly, realizing that the closer the sun came back to the horizon, the less time she had to prepare herself.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice sure despite her feelings of awkwardness. Her mother would probably be fussing over each and every piece of china by now, had she been here, her love of all things fancy overriding any sort of compunction to do with societal rules of behavior. Ginny quirked a smile at that thought, and felt suddenly much better.

Almost instantly an older looking woman appeared, having come through one of the windows, fussing with a tape measure and a heavy looking pencil. A tall, willowy blonde woman trailed behind her, struggling with a large clipboard and a quill a good three times the length of a normal one.

“How can we help you, Miss...” her voice, while not being outright demeaning, definitely acknowledged that Ginny was no one of stature or social standing.

“Weasley.” Ginny said proudly, and the older woman's eyes widened a tiny bit, but she showed no other sign of surprise. A Weasley hadn't set foot in Madam Malkin's, except for the second hand rack, for over twenty years. Ginny ignored this. “I need an evening gown or two.” The woman nodded and clapped her hands twice. Instantly, half of the huge windows flipped themselves over to reveal monstrous closets, each closet holding dresses from a different section of the color wheel.

She swallowed heavily, not entirely sure what she was getting herself into. She had never spent more than ten galleons on clothes at any one time in her entire life.

“On the podium please,” the willowy one said, her voice svelte an cultured. Ginny had hardly set foot on the platform when suddenly and inexplicably, she found herself wearing only her underthings. She gasped with the shock of the cool indoor air hitting her skin, but hid it well.

They began to examine her. “Lovely figure,” the elder one announced, and the willowy one started to take notes in her clipboard, flipping to a new page every minute or so, scribbling furiously. The elder one continued to speak, as if muttering to herself. “Red hair, lovely, lovely, but of course that rules out yellow. Pale, wonderful complexion, beautiful tone... Brown eyes, freckles, no brown fabric then, no that would only mute the color... Curves, oh my, what lovely curves....” She went on for a good ten minutes. Ginny managed to take it all in stride until the woman saw fit to mention her 'ample bosom', and her 'shapely bum', at which she choked on her breath and earned herself a dubious look from the willowy woman, who obviously intended to communicate that she very much doubted Ginny's ability to become a lady. The elder didn't notice, simply mentioning to Ginny that 'tight waisted dresses' were definitely 'her thing'.

“Alright dear, bring out the blues and the green's first, then the reds and the blacks. Only darker shades though, if you please.” Willow nodded and pointed a slender finger towards a far closet. Out of nowhere, Ginny found herself already slipped into a hideous concoction of blue and green feathers and ruffles. She looked like a peacock. Her facial expression must have conveyed her displeasure, because in another second, the peacock was replaced with a bluebird. On it went; she would gag or shake her head vigorously and then she would find herself in a different dress. They made their way through the entire color wheel, and until they made it to the grays and blacks, they got absolutely nowhere.

But then, two in a row where perfect. A grey dress and a black dress. In the end, Ginny bought both. The shop ladies charmed them to fit her perfectly, and she was on her way.

.

Back at her flat, she decided to wear the black one to the Malfoy Gala. She felt dark and mysterious, and entirely unlike herself, which was what she was aiming for. It was shockingly risqué and showed a great deal of skin, and Ginny almost backpedalled when she saw how different she looked against the backdrop of her own home. In the store it was easy to become someone else and allow her own personality to fade away, but surrounded by her pictures and her personal things, it was sharply contrasted. But she forged on ahead.

The dress was stunning in its simplicity. It had no embellishments, no flare, and no great bedazzlements. It was backless, with the fabric starting just over her 'shapely bum' and draping over her front; all that held it to her chest was two long silver chains forming an 'X' over her back, connecting the shoulder straps to the bottom. The skirt was just as racy, with a slit coming up to her thigh, rippling open when she walked revealing a scarlet colored inner layer.

She had no idea what to do with her hair, so she pulled it into a low pony tail just below her ear, so that the long strands fell over her shoulder to the side of the neckline.

Dark mascara and eyeliner, and she was ready; a femme fatale in the making. She smiled to her reflection, and fairly gaped at herself. She was hardly recognizable. Her mother would have kittens.

At precisely 6:59:43, Ginny stood with her invitation in hand in her small living room, prepared to Apparate. At exactly 6:59:59, she spun, and appeared in the massive foyer of Malfoy Manor at the same instant as a hundred other guests arrived under the great chime of a grandfather clock.

A guard came around to each guest, and after certifying that each invitation was real, he handed each person a small silver ring to signify that they were, indeed, guests, as opposed to extremely well dressed staff. Ginny looked down at her small ring with her lips quirked. If she remembered Malfoy properly, the silver was real, but would disappear after the evening was over. Malfoy's had never been ones for gift giving, unless the recipients were the Ministry, and the outcome was leniency in some format or another. She shook her head and followed the rest of the crowd into the ballroom.

***

Draco looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like a God. His white blonde hair fell in delectable waves around his ears and just over the edge of his collar and his black tuxedo fit him perfectly. He looked exactly as a twenty four year old man should: virile and strong and sexy.

He looked down at the small, perfect flower in his hand. He had charmed it to retain the pretty spots of dew on the petals, and it would never die, so long as it was kept near a window somewhere. He gently closed his fingers over it, careful not to crush the petals. The stem extended through his fingers.

He looked up to the sound of an opening door. Blaise waltzed into the room, a leggy brunette on his arm and a goofy smile plastered to his face. Draco fought the urge to curse under his breath. This was his night to be a gentleman; such behavior would never do.

“Yes?” he asked in his most authoritative tone.

“Ready? Weasley is here.” The brunette looked at Blaise with confusion. Weasley?

Draco looked back at his reflection and before his eyes his countenance grew sultrier, his mouth a little bit more pouty- in a manly way.

Ginny Weasley wouldn't know what hit her.

***

The ballroom was crowded with the rich and famous. She recognized most, if not all, or the faces from at least one picture or another in the Daily Prophet society section. The nobility were in full attendance, as were the flaky society princesses. She straightened her spine and leveled her shoulders, aware that her back muscles were well formed and placed to advantage in this dress. People parted for her as if she were one of them. It was like a power rush.

She soon noticed however, that she stuck out to a high degree. Where every other woman in the place wore bright colors, mostly pastels, to celebrate the long awaited arrival of summer, she looked like a dark, sultry sorceress. She was mollified, though, when she noticed a few of the men around her start to gape at her, and in one instance, almost drool.

Easily she was showing the most skin. Easily she was the least conservative. But then, she was never going to fit in anyways, her mind reminded her, so why bother? She was sexy. She could feel that. She hadn't felt so comfortable with herself in a long time. She was going to enjoy it. She smiled, and someone to her left somewhere gasped. Some whispered behind their hands.

She was an unknown quantity to them; probably the only new blood for years. She headed to the bar, and was hastily served a cold firewhisky, which she popped open like an old hand. The barman winked at her.

Ginny turned to walk around some more, eager to move away from the glares fastened on her from this corner.

She stepped right into the firm, hard body of a man a good foot taller than her.

“Oh! I'm so sorry- I-”

“Miss Weasley,” the man said, in a deep baritone, and she looked up to see the sparkling grey eyes of her host, Draco Malfoy.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she gaped, “I apologize, I didn't see you.”

“Not at all, Miss Weasley.” he held out his hand palm upwards, and hesitantly, she placed hers into it. It was warm, but as he raised her hand to his lips to brush a light kiss across her knuckles, she felt the most shocking chill shoot through her body, coming from somewhere in her belly.

He turned her hand over, and brought out his other hand, brushing his fingers from the center of her palm as he placed something there. She looked with avid fascination as he unveiled a dainty little daisy, perfectly formed, and pure white with a great yellow sun blinking merrily at her from the center. She couldn't help but smile; daisies were her favorite.

“A beautiful flower,” he said, his voice sending thrills through their connected hands to her heart, which she was sure would fail quite shortly, “for a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you,” she blushed.

He took the flower from her hand, and with her permission, wove it into her hair behind her ear, fastening it there with a charm. He smiled at her, his grey eyes crinkling.

“Dance with me,” he said, and without waiting for her reply, dragged her to the floor.

She liked him already.

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3. Jealous

Happily Ever After

Chapter Three

If Blaise were to be stuck anywhere, with anyone, for a particularly long period of time, it would only be natural to him to hope that his partner in suffering should be Draco Malfoy. Not because he wished any undue (or `due', which was more likely) harm on his friend, but because he and Draco had always worked together as a team. It was only fair that they should suffer the same way, as it was more than likely the actions of their team efforts that would land them in captivity in the first place.

This natural order of things was well established in Blaise's mind, which was why it was with such envy, annoyance, and barely concealed eye rolling that he watched Draco and Ginny dance. It was not fair that he should be stuck with the dulcet, malicious, and thoroughly awful Druella when Draco got to actually enjoy his evening with Ginny.

The bright-headed witch Draco held in his arms was smiling prettily, her eyes sparkling with mischief and intelligence. Druella, the stunning, albeit wretchedly idiotic brunette beside him, had her lips curled most unattractively over her teeth in a pointless display of disgust and misplaced arrogance. Blaise struggled, for not the first time that evening, not to reach over and wrap his fingers around her scrawny little neck and squeeze for all he was worth. If he could have traded her in for a girl like Ginny, who he knew from a past working relationship to be a cultured, sophisticated woman, who lived happily and without prejudice, he would do so in an instant.

He watched her lips move from across the ballroom and imagined how stimulating her conversation must be in comparison to the sad excuse for polite exchange he was being forced to endure with his date.

Her idea of conversation included snotty remarks about unfortunate fashion choices on the part of other poor females, and blithe remarks about the dreadful state of the Malfoy name, that Draco should be forced to dance with a Weasley at his own party.

Blaise bit his tongue to stop himself from spitting out that he would much rather dance with Weasley than herself.

He could not, however, quite restrain the urge to sigh dramatically, and exhaled a long held and long suffered breath from the pit of his stomach, which, satisfactorily, annoyed his companion. As he watched Draco and Ginny twirl once more around the floor, he smiled.

Druella glared.

***

Draco infused into his dancing much of what Ginny privately thought made up his personality in real life: passion, intensity, and a feral predatory grace which more than hinted at danger.

She wasn't sure what the dance was called. She wasn't even entirely certain that it was any one dance in particular. She wasn't an expert, but it seemed like he was simply leading her around with whatever moves struck him at the particular moment. A dip, into a slide, into a light toss, into a twirl, into a spin, into a- oh, goodness. Was that even legal?

A blinding flash flared in her eyes and she realized that she had just had her picture taken while Draco's hand was roving its way up the slit in her dress along her thigh. Draco didn't bat an eyelash.

She supposed that, being him, he was used to having photographers march in to ruin perfect moments.

Perfect moments?

That was the wrong path to follow. Ginny shook her head.

But it was no use trying to clear her mind when Draco Malfoy was twirling her around in such a way that her mind was so gloriously addled that her brain forgot its reasoning in wanting to be clear in the first place.

After a few more moments, the music finally came to a close. Only when Draco had stopped them, somewhere near the center of the floor, did Ginny realize that the rest of the couples had dispersed to the sides of the floor, leaving just the two of them to thoroughly bedazzle the entire crowd. Wondering where, exactly, her senses had fled to, she stared around her with a puzzled expression screwing up her face.

“Miss Weasley?” Draco asked, being far more gallant than she had expected him to be. He held his hand out, having let her go for the moment, leaving her decidedly and unexpectedly cold where his hands had been on her back and waist. Which was ridiculous, as she was otherwise flushed from the exertion.

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said politely, ignoring the inane urge to be sarcastic and bowing her head demurely. She didn't really see the point in pretending she was some perfectly behaved society miss, now that she had completely boggled the minds of the ton mama's and the stately matrons with both her dress and her completely risqué dancing, but Draco didn't seem like the type of man who would react well to her flippancy. She placed her hand in his and stared blankly when he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. He truly was a mystery.

She cast about for something to say, but only came up with drivel.

“We've gathered a crowd,” she said, feeling instantly stupid for pointing out something so obvious. She may as well have commented on the weather, or the size of the room, or the number of couples. He nodded, as was polite, and she couldn't help but feel like he was laughing at her inadequacies. She clenched her teeth.

“I would like some Firewhisky,” she said suddenly, blurting out her favorite drink without thinking. Firewhisky? Hard alcohol at a party where only fine wines and fruity spirits would be served? Goodness, she really was a mess. Draco, to his credit, barely widened his eyes before smiling indulgently at her.

“Firewhisky? I will see to it. Come with me.” He turned and half drug her to the bar, where he whispered a few words to the bartender, who grinned toothily at Ginny and stepped into the back room. He emerged a few seconds later with a freshly popped bottle of still smoking Firewhisky.

“Good choice, miss. If you don't mind me saying,” he winked at her, “it's high time more ladies started experimenting a little `sides Margarita's and prissy little drinks.”

Suddenly the drink in her hand seemed more like a necessity, rather than just a craving. She took a long drink, ignoring the look of pure amusement plastered across Draco's face as he watched her. It was growing extremely tiresome, knowing that his eyes were on her every second. She had just started her second wind when he tapped her elbow sharply. She lowered the bottle from her lips to see Blaise and a coldly superior looking date standing a few feet from her, watching her expectantly.

“Hello, Miss Weasley,” Blaise said, his charming grin in full force. Ginny couldn't help smiling back. Blaise had always been kind to her, even in school. It had been a mystery to her why he would choose Draco as a friend. He was so sweet and devilishly handsome and such a charmer.

“Oh, call me Ginny, please. Especially after working together for so long-,” she faltered, realizing just how rude it was that she should give Blaise permission to use her given name when Draco was standing right beside her, and she had not yet offered the honor to him. “And you as well, Mr. Malfoy,” she said quickly.

“So is it true you dated Harry Potter?” Blaise's date interrupted, just as Draco opened his mouth. Ginny was taken aback, seeing the outright contempt and challenge in the woman's eyes. She raised an eyebrow, determined not to make a fool of herself.

“I did.” She said, her voice strong. She wasn't ashamed, even in present company. She had loved Harry; did still. She still missed him every day. This stupid bimbo wasn't going to make her say different.

“Then what are you doing here? You have no business in proper society, coming from the mud you do.” Her flinty eyes shot venom with every word, and Ginny was once again reminded just where she was.

Ginny's father had once told her that she would not be like the other children she played with. She wouldn't be allowed to see some of them once they started school. They would be separated forever. And her friends were wizards and witches, just like her. She had asked why, and her father hadn't been able to answer her. He didn't know.

Through her school years, she had eventually figured out for herself that hatred clouded the judgment of those too weak to see through it. She learned through trial and error who would accept her, and who would scorn her. She had always counted Draco amongst those who would scorn her. Maybe she still did; she certainly didn't fully trust him yet.

Some people, she found, were like snakes. They would slither around you, round and round, until you thought you knew them completely and utterly, and then, out of nowhere, their real skins would come to light. Prejudice, and hatred, all consuming and blinding.

And others, like Blaise's date, felt no need to conceal their feelings. Ginny was dirt to them. She was nothing. Superiority and a false sense of achievement would trump all reason, and even though Ginny was personally invited by Draco Malfoy, the Dark Prince himself, she was still no more than a common tramp, no matter what her true actions were.

It was these who were impossible to deal with. Anything she would say would be turned against her, twisted, or ignored completely. No matter that every bone in her body was crying for her to exact vengeance, magical means or no, she clenched her fists and neatly arranged her face into an expression of polite disinterest and blithe airiness.

“You don't belong here,” the woman said, sensing victory. Blaise and Draco were too shocked to say anything. Ginny allowed herself a small smile.

“I know. I wore too much black.” She turned her smile into a self-deprecating grin, cheekily motioning to her dress.

“So you fancy yourself a wit, then.”

“Never,” Ginny said, tilting her head to the side. “Just stunningly attractive.” She flashed another smile. Draco looked at her with his eyebrows raised.

“Vanity is a deadly sin,” the other woman pointed out.

“Yes, well,” Ginny pointedly looked the woman up and down, from her stick thin legs to her twiggy arms, “So is gluttony.”

The woman colored and shrieked, before grabbing Blaise's arm and hauling him away in a frustrated rage. He looked back at Ginny apologetically, and she smiled ruefully back at him. It would be nice to have coffee with him some day. He was a nice man.

“There's something different about you,” Draco said, somewhere to her left, “and I can't quite put my finger on it.”

“You actually remember me from school?” She turned to him, surprised.

“Not really. Skinny little thing with bright carroty hair and freckles like nothing I'd ever seen.” She glared. “Which is definitely not how I would describe you now, mind you.”

She eyed him with annoyance. “Well, what is it then?”

“I don't know.” He reached out to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. “But I think it's a good thing.”

“Good. Well, I'll leave you to puzzle it out.” She started to leave, but he grabbed her wrist.

“Wait, Ginny. Have dinner with me tomorrow night.” She liked the way he said her name, like he was tasting the letters as well as forming the word in his mouth.

“I-“

“Please?” She was sure that he said `please' almost as often as he said `I'm sorry'. She nodded slowly, not really sure why it seemed like a good idea.

“I will send you an owl in the morning. Goodnight, Ginny.” He kissed her knuckles again and turned and stalked into the crowd, leaving her with only her Firewhisky and a very confused heart beat.

“or the size of the room, or the number of couples.” - A loose reference to Pride and Prejudice, by the brilliant Jane Austen.

-->

4. Backlash

The next morning she woke slowly, savouring the warm cocoon of her duvet and mattress, unwilling to break the tenuous hold of her dreams completely.

She had dreamed of him, not in any way that gave him preference in her life, but it was enough that he had made an appearance in the night at all. She didn't usually entertain any mere acquaintances in her dreams, usually casting only her closest friends and family as anything to do with anything in particular. But last night, she had dreamed of an adventurous life involving Draco Malfoy, herself, and a rather vocal group of choir members aboard a ship entitled Her Majesty Bubotuber.

It was hard to take such a dream seriously, but sailing on the high seas with a man as dashing and - she suspected - dangerous was nothing to turn ones nose up at. It was a delightful escape, and she was sorely tempted to skip waking up all together and get back to robbing and pillaging poor villages. But, alas, there was the matter of work to attend to, and she could put off getting out of bed no longer.

Sleepily she tossed her covers aside and padded into her cozy little kitchen, noting that she had already slept in a good half hour. It was half seven and she needed to be ready to leave her flat by half eight. Groaning, she turned on the muggle coffee pot Hermione had given her as a birthday present the year before and waved her wand in the direction of the bathroom, turning on the shower.

Outside her kitchen window was a small owl, staring at her with beady eyes intently through the pane, the morning paper in its beak. She opened the drawer nearest the oven and grabbed the necessary change and made the exchange, waving the owl off with a sleepily mumbled `byeee...'

Her sleepy mood lasted no longer than it took for her eyes to register the headline on the front page.

Unnamed Witch Snares Malfoy Heir

Beneath the delightfully attention grabbing headline was a half page sized black and white picture of she and Draco during a rather more intense part of their dance, in which his hands were nearly at the point of her knickers and her hands were roughly - well, all over him.

Just looking at it brought an intensely red flush to her cheeks. Good Lord, had she really done that? She cast her mind desperately to the night before, trying to find some moment where she had been bewitched or jinxed so that she would at least have the excuse of being befuddled. She found nothing, and groaned into her hand. Her family would have her guts for breakfast.

On the other hand, this did rather cement her newfound plan to mingle with a different crowd. Writing for a magazine classed as `gossip rag', she could well imagine just what sort of position this would place her in. She would be the toast of London in about a day and a half and she would be invited to all sorts of parties, regardless that she had danced but one dance with Draco Malfoy and that she really didn't know him.

Come to think of it, it was rather curious that her boss hadn't called her demanding to know why her picture was pasted across the front of the morning newspaper. But then, as she looked at it, she realized that she was rather hidden, and that it was a tad difficult to discern her features through the haze of her flyaway hair and her constant ducking beneath Draco's head. She supposed it was understandable that no one had guessed it was her yet. But that wouldn't last long.

Even in black and white her particular shade of red hair was rather distinguishable, and it wouldn't be very long before people put two and two together and realized that it was a Weasley dancing with the Malfoy heir, and after realizing that, she would be the only possible candidate, as she was the only female Weasley - besides her mother, but Ginny liked to think that her figure was at least noticeably more trim than that her of Molly Weasley.

Her family would probably figure it out quicker than the rest, which meant that she had precious little time to -

“Ginny!”

Hide. Her front door slammed shut as her brother made his way noisily into her apartment.

“Ginny! Look at this!”

Ron. Come to harangue her, of course.

“Ginny, are you listening? Where are you - oh. There you are.” He stumbled into her kitchen. He had a copy of the newspaper in his hand and upon seeing her he strode to the table and slapped his copy down face up directly beside her own. “Oh, you've already got one. Well, look here.”

He jabbed a finger at the moving picture. Ginny tried not to look too uncomfortable.

“Fred and George reckon that might be you. `Course I told them that was bollocks, but they bet me a galleon that it is you. Aint that a laugh? `Course it isn't you, like you would dance with Draco sodding Malfoy, ay?”

He noticed that she had yet to reply and prodded her shoulder impatiently. “Ginny? You listening? Go ahead, it's not you, am I right?”

Very slowly and very deliberately she shook her head.

“See! See I told `em,” he faltered. “No it isn't you, or no I'm not right and it is you?”

“No,” Ginny said, hiding a small smile behind her hair. “It is me.”

His hand grabbed her shoulder and whipped her around in his seat so that she was facing him, his face inches from hers and turning mottled red with anger and disgust.

“WHAT?” he hollered at her, tiny bits of spittle hitting her face. She pushed him back.

“Oh, shut up Ron. It's not like you've never seen me dance before.”

“With Draco sodding Malfoy!?” he yelled again. Ginny noted with detached interest that she hadn't seen him quite this angry in some time. For some reason she doubted it was over the lost galleon.

“Why the bloody hell would you dance with Malfoy!”

Ginny hid a smile again. “Because he asked me to,” she said.

“Well you didn't have to say bloody `yes'! Why'd you say yes? Were there no other blokes asking?”

“I said yes because he asked me, Ronald. I can dance with whomever I please.” She grinned before adding, “and it was his party, I couldn't very well refuse my host, now could I?”

“Why were you at his party to begin with?!” he demanded, still spraying spittle at her. She wiped her face with her pyjama sleeve. When he was in a better mood she would have to talk to him about this. Poor hygiene was no one's friend.

She grinned again. “Because he invited me.”

He howled with rage.

He looked quite at a loss, twisting his hands and running them through his hair in frustrated agitation. He glanced back at the picture for something else to rail about. He found another thing.

“What the hell were you wearing? And why is Malfoy's sodding hand up your sodding dress for the whole world to see! You look like some sort of scarlet woman, letting him feel you up and touch your - your -,” he shut up then, too embarrassed to continue.

“Knickers?” she finished for him, still smiling. Ron was not amused. She sighed. “Ron, you know I love you, but seriously. How old am I? I don't need you to be yelling at me for everything I do. I'm nineteen. Shut up. I can do what I want.”

Ron twisted his hands angrily again. “Mum's gonna kill me.” He whispered in defeat.

“Mum's not going to kill you. She'll faint with happiness. I'm in the arms of London's richest bachelor. But Dad - he might kill you.” She saluted him mockingly. “Good luck.”

“Oh My God, Ginny,” he gulped. “Please don't do it again. Say you're sick next time. Puke on him, something, anything! Don't do it!”

“Sorry, Ron, I've already agreed to have supper with him tonight.” He looked green.

“I have to go.” He whispered faintly. He scrambled out of the kitchen and a second later she heard her front door slam shut. Shaking her head happily she wondered how the rest of her family would cope. At that thought she set her wards to block anyone from entering her flat and went to have she shower she sorely needed.

***

Draco sat in his study staring at his copy of the newspaper with a rakish grin spread across his face. Ginny Weasley, the little spitfire. She looked as delicious on paper as she had looked in his arms. Her face flushed and her hair wild and everywhere. He couldn't help but smile.

The headline was a little bit grasping, and completely incorrect, and it was definitely not his first time making the front page, but this was absolutely something he would treasure. If he were that sort of man he would frame the page and put it on his wall, but as it were, his father would hang him if he did, and so he would settle for preserving a copy in a nice file folder and keeping it in his desk to pull out and stare at every now and then, when the mood struck him.

She was an absolutely perfect woman, apart from one or two odd little tendencies, and Draco was proud to have shared a dance with her. It didn't hurt that Blaise had confided later that he was indescribably jealous, and he'd truly hated Draco all night for having had the pleasure of Ginny's company. Draco smirked. He would have hated himself if he'd been Druella's date too.

Silly woman.

He leaned back in his leather wingback chair and stretched his long legs out under the desk, happily lost in his reminiscing from the night before. He was interrupted before long by a squeaky voice.

“Master Malfoy, Lord Malfoy wishes to speak with you.” Draco looked to the ground beside him and saw the green, scaly ears of his house elf, Blonky.

Draco nodded his assent regretfully and shoved his paper inside his desk drawer. He needn't have bothered trying to hide it. When Lucius marched in a few seconds later, his robes billowing around him like an angry inferno, he had his own copy of the paper in his hands. He slapped it down on the desk surface in front of Draco, unfolding it in jerky, angry motions for Draco to see. Draco pretended to study it, all the while trying to come up with some excuse for the photo in his head.

“What is this,” his father snarled, reverting to a position of rigid straightness in front of the desk, his hands crossed over his chest. Draco paused for a moment, pretending to weigh his answer.

“It's a dance, sir. The paper blew it out of proportion,” he let a hint of sneering arrogance taint his voice, “as usual.”

“I can see that it's a dance. It's disgraceful. I raised you better than to dirty yourself with such filth. What was she doing here?”

“Blaise brought her,” Draco said quickly. Blaise wouldn't mind, and he deserved it for getting Draco into this messy `bet' business anyways.

“Blaise.” Lucius's lip curled. “He should know better as well.” He leaned in again, moving his hands to brace himself against the desk. “But that still doesn't explain why you would dance with her.”

“She was attractive, and she could dance.” Draco said, his usual affectation of superiority in his tone. “It was nothing.”

Lucius swiped the paper from the desktop and gave Draco one last glare. “See that it stays `nothing',” he said, and he quit the room.

Draco rolled his eyes and quickly pulled his copy back out from the drawer. After staring at it for another twenty minutes, he grabbed some parchment and his special quill that made his words sparkle silvery green, he wrote a short note. His eagle owl, Lucifer, carried it off, and Draco returned to looking at the picture. Just another day at work.

***

She recognized Draco's owl when she got out of the shower. It had a small package tied to its leg and a note in its beak. She opened the note first.

`My dear Miss Weasley;

I hope this note finds you well. I wish to reextend my invitation to supper tonight. I have made reservations at `The Rose Garden', you may have heard of it. Should you wish to accompany me, please don't hesitate to let me know. Wear the gift. I believe it will suit you.

With the warmest regards,

Lord Draco Malfoy,

Heir of Malfoy,

CEO Malfoy co.,

London's most eligible bachelor,

Witch Weekly's Wishes most Wonderful Smile winner,

Supper Companion Extraordinaire,

Rake.'

She stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, before realizing that he was being funny. Or at least attempting. She shook her head, a wry grin on her lips. Obviously, Draco Malfoy, Lord of London, didn't know Ginny Weasley very well.

She opened the gift next.

It was a tiny pendant, a sterling silver snake wound around a perfectly formed crystal rose, with tiny little green gemstone eyes (real, she would bet money on it), and a long silver chain included.

It was such a blatant insult to her Gryffindor pride it ended up being more humorous than insulting. She put it on, shaking her head. Draco Malfoy was incorrigible.

She scribbled back a note and sent it off with her old barn owl.

***

`My Dear Mr. (Lord?) Malfoy;

Your note found me very well, as I am pleased to report. Please, sir, did I not give you permission last night to use my given name? Please call me Ginny.

I whole heartedly accept your invitation. I will wear the gift, though I must admit, I wonder how you managed to pick it out? Was it the result of some dastardly intuition, or was it the fault of the sales clerk that a Gryffindor managed to end up with a Slytherin symbol round her neck? Don't misunderstand me, the gift is beautiful, but I must wonder where on earth the idea came from.

With absolute affection,

Ginny Weasley,

Princess of 24 Grindrod Place,

Lady of Dream Homes,

CEO of Imagination inc.,

Majesty of all that applies,

Fair Damsel,

Etc, etc.'

***

She had just slipped her new sundress on when her ward buzzer rung, bringing a tiny butterfly with a ribbon banner bearing the name `Draco Malfoy' in front of her nose.

“Coming!” she called.

When she opened the door, Draco Malfoy held out a single Daisy, and Ginny took it and placed it with the one he had given her the night before, which was sitting on the windowsill in her little kitchen.

When they Apparated to the restaurant, Ginny clutching Draco's arm a mite more than was strictly necessary, they were greeted by blinding camera flashes in every direction.

-->

5. Reparte

Draco wrapped his fingers around her upper arms, steering her to the door. She focused on the ground, the only place left free of blinding light, her eyes burning.

“Mr. Malfoy! Mr. Malfoy!” A particularly slimy looking reporter pushed his way through the crowd and jabbed his wand in Draco's face. Draco shrugged off his jacket with speed and covered Ginny's face before she even realized what was happening. “Can you answer a few questions?”

“No.” Draco said shortly. From beneath the jacket Ginny wondered how much further along the path the doorway could possibly be.

“Mr. Malfoy! Can you tell us who your friend is?”

“Dumbledore.” he said. Ginny snorted.

“Why so secretive?” Another voice yelled. “Is there a wedding in the works?”

Draco didn't say anything to that, just grunted with annoyance.

Finally, Ginny's feet found a doormat, and they were ushered inside the building. As soon as the door was closed behind them she ripped the jacket from her head.

“What the hell was that, Draco?” she demanded.

“What?”

“How did they know we would be coming here?” She faced him solidly, her hands on her hips and her feet shoulder width apart.

“I don't have any idea. They must do the same to anyone who comes here.”

“Don't lie to me.” She poked his chest for emphasis with each word.

“Ginny, this is The Rose Garden. I am entirely sure at least one of them is hiding in the bushes twenty four hours a day.” He turned to the gentleman who had ushered them through the door. “Right?”

“I - er, well - they,” the gentleman looked uncomfortable, and was clearly a very poor liar. “Right,” he agreed abruptly, when Draco raised an eyebrow.

“You told them we would be here, didn't you.” Draco said nothing, but Ginny noticed with interest that the very tips of his ears turned a faint shade of pink. “Didn't you?” she repeated, triumphant.

“I would never dishonour you that way --,”he began, but Ginny laughed.

“Don't be ridiculous. You might be more polite these days, but you're definitely not a saint.” He opened his mouth but she cut him off again. “I'm not stupid, you know. That was very low.”

He had the grace to look slightly abashed, but Ginny got the feeling that his discomfort was the most she was going to get out of him. Apologies were clearly not in the cards, nor were confessions. She then realized that they had aired their argument in front of the clearly uncomfortable host.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, turning to the other man, “I assume we have a reservation?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, ma'am. This way, please.” As they were weaving through the tables he spoke over his shoulder to Draco. “We have your usual booth reserved for you in the back.”

Draco nodded his thanks.

Their booth was obscured by thick red velvet drapes, a round table with heavy black cushions and gold leaf designs on the table surface. Their host pulled a golden tasselled rope and the drape closed around them, completely blocking the noise and view of other patrons. They were effectively in their own world.

For a moment the awkward silence was overwhelming. Draco filled it by picking up the elaborate quill which rested in the center of the table and scrawling in his elegant hand, without the use of ink, on a particularly large circle of gold leaf on the surface. He scratched some unintelligible words - at least, when they were upside down to Ginny - and they then quickly disappeared as the gold leaf swirled and covered them over.

A second later the golden circle turned into a portal of sorts and a bottle of very old, very expensive looking wine rose through, somewhat reminiscent of the tables at Hogwarts. Two wine glasses soon followed.

He deftly poured her half a glass.

“No Firewhisky?” she teased. He looked horrified, not quite catching her tone.

“Firewhisky? At The Rose Garden? I should think not,” he said swiftly, pouring himself a glass. Ginny laughed into her cup.

“I was only joking, Draco.” He looked abruptly embarrassed.

“I see.” He searched for something to say. His eyes latched upon the pendant. “I see you wore my gift.”

She looked down at it, fingering it a little. “Yes,” she said. “I got you something as well.” His facial expression was the picture of surprise. She reached into her bag, pulling out a small box. She slid it across the table to him.

He opened it a raised his eyebrows. “Oh - Ginny, well - thank you. I think.” He pulled out a small lion pin, colored a bright, obnoxious red.

“I expect you to wear it,” she added unnecessarily. He choked back a laugh.

“I'm sure you do,” he murmured. He looked up at her entreatingly. “Must I?” He looked so petulant she had to smile. “Only for tonight,” she told him.

She folded her hands on the table. “So,” she said. “What now?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, what do you normally do on a date?” Ginny asked. Truly, she was curious.

“Snog.”

She choked. “Thrilling.” He had such an expression of boyish pride that she laughed.

“Well, what about you? What do you normally do?” He leaned in. “What do you do on a first date.”

“Evade amorous advances and cause bodily harm,” she said readily.

“Interesting. I believe I was witness to such a date a few days ago.” He leaned back in his seat.

“You were?”

“Yes, Nicolas Dessin.”

At Nicolas's name she pulled a face. “Oh. He deserved it.”

“Why?”

“He was of the opinion that since he'd paid for three dates he was entitled to sleep with me.”

“Really?”

“I hope you and he are not of like minds.”

“Not at all. I reserve my demands for at least the fourth date,” his voice holding all the worldly air of a twenty year old aristocrat. It was a moment before she realized he was joking.

“Really? I would have pegged you as a more 'get-her-drunk-and-then-coerce-her' kind of guy.”

“Not at all. But if women cannot resist the power of my sex appeal, who am I to turn them down?”

“You're a pig.”

“That may be, but I am a rich, attractive, well dressed pig. Can I really help myself?”

Ginny scoffed. “Human decency is on sale this week at Madame Treussau's. Perhaps you should look into it.”

“Really? How much?”

“Ninety-nine per cent off. I bet you could afford it.”

“Perhaps. But not all sales are worth it.”

“This one is,” Ginny said shortly.

Draco laughed. Then the food came. They ate largely uninterrupted by speech until they were nearly finished.

“Why didn't you ever marry Harry Potter?” Draco asked her suddenly. She nearly choked on her bite of crab.

“What?”

“I'm curious.”

“Oh.” she thought for a moment. “Well, the war sort of interrupted our plans. And then - well, he died before we had the chance.”

“But you loved him?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling at the memory. “Yes, I did.”

“And you miss him?”

“Every day.” She cleared her throat. “But Harry was never one for letting sadness run his life. I try to do the same.”

“He was a good man,” Draco said, surprising her. She looked at him and saw no judgement in his eyes, only a strange warmth and empathy. She smiled again.

“Yes, he was, wasn't he.”

“To Harry,” he raised his glass. “The biggest bespectacled git there ever was.”

Ginny giggled, realizing that his tone held no meanness.

“To Harry,” she agreed.

They said nothing for a while after, no sound but the clinking of cutlery against the plates.

“Why did you never marry Pansy?”

Draco gagged.

“Were you two not an item?”

He choked.

“No?”

He shook his head furiously.

“I see.” she said.

“She forced her attentions upon me for six long, long years. I threw myself a party when she gave up on me and started going with Montague.”

Ginny smiled into her hand, trying desperately to keep from laughing at him, he looked so incredibly pathetic at the memory.

“So what else don't I know about you.”

“A great many things, I am sure. Where to begin?”

“Well, are your family really all blood supremacists, or is that just rumors?”

He looked at her curiously before deciding that her tone was light, and that she was not being rude. “No. All but two of us are blood supremacists.”

“Really? And those two would be...”

“Myself and my great Uncle Alfred.”

“Of course.”

“Say, are you from that Weasley family? What child are you, twenty three?”

She shook her head. “Seven. Hush.”

“Well, still. That is impressive.”

They conversed with great feeling and humour for the rest of the evening, their inhibitions all but forgotten, comfortable and resembling friends more and more.

They may not have been very similar, but the fact that they were no longer strangers was enough for Ginny to feel comfortable.

She even - almost - forgot that he had set the paparazzi on her. She went to bed that night dreaming of handsome, sneaky blonde bastards.

-->

6. Daisies

A/N: This is the re-written Chapter Six. Enjoy!

Two days later, Ginny was back at work, scribbling her last assignment of the week, a report on the Bulstrode Ball, which by all reports, had Bombed. With a capital B. And probably a few exclamation points. Her current headline was, predictably, even for Ginny, “Bulstrode Ball Bombed!!!”

She had not been invited, which was perfectly fine with her, as the Bombing part had come in when someone had engorged the punch bowl contents to the extent that there was a giant blob of punch restrained only by the combined efforts of no less than six ex-death eaters. Their efforts allowed for most of the guests to evacuate, but one slime-ball spawn of evil decided that it was his turn to instigate some terror and mass-panic, and while no one was looking, he poked a hole in the large bubble of raspberry flavored juice, and watched with obvious glee as the thing exploded and set loose a tidal wave (and Ginny wasn't kidding; if her source was to be believed - the tidal wave was by all reports at least fifteen feet tall) which managed to wipe out the entire first floor and part of the second in Bulstrode Manor, as well as ruining thirty four heirloom ballgowns, a masterpiece painting by some 'Van Goo' fellow, and terrorize the three hundred and seventy seven guests who had actually bothered to show up.

Ginny rather wished that the ball had been less of a disaster, because it was quite a bit more work for her (although much more entertainment) watching the pensieve of her contact (she hadn't been invited, of course) as Busltrode Manor was overtaken by sticky, pink juice. Then she had to write the whole thing out, and make it seem like it was a credible story and not just a waste of space and a trule horrid example of 'Shadenfreude'.

When she glanced at the clock, after hurridly cramping her closing paragraph into an inch of parchment, she cursed violently. It was ten minutes to five - her family dinner was starting at five thirty. At the rate she was going, she wouldn't have time to change, and she hated going to her parent's house in her office clothes. She thought she looked quite nice, but her family always accused her of looking 'uppity' and said she looked like a 'scarlet woman'. Her mother usually just looked at her doubtfully and asked after a moment of stifling silence if Ginny didn't think she might settle down and have a family soon?

Ginny grumbled. As if she could juggle supporting herself, a deadbeat husband, AND some snotty children. Not that she didn't like children - oh, she liked them just fine, the swotty brats - she just didn't want any of her own, just yet.

Just as she folded up her parchment and stuffed it in the chute that would send it directly to her boss for editing, she heard a knock on her door.

“Come in,” she said, entirely un-thrilled.

It was Ron.

“Hello, Ron,” she said, even less happy. If he was coming to waste more of her time -

“Ginny, I need to talk to you, about Malfoy -”

- he was. “No,” she said shortly, feeling peevish.

“What?” he blinked at her, his bright blue eyes strangely owlish in the dim light of her dingy office.

“No. No - no, no.” She peered at him from behind her stack of files. “No?”

“But -”

“No.”

“But I-”

“No?”

“I just-”

“Ah!”

“Huh?”

“Ahah!” she crowed.

He stared at her. “I forget what I wanted to say.”

Ginny grinned widely, and whipped up a hard, uncomfortable chair for Ron to sit in while she finished clearing her desk of unnecessary papers and poorly written articles.

He fidgeted, drumming his hands on the armrests and making annoying noises with his tongue against his teeth. He fingered some of the knickknacks on her bookshelf, dropping a copper ball and knocking over a picture of her shaking hands with Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue. She didn't particularly like Anna Wintour, or Vogue, as she found both to be distasteful and distant from regular people like herself, but she was a great fan of fashion and liked to tell herself that one day it would be Anna Wintour shaking her hand.

She glanced back at the shelf and noticed that Ron was getting closer to seeing the newspaper cutout of she and Malfoy dancing which she had framed and put on her shelf as a sort of joke with herself the day before. She pulled out her wand as slowly as she could without drawing attention to herself and was about to cast an illusionment charm on the photo so that he wouldn't remember what it was he'd forgotten, but Ron was too quick for her that day and grabbed it from the shelf as soon as she opened her mouth.

“You FRAMED IT?” he demanded hotly, shoving his finger at it. Her picture-self and the black and white Draco jumped apart in shock, glaring at Ron's grubby finger with loathing. Ginny groaned.

“So?”

“You FRAMED IT!”

“Yes.”

“WHY -”

“No.” She interrupted.

“Ginny-”

“No.”

“GINNY!”

“N-”

“Don't you dare think you can get away with that twice!”

“Dammit,” she said. He leaped out of his chair and made to throw the picture in the garbage beside her desk.

“Oh, no you don't!” she said, and she lunged around her desk to grab for it, but Ron was taller and simply held it over his head.

“Give it back!”

“Absolutely not!” Ron glared at her. She could see up his nose and quite honestly wanted to vomit.

“Roooon!” she whined, pretending to give up.

“Nooooo,” he mocked her, still holding it high in the air.

She grinned at him with her scariest smile, showing a good portion of her teeth, and wound up her fist before sucker punching him in the groin. He doubled over, gasping, the photo frame all but forgotten in his probably incredible haze of pain, and Ginny snatched it out of his hand with a hoot of laughter. Her mother had always told her not to play dirty and go for a boy's weak spot, but Ginny rather thought that her mother underestimated the callous cruelty that sometimes nested in her daughter's body. Ginny returned to her desk and stuffed the picture in her purse, donning her light jacket and her showy and entirely useless gloves which offered no warmth at all, but looked good with her outfit. When she turned around and Ron was still clutching his nether regions and groaning on the floor, she grumbled.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered, and cast a handy pain relieving spell on him. Abruptly, he was standing and shouting at her. She put a silencio on him and carried on her way out of her office, flicking off the lights and allowing Ron to trail furiously after her, mouthing obscenities and trying furiously to speak the non verbal spell which would restore his voice to him. She hoped he'd never be able to master non verbal sorcery - he was much more fun silent.

***

Draco was in an extremely boring meeting. He sat there idly, drumming his fingers on the oak table, counting down the seconds 'till the clockchimed five, when he would be released from his hellish captivity. The meeting was a mundane discussion of which branch of the company should be sold - a completely unnecessary waste of time, since this particular company was so far beyond rescuing that in Draco's opinion, the whole thing needed to be either re-worked or shut down.

The other members would reach the best conclusion and inform him later. His presence was merely decoration. Unless the conclusion they reached was so blatantly idiotic that he could not in his good conscience allow it, he usually just sat there, pretending to give a damn. This company was a gift from his late grandfather, a business venture that Draco had no interest in and never would. He quite honestly did not care. The only reason he let it continue festering and rotting from the inside out was because there were plenty of good, hardworking employee's that depended on the income, and Draco didn't want to leave them out in the cold.

When the meeting finally dwindled to an end and he was free once more (an entire five minutes ahead of schedule), he leapt to his feet and strode out of the room before anyone could ask him his thoughts, of which he had too many to list, and most of which were rude and based on his utter loathing of the other board members.

He turned the corner and saw the youngest Weasley and her oafish excuse for a brother enter the elevator. Quickly hurrying to catch them before the doors closed, he rammed his hand between the doors and waited until they reopened to admit him. Ginny was shocked to see him, and Ron looked as red and blundering as usual, though quieter than Draco would have expected. Draco appraised him with the same silence and wondered why he was there. As far as he knew, Ron didn't have a job, unless one counted flying aimlessly around a homemade pitch and waiting for the day he would be recruited by a professional Quidditch team as a job.

"Hello Ginny," he said, smiling at her as he admired the lovely figure she made in her navy blue sailor jacket and her pretty white gloves. She had done something different with her hair today, flipping it somehow. She looked delicious, and very classy.

"Hello,"--she looked at Ron warily-- "Draco, how are you?"

"Very well, yourself?" He winked at her.

“I'm wonderful, Draco,” she told him, her cinnamon eyes twinkling as she glanced at Ron and back to him. “What are you doing today? I don't often see you here.”

“Oh, I was just coming home from a business meeting. A horribly boring one, too.” He smiled, and glanced at Ron, who was looking green and making like he was mouthing words and choking at the same time. “Is he okay?” he asked, turning back to Ginny. She looked at her brother.

“He's fine. He just can't hold his - er, tongue.”

Draco raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything.

“Anyways,” Ginny said, “We're just going to a family dinner. You know, one of those noisy, messy, annoyingly filling dinners with food fights and the lot.”

“No, I wouldn't know. I've never been to one.” He smiled again, somewhat ruefully.

“What?” she asked, truly dumbfounded. Her twinkly eyes dimmed at the thought. “Oh, dear. You've quite missed out.” she told him. Draco could see her mind whirling and watched Ron turn greener and greener, mouthing frantically and reaching to grab Ginny before it was too late.

“Draco, you should come tonight. I'm sure my mother would really love to have an exra mouth to feed.”

“Oh, no, I couldn't impose. You go ahead, enjoy yourself. I'm sure the elves have prepared something for me already.”

“The elves? Don't you eat home cooked meals?”

“Who's to cook it? My mother? Narcissa Malfoy does not cook.” He grinned again.

“Oh, Draco, you must come for dinner. You need to experience one. Truly.” Draco watched her lips as she spoke, and then instantly regretted it, for they were soft and peachy and delectible on her face, small pillows of softness in a creamy complexion he just wanted to touch and run his fingers across and -

“What?” he asked, suddenly lost. Ron was shaking in the corner, with either fury or sickness Draco couldn't tell, and Ginny was looking at him soulfully with her eyes wide and her sooty, coal black eyelashes long and vibrant against her pale skin.

“So you'll come?” she smiled at him, and it was such a beautiful smile that he couldn't bear to be the cause of stopping it - he nodded, and was relieved when her smile grew even brighter, and he reached out and took her hand.

“Anything for you, my dear.” He brushed his lips against her achingly soft knuckles and was gratified to see her shiver.

When the elevator stopped, the air temperature went down several degrees, and as they stepped into the quiet Atrium, he couldn't see anyone around except the poor, overworked clerk at the security desk. The two Weasley's were making their way to the floo places, but he stopped them in the middle of the hall and whipped out his wand. He saw Ron's eyes widen as the redhead yanked his wand clumsily from his own robes as well, but Draco only smirked at him and continued with what he was doing. He conjured a boquet of daisies and a pink ribbon and tied it aorund the stems, after pulling one from the bundle and handing it to Ginny. She blushed.

“Why daisies?”

“Do you know daisies have magical properties?” Draco asked her. She shook her head. “Daisies promote friendship and joy when they are given as a gift.”

“Oh,” she said, and then she laughed. Before Draco even knew what she was doing she was hugging him, and her soft, pillowy lips were pressed firmly against his jawbone.

He would have to give out more daisies in the future.

Ron, whom he could see over Ginny's scarlet hair, was visibly looking ill now, and Draco whispered in Ginny's ear. “Are you quite sure that your brother is alright?” She turned around in his arms (he wasn't quite willing to let go yet - he discovered that the rest of her was quite soft too) and giggled.

“Ron, I'm sorry. I forgot all about you!” She pulled her wand from her purse and waved it at him. “Finite,” she said, and suddenly Ron was yelling something that sounded suspiciously like 'bucking fastard' and running full tilt towards them. Draco pushed Ginny aside and raised his fists, but Ron was much too fast, and his freckled, grubby knuckles connected with Draco's cheekbone before Draco could move.

He would need more daisies, indeed.

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