Bake cookies.
“Wait – no, please don’t – oh, bloody hell.”
A stream of fervent curse words spilled out of the kitchen door amid the raucous cacophony of clanging pots and shattering glassware, rousing Draco from his sleepy stupor. Shaking his head, he turned his eyes towards the direction of the kitchen, where Ginny was grumpily repairing broken dishes and levitating pots back to their place on the high shelf. She was muttering darkly to herself – Draco could just make out a couple well-placed swears slid in between the spoken incantations.
“You alright, Gin?” he called feebly. His throat was still raw from a coughing fit the previous night, and he still hadn’t quite regained his voice.
Ginny slid the last plate back onto the shelf and walked out of the kitchen, into the living room where her patient was currently resting on the futon of his house in London. She suppressed a smile at the picture of Draco Malfoy buried underneath a massive pile of blankets and pillows. The shape was vaguely similar to that of a very fat snowman, and she couldn’t even see his whole face at the other end of the couch – just the tip of a very stuffed up, slightly red nose. His stockinged feet peeked out comically from underneath the blankets, one big toe wriggling faintly in the air.
“I’m fine,” she answered, wiping her hands on a towel. “The soup’s simmering away – it’ll be done in a couple minutes – I just had some, er, issues whily cleaning up.”
“I heard,” Draco said stuffily, any further remarks cut off abruptly by a procession of sneezes. “Thanks,” he said as Ginny walked over and handed him the dwindling box of tissues.
Ginny reached over and pressed a cool hand against his flushed cheek. She shook her head. “I think you’re still feverish,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him. “It’s ridiculous, how wizards know a spell to turn a rat into a purple, spinning teacup, yet we still don’t have a cure for the common cold.”
Draco sneezed. “It’s fine. Stop worrying, Weasley,” he said, blowing his nose quite loudly. “You're acting like your mother. And you know that you don't really have to do this."
Ginny stood back up and headed back into the kitchen, throwing a glare over her shoulder at the sniffling boy sprawled across the green futon. “Yes, I do, Draco,” she responded testily. “You’re sick, you’re in no condition to do anything other than lay there and be sick, and I want to do this.” She scowled as she ladled a healthy amount of steaming broth into a brightly-colored orange bowl. “Now shut up and eat your soup.”
Draco began to retort, but was interrupted again by a massive sneeze and a couple pints of snot shooting out of his nose. Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Well, that was lovely,” she said lightly, handing him the bowl of soup and a spoon. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Draco glowered at her, refusing to take the offered bowl of broth. “Weasley, I’m serious, I don’t need you to –”
“Oh, bollocks, Draco Malfoy,” Ginny cut him off. “You were so sick you were walking into the walls when I stopped by earlier. You have no one else to take care of you. And you need to be taken care of,” she added on, seeing Draco open his mouth in protest. “So swallow your stupid, worthless pride for about two minutes and eat the bloody soup!”
Draco floundered speechlessly for a couple seconds, torn between arguing with Ginny – a Malfoy’s pride is never worthless – and accepting the bowl of broth that was emanating such tantalizing aromas into the air. Ginny, standing over him with the offered bowl in hand, clucked at him affectionately, encouraging him to eat up, though the matronly picture was ruined by the additional “Stop acting like an idiot, you gigantic prat.” He considered refusing, just to see how angry he could make her, but then decided not to push his luck. He held out his hand out for the bowl, ignoring her smug smile, and grudgingly began to spoon the soup into his mouth.
It was quiet as Draco ate, the only sound in the room being the smooth fluttering of pages as Ginny flipped idly through a magazine. Outside, the sound of shouts and laughter drifted through the open window as the trick-or-treaters frequented from house to house, begging for candy and chattering with their friends. The unusually warm autumn night air wafted into the room. A mahogany clock ticked softy in the background.
Draco finished his soup with a loud, satisfied slurp and slumped back against the pillows. “Weasley, you suck,” he drawled. Ginny narrowed her eyes at him, but Draco shook his head vehemently. “No, I will not be grateful; you are holding me against my will.”
“For your own good,” Ginny replied haughtily. Draco snorted, but said nothing in response.
There came a knock on the front door and a chorus of “Trick-or-Treat!”s from the other side. Draco rolled his eyes. He never did understand the novelty of this autumn holiday that involved dressing up like idiots and giving out candy to annoyingly small children. Who, in their right mind, would give away candy? For free? Weasley, of course, loved it, which only went to prove that her sanity was questionable all along.
“I’ll get that!” Ginny yelped cheerfully, grabbing the near-empty bowl of sweets and yanking open the door. She grinned wildly at the assembled masses of ghosts and princesses, distributing the rest of the brightly-wrapped chocolates into their outstretched hands.
“Thanks, lady!” called some of the older ones, waving to her before they scurried away towards the next house. She waved back, squinting her eyes as she tried to make out their costumes. There was the usual attire of Quidditch players and banshees and there was one that was… no. She peered at one of the darker-haired children who had drawn a lightning bolt on his forehead with some black ink. Oh, well that was just bloody fantastic – now he was a Halloween costume too.
Her insides twisted around, just a little.
“Thank you,” came a shy little voice, startling Ginny from her thoughts. She smiled down at the forlorn little girl remaining on the doorstep, wearing a medieval knight’s costume. Her tin helmet was too large and it had slid forward until all Ginny could see of the girl’s face was her button nose, which was dusted over in freckles.
“Oh, no problem, honey,” replied Ginny, giving her a pat on the head. “And who are you supposed to be?”
“Sir Luckless,” she answered, voice barely above a whisper.
Ginny smiled, trying not to laugh. “But isn’t Sir Luckless supposed to be a boy?” she asked kindly.
“Oh, no,” said the little girl, her too-large helmet flopping about comically as she shook her head. “My mum told me that Sir Luckless re-reper – um, stands for all the ordinary people who have a dream and want it to come true.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed. “Ordinary people?”
The little girl nodded, her helmet clanking as it was tossed about. “Yep. Like the people who aren’t the prettiest or the smartest or the strongest or anything like that. My mum said that even ordinary people have extra-ordinary dreams and that if we never give up, like Sir Luckless, then one day those dreams will come true.”
Unbidden, Ginny’s mind flashed back to when she was twelve, sitting in class as Binns droned on about the eleventy-fifth Goblin war and doodling “Mrs. Ginny Potter” along the margins of her notes. For so much of her life, her one extra-ordinary dream was just to be with Harry. She never gave up on it and yet – well, that was how that fairy tale ended. Now all of her dreams were as ordinary as Ginny Weasley herself.
The little girl was still standing on the doorstep, her grey eyes wide as she regarded Ginny’s pained expression. Ginny squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, shutting the memories away again, and when she opened them again she managed a small smile at the wise knight standing before her.
“So you wanted to be Sir Luckless for Halloween, because he’s so brave and because he never gives up?”
The girl nodded.
“Well then, my good sir, I bid thee farewell. And a very Happy Halloween, Sir Luckless to you.” Ginny held out her hand.
The little girl’s expression was solemn as they two of them shook hands. Then she threw back one last dimpled smile at Ginny and sprinted down the front steps, towards her mother who was waiting for her by the sidewalk.
“Mum!” Ginny heard the girl shout excitedly as she turned away from the door. “That was Ginny Weasley from the Harpies!”
Ginny grinned and shook her head, looking down at the empty bowl as she closed the door. “Well, it looks like they cleaned us out,” she commented to Draco, placing the bowl back onto the kitchen counter.
“Little greedy brats,” he grumbled, practically inhaling his second helping of soup. “Don’t give out anything else.” He sneezed again.
“Draco!” Ginny admonished, “It’s Halloween! It’s impossible not hand out treats on Halloween, even for a miserable old miser like you.” She strode into the kitchen and yanked open the pantry door, eyes sweeping across the overflowing shelves, looking for sweets. “How in the world can you be so filthy rich and not have any more candy?”
“Ate it all.”
Ginny rolled her eyes. Of course – Malfoy was such an arsehole sometimes. An arsehole with a sweet tooth. Sighing, she lifted the flour and sugar off of the shelf, stretching on her tippy-toes to grab a carton of chocolate chips.
“Fine,” she snapped, reaching for the eggs, “I’ll make cookies.”
“Wait – no, please don’t – oh, bloody hell.”
A stream of fervent curse words spilled out of the kitchen door amid the raucous cacophony of clanging pots and shattering glassware, rousing Draco from his sleepy stupor. Shaking his head, he turned his eyes towards the direction of the kitchen, where Ginny was grumpily repairing broken dishes and levitating pots back to their place on the high shelf. She was muttering darkly to herself – Draco could just make out a couple well-placed swears slid in between the spoken incantations.
“You alright, Gin?” he called feebly. His throat was still raw from a coughing fit the previous night, and he still hadn’t quite regained his voice.
Ginny slid the last plate back onto the shelf and walked out of the kitchen, into the living room where her patient was currently resting on the futon of his house in London. She suppressed a smile at the picture of Draco Malfoy buried underneath a massive pile of blankets and pillows. The shape was vaguely similar to that of a very fat snowman, and she couldn’t even see his whole face at the other end of the couch – just the tip of a very stuffed up, slightly red nose. His stockinged feet peeked out comically from underneath the blankets, one big toe wriggling faintly in the air.
“I’m fine,” she answered, wiping her hands on a towel. “The soup’s simmering away – it’ll be done in a couple minutes – I just had some, er, issues whily cleaning up.”
“I heard,” Draco said stuffily, any further remarks cut off abruptly by a procession of sneezes. “Thanks,” he said as Ginny walked over and handed him the dwindling box of tissues.
Ginny reached over and pressed a cool hand against his flushed cheek. She shook her head. “I think you’re still feverish,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him. “It’s ridiculous, how wizards know a spell to turn a rat into a purple, spinning teacup, yet we still don’t have a cure for the common cold.”
Draco sneezed. “It’s fine. Stop worrying, Weasley,” he said, blowing his nose quite loudly. “You're acting like your mother. And you know that you don't really have to do this."
Ginny stood back up and headed back into the kitchen, throwing a glare over her shoulder at the sniffling boy sprawled across the green futon. “Yes, I do, Draco,” she responded testily. “You’re sick, you’re in no condition to do anything other than lay there and be sick, and I want to do this.” She scowled as she ladled a healthy amount of steaming broth into a brightly-colored orange bowl. “Now shut up and eat your soup.”
Draco began to retort, but was interrupted again by a massive sneeze and a couple pints of snot shooting out of his nose. Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Well, that was lovely,” she said lightly, handing him the bowl of soup and a spoon. “Careful, it’s hot.”
Draco glowered at her, refusing to take the offered bowl of broth. “Weasley, I’m serious, I don’t need you to –”
“Oh, bollocks, Draco Malfoy,” Ginny cut him off. “You were so sick you were walking into the walls when I stopped by earlier. You have no one else to take care of you. And you need to be taken care of,” she added on, seeing Draco open his mouth in protest. “So swallow your stupid, worthless pride for about two minutes and eat the bloody soup!”
Draco floundered speechlessly for a couple seconds, torn between arguing with Ginny – a Malfoy’s pride is never worthless – and accepting the bowl of broth that was emanating such tantalizing aromas into the air. Ginny, standing over him with the offered bowl in hand, clucked at him affectionately, encouraging him to eat up, though the matronly picture was ruined by the additional “Stop acting like an idiot, you gigantic prat.” He considered refusing, just to see how angry he could make her, but then decided not to push his luck. He held out his hand out for the bowl, ignoring her smug smile, and grudgingly began to spoon the soup into his mouth.
It was quiet as Draco ate, the only sound in the room being the smooth fluttering of pages as Ginny flipped idly through a magazine. Outside, the sound of shouts and laughter drifted through the open window as the trick-or-treaters frequented from house to house, begging for candy and chattering with their friends. The unusually warm autumn night air wafted into the room. A mahogany clock ticked softy in the background.
Draco finished his soup with a loud, satisfied slurp and slumped back against the pillows. “Weasley, you suck,” he drawled. Ginny narrowed her eyes at him, but Draco shook his head vehemently. “No, I will not be grateful; you are holding me against my will.”
“For your own good,” Ginny replied haughtily. Draco snorted, but said nothing in response.
There came a knock on the front door and a chorus of “Trick-or-Treat!”s from the other side. Draco rolled his eyes. He never did understand the novelty of this autumn holiday that involved dressing up like idiots and giving out candy to annoyingly small children. Who, in their right mind, would give away candy? For free? Weasley, of course, loved it, which only went to prove that her sanity was questionable all along.
“I’ll get that!” Ginny yelped cheerfully, grabbing the near-empty bowl of sweets and yanking open the door. She grinned wildly at the assembled masses of ghosts and princesses, distributing the rest of the brightly-wrapped chocolates into their outstretched hands.
“Thanks, lady!” called some of the older ones, waving to her before they scurried away towards the next house. She waved back, squinting her eyes as she tried to make out their costumes. There was the usual attire of Quidditch players and banshees and there was one that was… no. She peered at one of the darker-haired children who had drawn a lightning bolt on his forehead with some black ink. Oh, well that was just bloody fantastic – now he was a Halloween costume too.
Her insides twisted around, just a little.
“Thank you,” came a shy little voice, startling Ginny from her thoughts. She smiled down at the forlorn little girl remaining on the doorstep, wearing a medieval knight’s costume. Her tin helmet was too large and it had slid forward until all Ginny could see of the girl’s face was her button nose, which was dusted over in freckles.
“Oh, no problem, honey,” replied Ginny, giving her a pat on the head. “And who are you supposed to be?”
“Sir Luckless,” she answered, voice barely above a whisper.
Ginny smiled, trying not to laugh. “But isn’t Sir Luckless supposed to be a boy?” she asked kindly.
“Oh, no,” said the little girl, her too-large helmet flopping about comically as she shook her head. “My mum told me that Sir Luckless re-reper – um, stands for all the ordinary people who have a dream and want it to come true.”
Ginny’s brow furrowed. “Ordinary people?”
The little girl nodded, her helmet clanking as it was tossed about. “Yep. Like the people who aren’t the prettiest or the smartest or the strongest or anything like that. My mum said that even ordinary people have extra-ordinary dreams and that if we never give up, like Sir Luckless, then one day those dreams will come true.”
Unbidden, Ginny’s mind flashed back to when she was twelve, sitting in class as Binns droned on about the eleventy-fifth Goblin war and doodling “Mrs. Ginny Potter” along the margins of her notes. For so much of her life, her one extra-ordinary dream was just to be with Harry. She never gave up on it and yet – well, that was how that fairy tale ended. Now all of her dreams were as ordinary as Ginny Weasley herself.
The little girl was still standing on the doorstep, her grey eyes wide as she regarded Ginny’s pained expression. Ginny squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, shutting the memories away again, and when she opened them again she managed a small smile at the wise knight standing before her.
“So you wanted to be Sir Luckless for Halloween, because he’s so brave and because he never gives up?”
The girl nodded.
“Well then, my good sir, I bid thee farewell. And a very Happy Halloween, Sir Luckless to you.” Ginny held out her hand.
The little girl’s expression was solemn as they two of them shook hands. Then she threw back one last dimpled smile at Ginny and sprinted down the front steps, towards her mother who was waiting for her by the sidewalk.
“Mum!” Ginny heard the girl shout excitedly as she turned away from the door. “That was Ginny Weasley from the Harpies!”
Ginny grinned and shook her head, looking down at the empty bowl as she closed the door. “Well, it looks like they cleaned us out,” she commented to Draco, placing the bowl back onto the kitchen counter.
“Little greedy brats,” he grumbled, practically inhaling his second helping of soup. “Don’t give out anything else.” He sneezed again.
“Draco!” Ginny admonished, “It’s Halloween! It’s impossible not hand out treats on Halloween, even for a miserable old miser like you.” She strode into the kitchen and yanked open the pantry door, eyes sweeping across the overflowing shelves, looking for sweets. “How in the world can you be so filthy rich and not have any more candy?”
“Ate it all.”
Ginny rolled her eyes. Of course – Malfoy was such an arsehole sometimes. An arsehole with a sweet tooth. Sighing, she lifted the flour and sugar off of the shelf, stretching on her tippy-toes to grab a carton of chocolate chips.
“Fine,” she snapped, reaching for the eggs, “I’ll make cookies.”
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