Today- today I was nervous. Nervous, as in I’m-going-to-vomit-all-over-my-lovely-new-dragonhide-Quidditch-boots (the ones that were absolutely way too expensive but entirely too fetching to not buy) nervous.
I know, I know. I’m a wretched example of witchdom. I catered directly to the perception that all women would sell their left kidneys for a killer pair of shoes, but wouldn’t you snatch up a pair of dragonhide boots with a color-coordination charm built in? That’s what I thought. We can be weak together then, you and me.
There was no good reason to be so nervous. It wasn’t my first Quidditch match, and my teammates are reasonably talented. I’m not so out of shape anymore that I was huffing and sweating buckets when the matches and training sessions ended, thank God. You can only make sick off the side of your broom so many times before your teammates begin to take the mickey about doughy, thirty-something housewives. Of course, a well-placed Stinging Hex usually remedied smart-arsed Beaters. Yes, Nigellus Mansfield, I’m talking about you, you big-mouthed lout… I’m blathering again. I do that, you know.
Draco had stayed true to his threat, and I’d finally sent him an Owl when I thought I couldn’t procrastinate any longer. I’d caved like a poorly-cooked soufflé when Mum inquired if I knew anyone with an eagle owl. That git sent his bloody bird just to scare me out of a few years of my life, I swear it. But he’d get his- I’d see to it.
So when I stowed the car in the car park and hefted my kit and broom out of the boot, I was less than surprised to spy Draco’s platinum-topped figure ensconced in the viewing box nearest the entrance to the pitch. He was perfectly placed to watch everyone come in. Sodding tactical genius. I filed his annoying planning prowess away for future reference- after all, you never want to stumble blind into a gambling situation when your opponent was used to planning fifteen moves ahead in wizard’s chess. Trust me- that lesson was learned early. Bloody Ron. I’d done more of his chores over the summer hols as a girl than I care to admit.
Well, onward, and all that nonsense. I trudged onto the pitch, making sure to wave pleasantly to Draco. Oh, all right, perhaps I only waved my middle finger at him, but it was with a perfectly pleasant smile of welcome. Honestly. The fact that his laughter mocked me as I lifted off for a few warm-up laps did nothing to help his case, or my jangling nerves. Why-oh-why had I ever blurted out that invitation to Draco Malfoy?
Sometimes, I hate myself just a little.
“You were brilliant.”
Now that is the way a witch wants to be greeted when she leaves the pitch after a victorious effort. “Really?” I puffed, with a self-satisfied fluff of my hair.
One of Draco’s annoyingly well-shaped eyebrows cocked up as he smiled charmingly. “No, Potter. It was a horrid display of flying, and I’ve seen flobberworms with better form whilst slinging a Quaffle. You should be hanging your head for the shame of it.”
I gaped at him, finally shaking off the shock enough to open my mouth and tell him what’s what. At least until he broke into the most undignified, belly-deep laugh I could have imagined coming from a Malfoy. No Malfoy should ever have a laugh like that. It was evil. It was unrestrained. It was sexy as all get out and… and I did not just say that. It’s been stricken from the record. Banished from your memory. Obliviate! Obliviate!
Ahem. Right. So he laughed at me, and it was a normal, good laugh and not at all seductive.
He finally wound down into a chuckle. “You should have seen your face. Priceless. I’m tempted to Apparate home for Mother’s Pensieve just so I can show you the look on your face.” He tapped a long, pale finger against the broom I was strangling. “Surely you know precisely how talented you are, Ginny. A few years away from the sport won’t change that.”
Oh, all right. So he was a silver-tongued git when he wanted to be, and I have to tell you- flattery will get you everywhere with an attention-starved witch in the midst of her life collapsing about her head. “Thank you,” I replied demurely, or as demurely as possible when one’s stomach chooses that precise moment to growl loudly. There was nothing for it- I laughed and clapped him heartily on the back. “C’mon, Malfoy, beer’s on me. You can buy the food, though.”
Stooping, he snatched the strap of my kit bag and shouldered it before I could and straightened, holding out his hand for my broom with a small smile that dared me to protest. Good Christ, the manners on this one. Who’d have thought he had it in him back when he was a pointy, scrawny teenage git bellowing insults at me in the corridors. I followed him as he began to stride purposefully towards my car. His muttered response, however, reassured me the old Malfoy was alive and well in that body somewhere.
“Of course, given that you’re a Weasley, that means I’ll be out a handful of Galleons. Bloody big mouths and hollow legs on the lot of you.”
“I heard that!” I called crossly after him, glad he didn’t bother to turn around. Cross or not, it was true. We Weasleys could eat. Of course, rumor was Malfoys could drink just about anyone under the table, so I couldn’t be entirely sure I was getting the cheaper end of the bargain. Bugger.
“Oh, all right. Ron might hate you. Hermione just finds you highly distasteful.” I scrunched my nose when he took a swipe at me.
“I still maintain that I was the first person to earn the enmity of the entire Golden Trio. It’s a mark of some distinction amongst former Slytherins, you know. Increases my charm and appeal with the more discerning set.”
How could I not laugh at that whopper? Alright, maybe the beer helped a little. "You’re like beets,” I exclaimed, slinging my beer glass a little too hard towards my mouth, dribbling a fair bit down the front of my game jumper. “They’re healthy, but entirely repugnant, much like your particular brand of charm when aimed at someone you dislike.”
Draco frowned, which only made me laugh harder. The man had a highly inflated sense of self. “You do know that Father let me refurbish the dungeons, don’t you? Because I’m inclined to say that mouthy ginger housewives who accidentally disappear are shown to end up in draughty Wiltshire dungeons a disproportionately high percentage of the time.” He sat back and crossed his arms, certain that I’d cave.
I grinned at him. “I’m a Weasley. We come equipped standard with the lungs of an entire section of drunken Irish Quidditch fans. Lock me in your dungeons if you like, Draco, but your neighbors will behead you for keeping such a noisy pain in the arse as a prisoner.”
“I could stuff you in the garden as a statue,” he mused. “You’d look lovely in bronze.”
I would, wouldn’t I? “Only if you let me dress up as a Greek goddess. I always did love Greek mythology. I’d make a smashing Aphrodite.” A flick of the hair, a quirk of the eyebrow- I drummed up that old confidence I’d had when I was younger.
“Fantasizing again? More like Medusa, with that wind-snarled tangle you’re sporting,” Draco drawled back. “Don’t glower, Potter, you’re on a date. People will begin to think I’m a lousy conversationalist.”
I nearly crossed my eyes, I scowled so hard at him. “You are a lousy conversationalist, Malfoy. And stop baiting me- I’m much prettier than that Gorgon.” Clenching my hands, I added in what I thought was a very menacing growl, “And this is not a date.”
“Oh, all right, it’s a practice date, to help you get back in the swing of things,” he offered with an annoyingly cheerful smirk.
Yes, Draco Malfoy has a cheerful smirk. I’m afraid I’m beginning to understand him well enough to differentiate between his various smirks. It’s a sad, sad day. I’m sure Ron is standing at his desk at this very moment, frowning and feeling mighty brassed off and not knowing why. I know, of course, that it’s familial karmic debt biting him on the arse. Poor Ron. ““It’s not a date,” I insisted, as if simply repeating myself would make him roll over and wave the proverbial white flag.
“Our not-date, then,” he ceded. With a frown and a quick look around, he informed me in a lofty voice, “I’ll not have my reputation sullied by being seen with an unhappy woman. Smile. Fluff your hair. Wiggle your arse about in those delightful breeches you’re sporting.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That may distract the men enough so they don’t notice your sour face. Now the women…”
I desperately wanted to pick him up, march back to my broom, and fly high enough so that I could drop him with complete certainty of his very painful death. Alas, he had me by a few stone. I’d need a good levitation charm to get the job done. My fingers itched to draw my wand; instead, I drew in a deep, calming breath. “Draco, you told me your son pushed you into joining the gardening club because he was convinced you sat at home all day drowning yourself in vats of liquor. If we’re going by your previous admission, you haven’t any reputation at all for me to tarnish. Neither of us has dated in about two decades.” There, that was eminently reasonable of me. Logical, even. And I said it all without trying to assault his person. Yay, me.
He gave me a dark look that I’m sure was supposed to terrify me into silence. Too bad for him I’d grown up in a house full of six brothers, all of whom had had no problem venting their bad moods on me. I think I may have giggled at him, but only a little. What? His attempt to scowl me down was funny.
“Then I won’t be able to build a respectable reputation as an accomplished, charming womanizer if you sit there moping.” Tapping his long, pale fingers on the edge of the table, he glanced around. I was a little surprised he wasn’t griping about being forced to eat in a greasy little pub, but then again, he might have been too focused on rowing with me to bitch about the lack of ambiance. “Fine,” Draco said, blowing a stray lock of blond hair out of his eyes. “It’s a not-date, a not-date between two consenting, poorly prepared adults who have ridiculously low levels of current dating experience.”
I smiled brilliantly at him. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? This is just a nice, friendly lunch between two friends.” I’m fairly certain the muscle twitching under his right eye signified that he was annoyed with me. Oh well- there’s no rule saying he got to do all the baiting on this not-date.
He sliced into his fish like it had mortally offended his mother’s sensibilities. “I’m not feeling particularly friendly at the moment.”
Reaching across the table, I patted his hand cheerfully. “Belt up, Malfoy, enjoy the food. Here, you can even try some of my chips, if you’d like. They’re sinful.” I waved at my plate magnanimously. Thank God that was all settled. Now I could eat without feeling like I was cheating on Harry, a strange thought given the fact that I could shag my entire Quidditch team and not be cheating on anyone at all. Still, I guess it’s hard to readjust your moral compass. Maybe I would have to find someone to go out on a real date with, just to work through the feelings. It was a slightly terrifying prospect.
Draco chewed slowly and washed it down with a good portion of the pint I’d ordered him. “The fish is passable,” he allowed.
Something he’d said nagged at me. “No one would believe you were trying to get into Mrs. Harry Potter’s knickers anyway,” I huffed, knocking back my own beer. God, Quidditch made you thirsty. “If they did, they’d think you were suicidal, not a womanizer.” His face was priceless; I mean it. If I’d had my camera, I’d have preserved the moment for posterity. “Don’t pout, Draco. It makes you look like you’re seven.”
His scowl only lasted as long as it took the waitress to hip-swing her way over to our table and deposit another full glass of beer in front of him with a wink. Apparently he was as emotionally shallow as a coffee saucer, since the scowl melted away like it had never been there. Oh, to be a man. “So why’s it suicidal again?” he asked, eyes still following the woman’s hips as she sauntered off, the cow.
“Harry and I were each other’s firsts. We learned everything together.” Alright, that might have been a little blunt, but it was certainly more subtle than the oopsie! moment of knocking the table hard enough to dump the beer in his lap that I considered. Sometimes, I really commend myself on my self restraint.
One long blink, and suddenly a pair of startled grey eyes were clearly fixed on me again. “Well now, there’s your problem. That was my father’s best piece of advice- never marry the first piece of ars-” He cleared his throat. “-never marry your first sex. You’re too infatuated for it to work out, and besides- the sex is subpar, at best.”
“Grea-at,” I drawled. “There’s a visual I’ll never be able to scrub from my brain. Lucius Malfoy, sexpert.” The shudder that ripped through me was not faked, I can tell you that.
Draco grinned wickedly over his glass. “I’m sure you think my father spends his days reading the Marquis de Sade in the original French whilst torturing small, cuddly animals, but he’s quite a handy wizard to have about. Loads of life experience, and all that.”
“I don’t think your father is a guy I’ll ever take advice from, Malfoy. Besides, his advice can’t be that great. After all, you’re divorced, too.”
That stopped him cold for a moment. “Bloody hell,” he exclaimed. “You’re right! My faith in the man is crushed. Decimated, I tell you.”
Dropping my napkin on the table, I leaned back, stretching my legs out and accidentally bumping his beneath the table. “So when you aren’t attending gardening meetings or extending the record for most consecutive days as a sarcastic git, what do you do all day?”
Snaking one hand down, he casually rearranged my legs so that I could stretch them out undisturbed. “I watch the stock markets and read the financials. I practice my French and Mermish. I harass the help by following behind them and tracking mud across the floors.”
I snorted. “You sleep.”
“That, too. I also sneak the occasional nip off a bottle of Firewhisky and peruse my collection of high-end pornography.”
Apparently my taste in friends needed a bit of refining. “Your mother must be so proud.”
He leaned forward, all conspiratorial smirk and heavy-lidded eyes. “I’m handsome, intelligent, I haven’t degenerately gambled away the family fortune and am not currently scheduled for a Kiss from a Dementor. Some days, my mother can’t contain her giddiness.”
“What does she do with all this joy?” I asked wryly.
He leaned in closer, his voice a raspy whisper that fanned warm breath over my cheek. “Occasionally, she hugs me. I’ve received the odd kiss to the forehead, as well.”
Yeah- I didn’t shiver at all then. And I didn’t feel a curl of heat in my belly, either. And I certainly wasn’t struck by lightning for being a liar. No, all I did was swipe a finger down his long, straight nose. “Oh, Malfoy, with all that pomposity and sarcasm, I haven’t the faintest idea how you’re not related to the Weasleys. You sound like a hybrid of Charlie and Percy, with just a dash of Ron.”
“Take that back!” he demanded, aghast. “Blimey, Ginny, that’s the cruelest thing you’ve ever done to me, and that includes those nasty bogey things you set on me in my fifth year.”
I laughed, hard. Oh, the good old days. “The Bat Bogey Hex,” I said fondly. “One of my best spell creations ever. I registered and copyrighted it with the Ministry, you know. It’s officially known as Weasley’s Bat Bogey Hex.”
He tipped an imaginary hat to me. “We are related, on both sides, actually. All the purebloods are, you know. Mum’s a Black, as I’m sure you’re aware. Your mother’s family, the Prewetts, are second cousins, and the Weasleys and Malfoys are third cousins, two or three times removed.”
I waved to the waitress for the bill- I had to get home and shower before anymore sweat dried to an itchy patch on my back. “Got a tapestry with all that somewhere, have you?”
“Oh yes,” he replied with a roguish grin. “A great, big one. Thick, too.”
I laughed and smacked his arm. This was easily the most fun I’d had in ages. “Always comes back to size with wizards, doesn’t it?”
He snorted inelegantly, something I quickly committed to memory to torture him with at a later date. After all, it’s not every day a Malfoy acts like a common Weasley.
“Please. Only witches that have been forced to make due without mock the size factor. Just wait a few months until the brain-crippling thought of sex with your likely undersized, soon to be ex-husband –whose virility I would mock mercilessly if you didn’t have three children, mind you- doesn’t make your libido want to jump from the nearest bell tower. Pretty soon you’ll be another nymphomaniac housewife looking to tup the first halfway decent bloke with a noticeable bulge in his trousers. Mark my words.”
Sounded great. I grinned. “Can’t wait.”
He rubbed a hand over his belly and laughed, reaching out for the bill before I could even raise my hand. Quick as a snake, this one. I guess I’d forgotten about those Seeker reflexes.
“Oh, Potter, you have no idea. Being a divorcé, or in your case, a divorcée, is loads more fun than being a miserable married person. Just you wait. I’ll even take you out and get you blitzed the day the divorce papers are official.” He handed over a wad of money with the casual disregard of the absurdly rich, muttering for the waitress to keep the change. “If you’re good, we might even pop over to the naughty district off Diagon Alley and start your very own porn collection.”
“Oh, gee, Malfoy, I can’t wait.” I very purposefully looked away from the waitress, who was still standing there with a twenty quid tip on a forty quid bill and a look of unabashed interest in her very pretty blue eyes. Rich, handsome, and prone to frank discussion of sex. Honestly, if I were her, I’d probably have thrown myself at him by that point, the smug bastard.
To Be Continued.
Mourning Broken Angel is the author of 14 other stories.
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