Title: The One Night Stand That Wasn't
Rating: M, for language and sexual situations
Summary: "It's official. Our night of hot revenge sex has turned into a thirteen-year-old girls' sleepover." Taking her up to a hotel room could have become nothing more than an inexhaustible source of smug Potter-taunting – if only she hadn't ended up being so cool. DG, over the years.
Author's Note: I felt like writing some fun, light DG, and this was the result. It will span several years but will probably only be a handful of chapters long, and it's also a free-form, write-whatever-I-want-and-skip-the-boring-stuff sort of story, if that makes any sense. I'll update it sporadically when Allegiance gets too angsty, heh. Enjoy!
One: Hard Liquor Hotel Room
"No fucking follow-through," she lamented, shaking her head and throwing off the comforter.
She shot him a look as she got out of bed, and he was reminded quite forcibly of her cow of a mother. He shivered. Thank Merlin he hadn't slept with her. He'd really dodged one there.
"And I was led to expect so much," she continued, flitting around the room in her knickers. She tried to grab the sheet off him, ostensibly to wrap around herself, but he held firm. It was his hotel room – he'd paid for it, hadn't he? – and there was no way she was dragging his clean sheet across the floor.
She glared at him, then gave up and crossed to the loo, giving him a brief view of her frankly spectacular arse. He sighed. If only she was a completely different person with a completely different personality.
He heard her run the sink. "Swanky hotel room, champagne, room service," she listed off through the open door. "We give it all a miss and get straight to tearing each other's clothes off like a couple of demented teenagers, and then?" She sighed theatrically. "No. Fucking. Follow-through."
He snorted despite himself and sat up a little straighter to fish through the piles of mussed bedding for his dress shirt.
Suddenly, she poked her head around the doorframe and arched an eyebrow at him.
"Are you gay?"
Two hours earlier
"She is not going to like this."
"I'm telling you, we should have brought the Firewhiskey."
"She's going to need harder liquor than that, trust me. We have to go out."
"Will one of you just knock already?"
Ginny rolled her eyes as she pulled open the door. She tapped on the wood. "I can hear through this, you know." She noted that they were all in dresses and heels – in stark contrast to the muddy practice gear they'd been sporting an hour prior. "Why exactly do we have to go –"
"Where's that dress you wore to the end-of-season party last year?" Sarah asked abruptly, ducking straight past her into the flat and disappearing into the bedroom. "The one that shows an inappropriate amount of back?"
Polly squeezed Ginny's elbow as she walked in. "It's in her closet on the…." She paused thoughtfully, settling herself along the kitchen counter. "Left side, I think."
Ginny turned, rather stunned, and raised her eyebrows at Demelza, who was shaking her head sadly. "What's happened?" she asked. "Why do we have to go out?"
"Because," Demelza explained, slapping a half-folded Prophet into her hand, "we think you're going to need a stiff drink."
"Or several," Sarah called.
Demelza nodded down at the paper before joining Polly against the countertop. "Evening edition."
She unfolded it and skimmed the headline, then looked up, unimpressed. "That's it? Skeeter's just rehashing the same old 'that horrible Weasley girl broke poor, darling Harry Potter's heart' line. For the sixth day in a row." She rolled her eyes. "Because there's no way it could have been mutual."
Polly crossed and uncrossed her arms uncomfortably. "Page six."
Her brow furrowed as she flipped. A beat, then, "You have got to be kidding me."
Polly winced. "Exactly."
Ginny could feel the blood rising in her cheeks as she surveyed the photographs. She knew she should be adult about this. She and Harry had split amicably. Between her Quidditch schedule and his Auror responsibilities, they'd been lucky to see each other half a day out of ten. It had been for the best. And now he was perfectly at liberty to be photographed leaving hotels in the early hours of the morning with whomever he damn well pleased.
She should: Be. Adult. About. This.
But on the other hand….
"Cho Chang?" she burst out. "Cho Chang? You have got to be kidding me."
"This is how we thought you'd react," Demelza sighed.
"Of all of the witches in all of Britain, he has to –" She read aloud from the article. "– 'spend the night mending his broken heart in an upscale London hotel room' with Cho bloody Chang? He knows I hate her!"
"In fairness," Polly put in, "you are broken up."
"Yeah," Demelza muttered dryly, "for less than a week."
Suddenly, Ginny felt all the indignant rage rush out of her, leaving her light-headed and dizzy. She sank down at the kitchen table. "Merlin, I do need a drink," she groaned, putting her head in her hands.
"No, you need a whole fucking bar," Sarah announced, emerging from the bedroom. "Which is why we're going to The Avenue." She tossed the backless black dress onto the table. "And you need your own rebound fling. Which is why you're putting that on."
"Rebound fling or revenge fling?" Demelza asked, her voice lilting with amusement.
"In this case, they're the same thing."
Demelza laughed.
Ginny lifted her head. "That'll get me another front page article about what a tart I am. With pictures this time," she observed.
"Who the hell cares, Ginny?" Sarah asked loudly, slapping a hand down on the countertop. She had the same glint in her eye that she always got when she was about to shoot the Quaffle; the sports writers at the Prophet even had a name for it: Sarah Stanley's Stare Down. "It's a double standard, and we're not having it!" she continued fiercely. "We are going out and you are doing whatever the fuck you want, Skeeter articles be damned!"
"She has a point," Demelza said. "If Harry's going to go sleep with a tart –"
"She's not a tart," Ginny sighed.
"– whom you hate –"
"I do despise her," she agreed.
"– then you should get to do whatever you want, up to and including having desperately hot revenge sex."
"Bonus points of he's attractive as all hell and/or likely to piss Potter off," Sarah added.
Ginny straightened in her seat, looking from friend to friend to friend, then back down at the Prophet. She had the sudden urge to cut black-and-white Harry out of the photograph so she could shake him.
Really, Harry? Really? Cho Chang?
Photograph-Cho's legs seemed to go on forever, she observed. She glared at the picture.
You have money, Potter. At least buy the girl a longer skirt.
Right this second, getting completely smashed and having desperately hot revenge sex didn't sound like the worst idea in the world.
She looked up, jaw set, and met Polly's eyes. Polly was sweet and gentle and kind. Polly would tell her if this was a horrible, horrible idea. "You think this is a horrible idea, don't you?" she asked.
Polly considered for a long moment, then glanced down at the newspaper and back up. She pushed herself off the counter. "I'll get your shoes."
The club at The Avenue Hotel was crowded. The music reverberated off the walls, and the dance floor was full under the dim, pulsing lights of the enchanted sconces.
The far wall was dark-tinted glass from floor to ceiling, and over the heads of the witches and wizards in line outside, Draco could see out into the hotel lobby. He leaned his shoulders back against the booth, lazily observing the people going by.
"Did you hear me, Draco?"
He turned to Daphne. "Hm?"
"She said Astoria might come by later," Blaise answered, smirking as he said it.
Draco raised his eyebrows, careful not to look too interested. He and Astoria Greengrass had been dancing around each other for months now. But it was a slow game, so he just said, "Is she?"
Daphne nodded and started to say something more, but Pansy spoke first. "Look what the cat brought in," she murmured, nodding toward the entrance.
He turned to see a group of women entering the club; they were all Harpies team members, which caused a stir near the door, and one of them was Ginny Weasley, which caused an even bigger one.
"Remind me why your dad lets that lot into his hotel, Daph?" Pansy grumbled.
"Times have changed," Daphne replied shortly.
"Adapt or die, Parkinson," Blaise said, emptying his wine glass and signaling for another. "Right, Malfoy?" he added significantly.
Draco nodded vaguely, because Blaise was right, of course. But he was only half-listening, and he certainly wasn't interested in contemplating his family's fortuitous shift in allegiances at the end of the war. No, right now he was too busy watching Ginny Weasley.
She wound her way toward the bar, her slinky black dress clinging to her body in all the right places. When she turned, the light played off her copper hair, which had once been horribly garish but was now anything but. His eyes skimmed up the smooth line of her back as she leaned casually against the bar counter.
A man – terrible shirt, cringe-worthy oiled hair, and much too short, Draco observed – sidled up next to her and said something near her ear. She looked amused for a brief second, but then just shook her head, patted his shoulder sympathetically, and left with her drinks. The man looked stunned, and Draco smirked.
This wasn't the first time he'd watched a man try and fail to land Ginny Weasley. She'd flitted around the castle with the same easygoing attitude and sway in her hips that she was exhibiting now. She'd been so obviously appealing, and boys had been attracted to her like moths to a flame. That Thomas kid had asked her out three times before she'd said yes, and Longbottom had followed her around like a little lost puppy, to say nothing of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs.
And Potter. Draco was frankly amazed he'd managed to get through their sixth year without getting drool on her robes. But of course, at the end of the day, the Boy-Who-Could-Do-No-Wrong hadn't needed skill. He'd bagged her anyway. That scar was a better wingman than Zabini, Draco thought derisively, and that was saying something.
"Skeeter says she left him," Pansy was saying, "which is one thing to her credit, I suppose."
"She sure looks like a heartbreaker," Blaise commented, glancing at her, then grinning over his glass. "Frankly, I'm surprised Potter could even handle her."
"Apparently he couldn't," Draco replied, unable to keep his satisfaction at that out of his voice.
He was having a hard time tearing his eyes away.
"Malfoy is staring at you."
Ginny raised her eyebrows and followed Demelza's gaze to the booth across the room. He was staring. But just as their eyes met, Daphne Greengrass tapped him on the shoulder and he turned away, lips set in annoyance.
She rolled her eyes and turned back to her friends, but she was distracted now.
She'd seen him as soon as she walked in, of course. He and his friends were impossible to miss. The waiter and security guard standing at attention a little to the right of Blaise Zabini practically screamed "VIP Table." In fact, now that she thought about it, she was pretty sure Greengrass's father owned the hotel.
She swirled her drink speculatively and raised it to her lips. Over the edge of the glass, she glanced back in his direction. He was staring again, and this time, when their eyes met, he held her gaze.
How had she never noticed how intensely gray his eyes were?
He'd had a reputation at school, and she was suddenly much more inclined to believe the stories.
He smiled ever-so-slightly, and she felt a tingling sensation race through her like a tiny jolt of current.
She flushed, and he smirked.
She refused to look away, and so did he.
Then he did something completely surprising.
He raised his eyebrows, glanced toward the bar, and met her eyes again.
Heart pounding now, she turned and brushed Sarah's shoulder. "Attractive as all hell – and what was the other thing?"
"Likely to piss Potter off," she replied.
Ginny looked back at Malfoy, considering. Then she downed the rest of her drink and set the glass on the table with a loud clink.
"Right."
He was leaning on his forearms against the bar, his hands folded casually on the mahogany. She settled her back against the counter beside him, her elbows propped up behind.
"Weasley," he said smoothly.
"Malfoy," she replied.
A pause, then, "It's rude to stare, you know," she said lightly, keeping her gaze forward.
"Is it now?" he drawled. He sounded amused.
"It is. Unless you buy me a drink."
"And why would I do that?"
She didn't hesitate. "Because this isn't the first time you've stared."
Now he turned to her, and he looked surprised. She shrugged. Did he really think she hadn't noticed his eyes on her at school? Maybe other people hadn't – hell, maybe he hadn't noticed it himself – but sometime during his sixth year, his gaze had started following her when she left the Great Hall, during Quidditch games, between classes….
She hadn't known what to make of it then.
He didn't respond, just signaled to the barman, who, a moment later, handed him two drinks. He passed one to her. She took a sip. Expensive vodka, mixed with something sweet.
She watched his profile out of the corner of her eye as she drank. Every few seconds, he lifted his right arm, brought his glass to his lips, took a swig. Every other part of him was still.
Then he slid his left hand three inches across the counter.
His pinky finger brushed against her elbow. It was the smallest thing, but it sent the current through her again, stronger now than before. She met his eyes, brows raised.
"We should go," he murmured.
She thought of revenge and double standards and Cho bloody Chang in her short, short skirt.
And nodded.
His fingers brushed against hers as he led her out of the club and across the hotel lobby, and as he got a room and pre-ordered room service, she thought that she'd never been so on edge. Every touch crackled.
The two minutes that they waited for the elevator felt like an hour.
Finally, it arrived, they went in, and the doors began to close.
But he didn't wait for privacy.
Two seconds before the doors slid completely shut, he closed the space between them and kissed her. Hard.
She tasted like hard liquor and cinnamon.
He trailed his thumb across her cheekbone, then slid his fingers into her hair and pushed her forcibly back against the side of the elevator, which was now rising up and up and up.
He leaned over her, pinning her hips with his own. She inhaled sharply, and he felt a twinge of self-satisfaction. She was using him to get back at Potter, of that he was certain. But that didn't change the fact that right now, he was totally in control. She was like putty in his hands.
He learned a moment later that he had vastly underestimated her.
She traced his lower lip with the tip of her tongue and ground herself hard against him. He saw white. He groaned, and she smirked against his lips.
If he'd had the presence of mind, he would have glared.
"Two can play that –" she murmured cheekily, but he didn't let her finish. He swept his tongue into her mouth and simultaneously ran his left hand down her back to push her even harder against him.
She moaned at the back of her throat, and now he smirked. Take that, Weasley.
"What was that you were saying?" he breathed, moving his lips along her jawline and down the curve of her neck.
"Fuck you," she replied, breathing hard.
"That is the idea," he said, and she laughed huskily into his ear.
She ran her hands up his sides and began to tug at the bottom of his shirt, dislodging it from his pants. Finally, she brushed the bare skin of his stomach, and she trailed her fingertips with aching lightness across the line of his pants. He found that he was keening toward her touch, and he grunted impatiently. Merlin, she was a fucking tease.
But she was right. Two could play that game. He captured her lips again, and used both hands to push her dress roughly up her thighs.
She moaned, and this time he felt the sound course all the way through his body, but just as her fingers closed around his belt buckle, the elevator came to an abrupt halt. The bell dinged and the door slid open.
Weasley laughed lightly against his lips, and he found himself smiling despite the harsh annoyance that flashed across his chest. He tossed a glance at the doorway. A small group of people, dressed for the bar, had advanced across the threshold before catching sight of them, and now they were all staring, open-mouthed. He glared.
"Get out," he ordered.
They did, the doors shut again, and the elevator continued up, taking them closer and closer to the penthouse suite.
"Wait," she said, "we should do the…." She gestured vaguely, then reached for her wand, and all of a sudden, Draco felt his stomach drop.
Merlin, was he really about to fuck Ginny Weasley?
Only a few measly pieces of fabric stood between them and full-blown sex, and by the near all-encompassing desire pooled at the base of his stomach, he knew for a fact that this was the point of no return. If he let her perform that spell, if he let her press herself against him…Merlin, if he heard her moan even one more time, he wasn't going to be able to stop himself.
And he realized that he had most definitely not thought this through. He felt the haze of lust dissipate.
He stilled her hand, and she looked up at him quizzically.
It was Ginny Weasley beneath him. And having sex with a Weasley – even an unbelievably sexy one – was a hundred times worse than having sex with any of the random women he'd picked up in the past.
And on top of her heritage, there was the Potter Factor. Was he really about to fuck someone who'd fucked The Chosen Wanker?
And he knew.
The answer was resoundingly: no.
His jaw went slack. "No, I am not gay!"
"You can tell me, you know. I won't breathe a word." She paused thoughtfully. "Though I am going to have a few follow-up questions for all the girls who sang your praises at school. Particularly about that thing you apparently do with your –"
"I am not gay!"
She surveyed him skeptically. "I've seen no evidence to the contrary."
"Look, Weasley. If you weren't, you know, you, and I didn't vomit a little in my mouth at the thought of doing Potter's leftovers, I would definitely, one hundred percent fuck you."
She shot him a sardonic look. "That was beautiful, Malfoy. Positively Shakespearean."
"And we're just a regular Romeo and Juliet," he said dryly.
She cocked her head at him. "You read Shakespeare?"
He sighed. "Your powers of deduction are truly amazing."
"Pure-as-the-driven-snow Malfoy likes Muggle-as-they-come Shakespeare." She grinned. "Wonders never cease."
"I didn't say I liked him."
"Don't you?"
"No."
"Liar. Everyone will be shocked."
He rolled his eyes. "I would rather you told them I'm gay."
Her grin widened. "Maybe I will," she quipped. Then she pushed herself off the doorframe and back into the loo. A moment later, he heard water splashing on the counter. He hoped she was planning on wiping that up.
Finally, he located his shirt, and he was just in the process of shaking out its newly-acquired wrinkles when she re-appeared.
"Have you seen my dress?" she asked, brow furrowing as she surveyed the room.
"Oh," he replied, "I Banished it." He waved vaguely. "Earlier."
Her eyes widened. "Hey! That was my favorite dress!"
"Oh, please." He turned back to his shirt, frowning at the lines along the collar. "It was poly-cotton blend. I did you a favor."
"Fuck you," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "I should demand reimbursement or something."
He barked out a laugh. "Oh no, where in the world am I going to find two whole Galleons?"
"You're an arse."
"And you're a Weasley. We all have our flaws."
She crossed to the bed, picked up a pillow by its corner, and smacked him with it.
"Fuck!" he swore.
"What am I supposed to do?" she demanded, obviously unsympathetic. "This hotel has Apparition wards. I can't very well waltz through the lobby in my knickers!"
"I don't know," he mused. "I've been reading the Prophet. You could use the good publicity."
She raised the pillow again, and he cringed away from the imminent blow. "For Merlin's sake – here." He proffered his shirt.
She raised her eyebrows, lowering the pillow, and he shrugged. "Better than nothing."
She regarded the shirt for a moment, then sighed and took it.
"Bloody hell, I should tell Skeeter the real reason Potter broomed you was because you're physically abusive."
She rolled her eyes as shrugged into the shirt and began to button it up. It fell to the middle of her thighs. "Haven't you heard? I left him," she said wryly.
"Right," he replied. "For a French Chaser or something."
"And also for a Portuguese Keeper," she added. "Or maybe it was a Dutch Beater." She paused, considering, then shook herself. "I don't know. It's all very confusing."
He laughed despite himself. She slipped the last button through its buttonhole and smoothed down the fabric. "Right," she said firmly. "Well, thanks for a very unsatisfying evening, Malfoy."
He found himself laughing again, and as she moved to the door, he felt a sudden and rather inexplicable desire to keep talking to her.
"At least help me finish the champagne," he said as her hand closed around the doorknob.
She turned back slowly, obviously surprised, and met his eyes. He cleared his throat. "You know, if you want."
She looked from him to the bottle of champagne, which was glistening oh-so-tantalizingly under the influence of a Chilling Charm, and back again. Then she sighed and crossed the room to collapse back onto the bed. "I suppose if I'm not going to have sex anywhere, it might as well be with you."
"I'm flattered."
"You should be. I have a desperately sweet Kneazle at home who's much cuter than you."
He rolled his eyes as he poured two tall flutes. "I have a feeling we could trade insults all night," he said, observing the amber liquid critically. He'd once had a hotel try to get subpar champagne past him by switching the bottle labels. As if he wouldn't know the difference. "But," – he handed her a glass, satisfied at its contents – "it's getting a bit tiresome, don't you think?"
She gave him a look that said quite plainly that without insults, they'd be lost. But all she said was, "Fine. Do you have an alternative?"
He considered, swirling his drink. "Tell me a secret. Something dark and angst-ridden."
She sighed theatrically. "It's official. Our night of hot revenge sex has turned into a thirteen-year-old girls' sleepover."
"Do most thirteen-year-old girls have champagne at their sleepovers?"
"No, more like cheap box wine they nicked from their brother's sock drawer. But close enough."
He shook his head and exhaled wearily. "You've never had hundred Galleon champagne, have you?"
Twelve flutes, two overpriced chocolate-drizzled cheesecake slices, and a handful of less-than-dark-and-angst-ridden secrets later, they nodded off to sleep.
She tried to hog the blankets.
He wasn't having any of it.
The next morning, he was woken by an insistent tap tap tap-ing on the window.
He pushed himself upright and cursed. He could feel the beginnings of a headache pulsing behind his eyes.
Tap tap tap.
He looked over, rubbing his temples. It was Zabini's bird.
He sighed and threw off the covers. "All right, all right, stop whining," he grumbled, letting it inside and taking the small piece of parchment from its extended leg. He unfolded it.
Four words. Tell me you didn't.
The headache intensified. No, he hadn't, thank Merlin. But it had been a near thing.
He didn't bother replying. Zabini would almost certainly be waiting at the Manor when he got home. He crumpled the paper into a little ball and muttered a spell to incinerate it. When he turned back to the bed, Weasley had already stirred and was sitting with her back turned away from him, slipping on her heels.
She was still wearing his shirt, and he wondered vaguely if he would ever get it back. He loved that shirt.
"How many people saw us leave the club, do you think?" she asked, reaching up to pull her hair into a messy ponytail.
He considered. "Your friends, my friends…."
"That's not too bad. Containable, at least."
"…half the people on the dance floor, the two booths by the door…."
"Fuck."
"Oh, and probably the bartender. And the bouncers. And everyone in line to get in. I'm also fairly certain the woman at the hotel front desk has some kind of arrangement Witch Weekly. Far too many of my late night rendezvous have ended up in the tabloids."
"Merlin," she groaned, standing and shouldering her bag. She rubbed her hands roughly over her face. "Rita Skeeter is going to have a field day with this."
"Undoubtedly."
"And don't you say a word about good publicity," she added sharply. She narrowed her eyes, but he thought he saw the barest hint of a smile at the corners of her lips.
He snorted. He'd been about to.
She crossed to the door. "Well, thanks for an only mostly unsatisfying evening, Malfoy," she said, and he smirked.
She turned abruptly with her hand on the doorknob. "Don't Owl me," she said, glaring.
In the cold, harsh light of day, he couldn't think of anything he'd be less likely to do. He shot her a disgusted look. "Don't worry. I won't."
But he did.
A week later.
When Skeeter's article came out.
Author's Note: Give me your thoughts!