Draco Malfoy loved to gossip. Some would argue that it wasn't a particularly masculine trait, but then he didn't much care for those people; he was a Malfoy and was beyond the petty judgements of the common folk. Unfortunately, said common folk didn't always understand that, though he loved to discover all of their juicy secrets—if only to use the information for such pleasant pastimes as blackmailing and the delightful art of humiliation—he did not enjoy it when he became the subject of such gossip.
So it was that when Draco discovered there were rumours going around that he had been snogging the Weasley girl behind the Quidditch changing rooms, he was not at all impressed. For one thing, it wasn't true. For another, he was highly offended that people would even think that he would want to put his mouth near that freckled thing.
Well, being a proactive boy, Draco wasted no time in hunting down the youngest Weasley to find out how the rumour had started. It was by chance that he found her in the Quidditch pitch, just coming out from the broom shed. Naturally, he didn't pause for a moment to admire the way her rather tight tracksuit pants and T-shirt hugged her feminine curves, because that would suggest he actually found the Weasley girl attractive, and that was plain silly.
"What do you want, Malfoy?"
Draco blinked and shifted his gaze from her chest to her face. She stared back at him with one eyebrow raised, as if she knew damn well where he had been looking. In response, Draco straightened his back and plastered his favourite 'You Are Beneath Me, Plebeian' expression on his face. Because he hadn't been ogling, damn it; he'd just noticed the soup stain on her T-shirt and spent those few seconds silently mocking her for not being able to afford a new one. Not ogling!
"Have you heard the rumours?" he demanded, folding his arms across his chest.
"I hear a lot of rumours, Malfoy," she said bluntly. "You're going to have to be a bit more specific than that."
"Fine. I want to know why it is that everyone seems to think you and I were kissing behind the changing rooms on Friday."
"Oh, that." She shrugged. "I don't know. I can't say I really care either."
He eyed her suspiciously. "How can you not care? I realise having the school think you've been kissing me is an upgrade from the usual idiots you are paired with, but—"
"I don't care because it's not true," Weasley interrupted, "and anyone with a brain would recognise that." She laughed—loudly and rather mockingly. "Merlin, why would I ever want to kiss you?"
Draco stared at her slack-jawed for a moment. Then he realised what he was doing and promptly closed his mouth, as such an undignified expression was not befitting a Malfoy.
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't want to kiss you either," he snapped.
And then inwardly cursed. What kind of retort was that? He was as bad as her brother floundering after the Quaffle. It was just embarrassing.
Weasley seemed to agree, as her mouth twitched into a smile that seemed to figuratively pat him on the shoulder and say, "there, there; maybe next time." Draco knew that he had to redeem himself, and he opened his mouth to make another—and much more cutting retort—when she got there before him.
"So, are we done?" she asked in a voice edged with impatience. "As much as I am enjoying this conversation, I do actually have places to be."
A frown creased Draco's brow. "You've got quite a mouth on you, don't you?"
"I'm sorry, were you expecting me to be just another pretty face?"
"Don't flatter yourself, Weasley. Only a generous person would call you pretty—and he'd probably have to be blind as well."
Her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Right. That must be why you can't stop looking at me."
"I—you—" He shut his mouth before he could blunder into making another idiotic statement; then he re-plastered his 'You Are Beneath Me, Plebeian' expression on his face. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Weasley tugged her hair out from its topknot and he watched as the curls slipped free like waves of fire, framing her features in a riot of red. It was a moment before he realised he was staring again—and that she had noticed.
"You were saying," she taunted, looking far too smug.
Draco made a scornful noise in the back of his throat. "Please, Weasley. With hair as bright as yours, it's a bit hard not to stare. You're like a human stop sign."
"Whatever you say, Malfoy," she said with a careless wave of her hand. "I just wonder if you have considered whether it was you who caused that rumour to start."
He frowned as he watched her walk away. "What's the supposed to mean?" he called to her retreating back.
Weasley paused and turned back to face him. "You're a smart boy. I'm sure you will figure it out."
Draco muttered a few unflattering things about the redhead under his breath and then froze. Wait a minute. Was that uppity little bint actually suggesting that he liked her, and that it was his staring—er, observing of her poor-stamped attire and ugly red hair—that had made people think he'd been snogging her behind the changing rooms?
He laughed softly to himself. "As if."
Because it naturally meant nothing that he had been noticing her more of late. Just like it meant nothing that he had then been unable to get the redhead out of his head for the rest of the day. He was a Malfoy and had better taste than to start liking a girl who wore soup-stained T-shirts and had the effrontery to talk back to him as if she were his equal. It was just ridiculous, and he was never, ever going to make that rumour real.
Now if only he could stop thinking about her lips …
So it was that when Draco discovered there were rumours going around that he had been snogging the Weasley girl behind the Quidditch changing rooms, he was not at all impressed. For one thing, it wasn't true. For another, he was highly offended that people would even think that he would want to put his mouth near that freckled thing.
Well, being a proactive boy, Draco wasted no time in hunting down the youngest Weasley to find out how the rumour had started. It was by chance that he found her in the Quidditch pitch, just coming out from the broom shed. Naturally, he didn't pause for a moment to admire the way her rather tight tracksuit pants and T-shirt hugged her feminine curves, because that would suggest he actually found the Weasley girl attractive, and that was plain silly.
"What do you want, Malfoy?"
Draco blinked and shifted his gaze from her chest to her face. She stared back at him with one eyebrow raised, as if she knew damn well where he had been looking. In response, Draco straightened his back and plastered his favourite 'You Are Beneath Me, Plebeian' expression on his face. Because he hadn't been ogling, damn it; he'd just noticed the soup stain on her T-shirt and spent those few seconds silently mocking her for not being able to afford a new one. Not ogling!
"Have you heard the rumours?" he demanded, folding his arms across his chest.
"I hear a lot of rumours, Malfoy," she said bluntly. "You're going to have to be a bit more specific than that."
"Fine. I want to know why it is that everyone seems to think you and I were kissing behind the changing rooms on Friday."
"Oh, that." She shrugged. "I don't know. I can't say I really care either."
He eyed her suspiciously. "How can you not care? I realise having the school think you've been kissing me is an upgrade from the usual idiots you are paired with, but—"
"I don't care because it's not true," Weasley interrupted, "and anyone with a brain would recognise that." She laughed—loudly and rather mockingly. "Merlin, why would I ever want to kiss you?"
Draco stared at her slack-jawed for a moment. Then he realised what he was doing and promptly closed his mouth, as such an undignified expression was not befitting a Malfoy.
"Yeah, well, I wouldn't want to kiss you either," he snapped.
And then inwardly cursed. What kind of retort was that? He was as bad as her brother floundering after the Quaffle. It was just embarrassing.
Weasley seemed to agree, as her mouth twitched into a smile that seemed to figuratively pat him on the shoulder and say, "there, there; maybe next time." Draco knew that he had to redeem himself, and he opened his mouth to make another—and much more cutting retort—when she got there before him.
"So, are we done?" she asked in a voice edged with impatience. "As much as I am enjoying this conversation, I do actually have places to be."
A frown creased Draco's brow. "You've got quite a mouth on you, don't you?"
"I'm sorry, were you expecting me to be just another pretty face?"
"Don't flatter yourself, Weasley. Only a generous person would call you pretty—and he'd probably have to be blind as well."
Her eyes gleamed with amusement. "Right. That must be why you can't stop looking at me."
"I—you—" He shut his mouth before he could blunder into making another idiotic statement; then he re-plastered his 'You Are Beneath Me, Plebeian' expression on his face. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Weasley tugged her hair out from its topknot and he watched as the curls slipped free like waves of fire, framing her features in a riot of red. It was a moment before he realised he was staring again—and that she had noticed.
"You were saying," she taunted, looking far too smug.
Draco made a scornful noise in the back of his throat. "Please, Weasley. With hair as bright as yours, it's a bit hard not to stare. You're like a human stop sign."
"Whatever you say, Malfoy," she said with a careless wave of her hand. "I just wonder if you have considered whether it was you who caused that rumour to start."
He frowned as he watched her walk away. "What's the supposed to mean?" he called to her retreating back.
Weasley paused and turned back to face him. "You're a smart boy. I'm sure you will figure it out."
Draco muttered a few unflattering things about the redhead under his breath and then froze. Wait a minute. Was that uppity little bint actually suggesting that he liked her, and that it was his staring—er, observing of her poor-stamped attire and ugly red hair—that had made people think he'd been snogging her behind the changing rooms?
He laughed softly to himself. "As if."
Because it naturally meant nothing that he had been noticing her more of late. Just like it meant nothing that he had then been unable to get the redhead out of his head for the rest of the day. He was a Malfoy and had better taste than to start liking a girl who wore soup-stained T-shirts and had the effrontery to talk back to him as if she were his equal. It was just ridiculous, and he was never, ever going to make that rumour real.
Now if only he could stop thinking about her lips …
The End.
Boogum is the author of 21 other stories.
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