Invalid Intentions
Ginny Weasley was trying to Floo.
It wasn't unusual for a sixteen-year-old girl to be growing up. Not at all. It wasn't unusual if she got a bit too attached to her gorgeous boyfriend, Dean Thomas. It wasn't unusual that she ached for him physically and emotionally during the summer.
It was unusual, however, that she wanted to wait until three in the morning, go inside her fireplace, and use some dust to get to his house.
Ginny Weasley was a very, very, desperate girl at the moment. Stricken by her loneliness at the Burrow, without even Hermione's usual visiting (her family and her had taken a trip) to console her, she wanted someone to talk to, someone to be with, just for one small little night.
After all, there were was one and a half months left in the summer, and she needn't find out how to have fun with her brother, Ron. The idea seemed very unappealing. So one night or early morning as you would call it, Ginny packed half of her clothes, makeup, necessities, blankets and pillows into one small duffel bag, and managed to heave it across her shoulder as she tiptoed down the stairs, grumbling a bit as her steps made creaks. Luckily, nobody seemed to notice as she tucked the bag under her arm and picked up the pot of floo powder, and wavered it into her palm as she stepped into the fire. Unable to restrain her coughs, she choked for a bit as the flames licked at her sides. She felt dizzy, heated, and strangely exhilarated. Nervousness began to pour into her as she held the floo powder above her head, and tripped over a bit, one of her shoes flying out into the living room.
Scowling herself, she set the floo power above her head and sprayed it, coughing, "Thomas -cough- Resi-cough-dence!"
The fire began to twist around her as her body shook in relief. She tucked her elbows in, allowing the heated pillars to surround her. Swirls of black and white turned around her, and she felt her bare foot shaking in fright of the flames, and her occupied foot in a shoe trying to comfort it. It was at last that she toppled over, her clothes in black soot, ashen, still coughing, that she fell into the floor from a fireplace.
She looked up, expecting to see a living room, maybe Dean's mother, or perhaps Dean himself.
What she had not expected to see was Draco Malfoy,(looking exceedingly handsome as he always did; wearing a black bathrobe, and looking as if he had just taken a shower, his silver-blonde locks wet and deranged over his forehead) who was sitting in an armchair, his eyes peering over the words of a book. Her coughing urged him to confusedly look over to his right, and the book immediately dropped out of his hands. It rolled off in the carpet. He stood up, gaping at her in silence, glancing at the ashes, then at her noticeable flaming hair before his eyes widened in realization of her true identity. Then, he cleared his throat, still gazing at her intently with a frown and furrowed eyebrows.
"God damnit Weasley, what the hell are you doing here at this time, and where the hell is your other shoe?"
***
It's ten minutes until midnight and I am crazy. Enough of an excuse for writing this fic.