Okay, I'll admit it. I wrote this one-shot to be a bit of a tease... much like our Pansy. =D Hope you enjoy.
Intoxicating
Ron was a bit of a pushover when it came to refusing his sister Ginny.
He could never say no to the girl, and said inability was why he was accompanying her to the offices of Witch Weekly, where some stupid photography contest was going on. Apparently, Ginny was one of the 'Chosen Ones,' as Harry liked to tease her, and would be competing against a group of other, equally superficial witches for the cover of the magazine. Ron couldn't understand why it was so important. He'd have preferred a nice big meal as congratulations. He didn't need to be on the cover of a magazine, his photograph blown up for everyone to see and critique. His nose was his worst feature, in his opinion, and he wouldn't want to give the Slytherins more opportunities to make fun of him.
"You're griping now, Ronald," said Ginny, "but once we're inside, I guarantee that you'll be interested."
"I don't think so, Ginny," replied Ron, raking a hand through his fire-engine-red hair. He wanted this to be over already.
The Witch Weekly office was swarming with – what did he expect? – witches. Not pretty witches, though. Stout, old, wrinkly witches, ones with warts on their noses and ill-fitting robes, sour dispositions and faces that looked like they'd been hit with one of Hermione's boil-raising spells. That Ginny was the only remotely attractive woman in the office was terribly unsettling.
"Hello, loves," said the lady at the front desk. Her robes were particularly horrid to look at, seeing as they were both bright purple and stretched uncomfortably to accommodate her immense weight. "Are you here for the photo shoot?"
"Yes. My name is Ginny Weasley."
"Right this way," she replied, rising from her chair. They were led to a large, spacious waiting room, decorated with shades of purple. It made Ron think he was inside of a large grape. The lavender-cushioned chairs lined up against two walls were filled with a number of other girls. Thankfully, these were women who looked as if they'd fit right in on a magazine cover. Ron sank into his chair, his eyes roving around the room. Ginny smacked his arm.
"Don't do that," she scolded. "They'll think you're a creepy git."
"Sorry," he muttered.
"Miss Weasley?" called the same receptionist. She'd been chatting with one of the photographers near a stage door. "You can come in now."
"Let's go, Ronald," said Ginny, hooking her hand under his arm and tugging him up forcefully as she stood. He let her, muttering obscenities under his breath and cursing his sister for bringing him here, for the umpteenth time.
The purple receptionist opened the door for them, and soon after they were ushered in, the door closed behind them. This room was even larger than the previous, and seemed to have spared them of further violet insult, instead draped in pastels of varying colours. But Ron wasn't concerned with the colour of the room. His eyes were on the girl who was sitting in a large maroon armchair, her feather-light red dress setting off the raven black of her hair. Ginny was saying something to him, but he wasn't paying attention. He just couldn't believe that the dark-haired beauty sitting across the room was Pansy Parkinson.
He didn't know that she was capable of such sophistication and loveliness.
When that blasted door opened for the millionth time during Pansy's photo shoot, she was prepared to hex whoever came through the door. She was actually readying herself to dive for her wand, which was in her purse just outside of the camera's range. She didn't care if the photographer was still taking pictures, or that such sudden movement would cause the muddling of her makeup. It was simply infuriation that she was ruled by, at least for the moment.
And it was made even worse by the fact that Weaslette and Weaselbee came in, their red hair making the dress she wore look dull in comparison. Because as much as their red hair made them targets for abuse, she'd always admired the shade. One couldn't dye clothing that colour, nor could it be fashioned from material. It was truly unique.
"What?" she barked. Their pretty hair didn't mean they were any less irritating.
"Settle down, Parkinson," retorted Weaslette. "We were told to come in –"
"It's alright," said the photographer, "I'm just about finished here."
With a twist of the mouth, Pansy scowled at the both of them, sweeping past without stopping. "Blood traitors," she muttered, walking a little too close to Weaselbee than she would've liked.
Ron could smell her perfume when her arm brushed against his. It wasn't the vanilla he was used to on most girls, or the lavender that Hermione liked to wear. No, the scent Parkinson wore was like Parkinson herself – mysterious and intoxicating. He was taken in by it, his mind trying to work out what she was using. Damn it.
"Are you okay, Ron?" asked Ginny. She was looking at him strangely.
He shook his head. He didn't think he'd ever be okay ever again.
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