Messy: Chapter One
by Ziegod Lizski
There were three things Ginny Weasley could not believe. The first: that she was actually 20 years old. The second: that she had lost her virginity to Draco Malfoy. The third: that she had managed to go two whole months without doing laundry.
Ginny, hair disheveled, inspected the pile of clothes that was spewing out of her closet--it seemed, in fact, to be taking on a life of its own. Perhaps the fermented sweat had given birth to new life forms (perhaps the Ministry would give her a medal, turn her flat into a magical wildlife reserve).
But today was not laundry day, and Ginny, as she did with most things in her life, put off the task to a later, unspecified date. Strangely, the blancmange of fetid clothing did not disgust her, or even cause her to hold her nose. She had grown used to the mess, and over the past few few months, had even grown attached to it, clung to it, as if it were a teddy bear, a stinky keepsake, some perverted touchstone. She fancied, in moments when she was given to poetic ruminations, that the dirty laundry was the dramatic embodiment of her tiny life: a mess. Because for Ginny--lately, at least--things were always messy.
Later that day, Ginny sat at her desk in the too-cold office, flexing her fingers in attempt to improve circulation and contemplating the stack of mail she had to sort. Deftly, she opened one of the letters, tapped the parchment with her wand and watched as the words "Past Due" bled onto the page in vivid red ink. Ginny, more than anything else at her job, loved the past due stamp. There was something very soothing about it. As if in a trance, she kept stamping the page with her wand--past due past due past due, all over the place until it was practically covered in red ink.
"Getting a bit carried away, are we?"
She looked up, and her stomach turned as if she were flying her broom in a steep descent. The eyes that met hers were the color of thick, dark smoke. Destructive.
"Hello, Weasley," said Draco.
Oh God, thought Ginny. How could she possibly look at Malfoy after seeing his penis. Penis, she thought. Penis penis penis.
"I'm here," he said with a smirk, "to see Mr. Toadle about the ad he's designing for me."
Penispenispenis.
"I would appreciate it if you let him know I'm here."
"Right," she said. Penis penis penis. Penis.
She stood for a moment, as if she'd lost her train of thought.
"Sometime this century, Weasel."
She nodded faintly and turned the corner into a dim hallway to fetch Mr. Toadle.
Penispenispenis.
Ginny had taken the job at Toadle & Stoole Advertising, Inc. thinking that it would be a great way to earn some money while exercising her creative instincts. She could turn the same disposition that made her doodle on everything she owned into a moneymaking machine. But over the past years she'd been working at T&S, the only thing that seemed to be running smoothly was her nose. Ms. Stoole, Toadle's partner in the business, was rumored to be suffering from severe menopause, which meant that the office was kept at what seemed to Ginny to be near-freezing temperatures. So, though it was the beginning of summer, Ginny was wearing a gamey woolen jumper over about four shirts and her robe, which gave a rather frumpy appearance to her otherwise slight frame. In all those clothes, she resembled a child dressing herself for the first time. Mismatched socks peeked out under her high-water jeans when she sat down.
And this is why it seemed so strange to Ginny that Draco had noticed--even, maybe, desired--the small girl burrowing under so many dirty layers.
Hello, friend. This story marks the end of a two-year hiatus from writing fanfiction, a long estrangement from my identity as Ziegod Lizski and from the personalization of worlds and words created by J.K. Rowling. I sure do hope this story is turning okay; I hope I haven't forgotten how to write fanfic; I hope I write gooder than I used to. I welcome all suggestions to improve this story and to where it should head.