A/N: Welcome and welcome back! The fic previously known as "My Life as a Timid Renegade" has been edited, tweaked, and gnawed at until it has been reinvented into this: "Hexes and Woes." My initial purpose to writing this was to steal nearly every Fire and Ice cliché I could find and smash it into one story. As you'll find, I ran away with my characters and it becomes a little less cliché in the end. It's AU, by the way, considering I was writing this before HBP.

But after rewriting the story, my new purpose is for you to think—and laugh so hard your family disowns you. If I may quote Marvel: Flame on.

It was one of the worse things I could imagine at that time in my life, and being a teenager with a vivid imagination, there were plenty bad things I could throw together.

But this… oh, this was horrifying.

I knew that in my sixth year at Hogwarts School I was slipping up in my Potion grade. It was absolute bollocks to me. Potions was like cooking, which I was bad at to begin with. After the crème brulée fiasco over summer break, Ron and I swore off cooking forever. Apparently, it is a very bad idea to try and melt sugar with 14 of your standard long stem matches. Mum said I could never become a good house wife or mother with that attitude, and in response I told her that I would rather run off and join the circus then to conquer the bewildering crème brulée. After that, Ron made a comment about elephant pies, at which point Mum declared the conversation over.

At any rate, Potions, like cooking, involved patience and care according to my tutor. This statement caused me to declare him a tad fruity, as my mind was steady on the match against the Ravenclaw house, and no where near patience and care. I always took pride in being somewhat of a sporty girl; it was something our family enjoyed, Quidditch. But behind the public eye I focused more on writing, go figure. If you're a close-close-friend, you would understand the irony that I would grow to love writing.

So in my sixth year, my Potion's Master (I always detested calling him Master, as if he had some superiority. As any and every "rebellious" teen, I despised feeling subordinate) Snape called me after class and berated me for my grades, and as defiant as I attempted to be at times, I'll admit, I was afraid to be caught alone with him. Dean, when we were dating, would draw me a picture every week; one week he drew a very humorous picture of Snape wearing a women's bathing suit and cap hunched over in bathtub resentfully holding a sponge on a stick. That picture made me feel better at times like these. Part of me wanted to slap that leer that off his face and straight to the rubbish bin, and another part of me want to run and hide under my bed, where the less threatening monsters would lie in wait.

I recall the conversation near perfect, although it's still a little fuzzy from shear horror.

"Weasley," he said, "You are aware your grades are… slacking?"

I wanted really badly to say "So?"—you know, something daring and forthright, but sadly, monosyllabic sarcastic comebacks are not my forte, and I merely just nodded.

"And as much as I enjoy to see you struggle after your disregard to last year's midyear project, it has been set as a rule that I must get you tutor."

Fairly shocked, I retorted, "Since when?"

He glared at my rebuttal and replied, "Since thirteen years ago when a Hufflepuff boy was overwhelmed by what his family stated was "an unjustly, over zealous seventh-year workload that drove him to the point of madness" and he hung himself out of the window in his dormitory."

Needless to say that shut me right up.

I was caught in a haze about a tutor, and my work, and that boy (who in my mind's eye was hanging by his necktie with a pencil in his temple), that the rest of his conversation was halted until I heard the words: "...And Draco Malfoy should be a suitable tutor for the time being..."

I glanced up then, and caught the most horrific, smug grin on his slimy face. It was the same grin that he gave Harry in my first year when he paired Malfoy with Harry for a Dueling match. I kind of wanted to hurt Snape at that moment. I've read enough of Percy's kung-fu books to know a thing or two about pressure points, and ninjas. And geishas, strangely enough. Percy's a weird kid.

That night I was in a tizzy. I ran to my brother and complained to him first—because rash fury and agreeable insults were exactly what I needed at that moment.

"He did WHAT?" I recall him hollering the second I told him. After that preceded a profanely colorful stream of words that would send my mother into a coma. Harry happened to walk in the dorm at the same moment Ron said a phrase that would dull a rainbow.

"Now… I know I'm an only child, but don't big brothers like leaving a good influence on their little sisters?" Harry was saying all this with a foaming mouth and a toothbrush and glass in his hand

"You'll never believe what that slimy git sodding done to my sister!"

"Yeah," was all I could say. What else could I do but agree with Ron?

"Who-da-wha?" Harry spit into his glass and wiped his mouth on his sleeve and I'm pretty sure I muttered "Ew."

"Snape--He set MY Ginny to study with Malfoy!" Ron fumed.

Harry swore. "What do you mean?"

"Malfoy has to be her tutor!"

"What the he-- wh-why?"

At this point I realized the conversation was no longer in my possession, and I almost began to find the two teenage boys' behavior humorous. Then Ron and Harry turned on me with so many questions about my grades, and the sessions, and Snape… I just sat, there, mouth slightly agape and a dull "Uuuh..." escaping my mouth as an answer.

"I think we should be sensible about this," Harry said, "let's think of a good way to handle this situation."

"He's right," I agreed.

Ron sat down and put his fist to his chin and mumbled in a kind of way that led me to understand he was accepting the situation, "So there's no way to avoid this?"

"I don't think so," I answered.

"This better not interfere with Quidditch," Harry snapped. "I will take you down quicker than Ron on a Cauldron Cake."

Ron glared at Harry. "Are you suggesting something, Harry?"

"I'm certainly not suggesting that you binge like a bear about to go into hibernation, if that's what you're asking."

Ron narrowed his eyes at Harry but continued, "Well, I still don't like the idea of this."

"I'd kill you if you did," Harry replied.

"Heh, thanks," Ron said. "The idea that my sister, a girl, would be alone with Malfoy…eugh."

"Okay Ron," I said quickly, "First off, we'll be in the library in plain view, and second, if you're implying what I think you're implying--"

"There seems to be a lot of implications today."

"—I'm going to have to come over there and slap you."

Harry seemed to brighten at the thought of me slapping his best mate and he said in a beat, "Ron thinks you and Malfoy are going to run off and have diabolical, pink-haired babies together."

"Yeah, I can just as quickly slap you too."

Ron laughed. "Diabolical babies…" he chuckled. And then he paused, thought about it, and shuddered.

Ron and Harry later left the room, and I waited there reading a comic book, the boys made it a habit to collect as many as possible now, and one of their stacks what just brushing the ceiling. I relaxed on Ron's bed until Dean came in.

"Hey," he greeted in a kind of awkward, caught-off-guard way. "What're you doing?"

"Oh, just reading," I replied promptly, setting the comic down and prepared to leave—yet this had kind of been the reason I was waiting. My lovely ex-boyfriend. "Would you rather I go--"

"Oh no, you can stay," he said quickly, scratching the small of his back," It's just that I was a little surprised. I mean—I had heard you up here with Ron and… well, no you can stay." He went to his bedside and fumbled around for his notebook. I hated to see him act so strangely.

I flipped the comic book over in my hands and said calmly, "So how are you?" It had only one month or so since our breakup, but I couldn't understand his behavior. "Or should I say, are you okay? You seem off?"

He opened the drawer next to him with a little bit of force and plucked from it a piece of charcoal. "I'm just a little frustrated." His tall frame flopped onto the bed, on a quilt someone in his family made him.

"Not with me…?"

"No! Not with you," he replied as if it should be obvious. "No, no, no…" He became quiet. I didn't want to push any topic, but I felt weird just going back to reading. But as if he knew my thoughts he bluntly explained, "Fight."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he murmured, "with a Seamus... over a project." He paused and looked up with the charcoal hovering over the paper.

"Okay," I nodded, and returned to the comic book gradually, he liked to be quiet in bad moods. Dean and I had dated for a brief three months, but whenever he was upset during that time he would sit down and be very quiet and busy himself with drawing or picking at his stubby nails or reading.

As I read, I believe he would glance at me briefly, as if I was going to jump up and run off. On the contrary his small checks made me stay still and try to concentrate harder on the comic. But my mind was drifting.

We were dating after Michael and I broke up. He comforted me when I was distressed, and I may have mistaken that as something else. Unfortunately, Dean would date frequently and for a while I wonder if I was just another girl. But then again, he might have been just a rebound. I was foolish in my affection, the only reason I think I began to date Michael was because he was the first person to ever ask me out, as a girlfriend. I was so happy to be liked; I created emotions to be with him. And plus, the catalyst to our breaking up was the whole Ravenclaw-Gryffindor Quidditch thing—not a very stable relationship.

It was a nice pair for a while; we had a lot to talk about and a lot in common. Some friends would joke that I was too short for him. Oh, and I thought that standing next to Ron was weird looking. Except for school, Dean was all-around talented. He obsessed with Muggle football and eventually tried out to join the Quidditch team. He entered various contests for his artwork and interesting prose, but lacked a confidence that allowed him to share his product—besides the little pictures he drew for me on lined paper. I was very pleased to know he never drew for any other girl.

My thoughts were interrupted by the long swipe of Dean's charcoal on the page. I looked up and he dusted at the picture with his thumb. "What are you making?" I asked as he made some choppy scratches with the stick.

He shrugged. Maybe I shouldn't have interrupted him. "Something happy," he sighed sadly. He opened the drawer to take out a white piece of chalk that I recognized him to use for highlights. He exhaled deeply as the chalk touched the page.

"Well tell me more about your vacation," I said, "You only mentioned that bit about that pizza shop."

"What do you want to hear?" he said in a moody way. His brown eyes set on me another time.

I set down the comic book and sat forward. He cringed when I moved. "I'm making conversation, Dean."

"I'm sorry," he replied, tilting the sketchbook on his chest. "I told you I'm in no good mood, conversation comes hard." His squared shoulders shrugged the book under his arm now, folded it close and put it away. "Fine, let's talk. I'll… try."

I smiled, but couldn't think of a question that wasn't redundant. "What were drawing?"

"None of your business."

"You artists are so flipping moody…"

He clicked his tongue and slumped lazily on his pillow. His eyelids drifted calmly over his serene eyes and he crossed his arms across his chest. "Why do you always want to know about my work?"

"I don't always…"

"I think you're infatuated with me."

"With your complexity maybe. With your talent maybe."

"This is the tale of the story too often told," he said.

"What?"

"And the recollection of the public secrets exposed…"

I giggled. "Are you…?"

He smiled shyly and said, "This is the fable, the epic, the lullaby. The adjective followed by a noun followed by an alibi. This is the diary, memoirs, and epitaph. This is the classic counting on the comeback. A reminiscence of the repeated words; and the secrets behind them, often overlooked. Anticipate the end…" he trailed off. "There's more," he said, "but that's enough of that."

"I've never even heard one of your poems!" I exclaimed, instantly rapt.

He smiled brightly in a goofy way and looked towards the ceiling. "Now you have!" he said in a funny voice. "Now excuse me, I need to be depressed."

"Need?"

"Desper-ate-ly to the infinite." There's the Dean I loved.

The fearfully anticipated and loathed tutoring session was to come that Saturday. I had to spend and entire Saturday afternoon with someone I not only hated, but desperately wanted to choke. Hermione laughed when she saw me storming out of the common room with my Potions book and rucksack and called after me, "Have fun, we'll be here pondering your demise."

I turned around and glared at Hermione. "You're not making this any better."

"Well that's not my job, life is what you make it."

I thrust my arm dramatically out at her, head bowed in a state of melodrama and cried, "Leave me in peace!" And then I marched off.

I was supposed to head to towards library, but it just rubbed me the wrong way to be punctual for a Malfoy of any sort or class. I went to the kitchens for food.

I had gotten a few slices of candied apples, and may I mention I love candied apples. Most people look at them like a novelty, but I love their deep color and cinnamon taste—oh! It is so good. But as I am getting off topic, I should continue. See, I felt pretty content with myself. Oh, I was bad—or as bad as someone slightly delusional in the concept of rebellion could be.

I was told to sit a table 24, or it could have been 17, I'm bad with numbers, which is why I never dreamed of taking up Arithmancy. But as I got to table 24 or 17, Malfoy wasn't there. I checked my watch, then my time table, then my agenda, then the little papers I always scribble on until nearly my entire bag was spilled on the table. Every source I had said that at noon at table 24 or 17, I had a tutoring session, and it was about fifteen past right now!

And Malfoy wasn't here… So much for my maniacal ways.

"Weasley," I heard a voice mutter.

Oh that was it. That ferret was in for one heck of an explanation.

"I was waiting here for-ever! Do you have any responsibility?" I raged, "My grades are at stake!"

"I saw you walk past the library doors at noon."

"I was… being sarcastic. Haha?"

He gave me an awful, condescending glare, and I became sick to my stomach. Quick wit was not one of my strong points, and clearly was his. I was doomed. Doomed to an hour of sarcasm and Potions, that's like hell deep-fried, slapped on a platter, and sprinkled with parsley.

… I loathe parsley.

"Quick wit is not one of your strong points," he declared.

Curse you, irony… I shake my fist at your sense of juxtapositional humor.

He looked at the table cluttered in my school-related nostalgia and sighed in a tired sort of way. "Organize much?" He brushed away some parchment and sat down. "Yeah, I don't really want to do this either. I asked Snape if Terry or Granger could do this… eh, he wouldn't work around it. This will look good on my resume anyway. What's Hermathia Root?"

"What?" I stammered, caught off-guard by the abrupt question.

"You heard me."

"Sorry, I kind of lost you when you called Hermione by her surname."

He sighed, and then repeated, "What's Hermathia Root?"

"Can I look it up?"

"No."

"It's, um," I trailed off and began tapping my quill against the table, "Well, it's a root."

"No, it's the name of a potion that you should have done in you fifth year."

"That was unfair, it was a trick question."

"How is it a trick question? You already made the potion!"

I set down my quill and kept my eyes to my unopened book the rest of the time. I was half too timid and half too annoyed to look him in the face, ignoring him and solely regarding him when absolutely necessary. It truly was one of the most uncomfortable moments I could remember, and mind you, my mother makes me (yes, even at sixteen) wear tights to formal occasions.

It's not that I wasn't trying though. No—I was giving it my all, but I guess that's not much in Potions... I just hated being incompetent in front of an adversary. I hated feeling stupid. Hated it.

"Okay, hour's up."

"Thank you..."

"What did you learn?"

"Tons of things from… Potions VI, Chapter 3," I replied, glancing at the Chapter page of the book with the slight giddiness of a child returning from the coal mines.

"Give me three facts."

It was now or never, perhaps I could redeem my complete idiocy in Potions, perhaps I could take my chance to laugh my enemy in the face, perhaps I could…

"Um, Hermathia Root is not an actual root and that squiggly plant thing--"

"-- Dhemedra Rhino?"

"Yeah that, when you touch it, it curls up and makes flipping wicked Memory Draughts."

"Okay, for the next session, I want you to research and take notes on Chapter Three and give me an essay on the three main points of it, including details on that squiggly-plant-thing." He said the last three words in such an slow and patronizing mock that I had an urge to kick him in the shins and run.

"You can't do that…"

"I'm supposed to make you pass, there's also a lot on my shoulders too, you know. I have way too many people breathing down my neck as it is too make sure I get this school thing right."

"Well, you're not the one getting marks on this."

"Trust me, my marks go beyond school," he said with a casual force and a shrug. "You pass, we both win. And if you throw this course in some sort of twisted way to bring me down a notch, then you're a sick person."

"Hey, way to jump the gun, buddy." I replied at the ludicrous statement.

So I had mutual threats from my "tutor", teacher, and Quidditch team. I HAD to pass. Like I said: hell, deep-fried, parsley.

I stormed into my dorm that night and flopped on my bed face down on the pillow. I could hear one of my dorm mates walking over to the side of my bed. "You're going to die if you keep that up."

I looked up at her and said back, "Excuse me, can't you see I'm trying to eat my pillow?"

She smiled and leaned against the post. Looking back, I regret not really getting to know her. Her name was Ellen or Emma or Emily or. . . some "E" name. Oh no wait… it was Joan. Joan? How'd I get an "E" from that?... Anyway, she had a serious grudge against Quidditch, and thus, I didn't really value her opinion. She once said that I acted like a fanatical teenage boy when it came to Quidditch, I told her to "bite me."

"What's the matter, Ginny?" she said in a soothing way.

I gave a kind of whine. "I don't like being dumb."

"You're not dumb."

"I have a tutor, that's dumb."

"Oh, I heard about that… with Malfoy?"

"How on earth did you hear about it?"

"Well… you and Ron and Harry were yelling quite a lot about it last night."

"Eugh."

"You know what, I know Malfoy's not the greatest, so I'll help you out. The other day, him and bunch of Slytherins began chanting mud—well, you know—at me. And maybe… maybe we could, you know, get back at him?"

I looked up at her and grinned. After five years of sharing a room with someone who feels like a stranger, I suddenly wanted to hug her.

Nothing brings people together like a hunger for vengeance and utter hatred.

A/N: If you're too lazy to review, type in "cinnamon bun." Why? Because cinnamon buns are a lazy food but are very tasty. This way I will know you are lazy but tasty, or lazy but… nice? Rock on nice people, my heart goes to you all.

Oh yes, by the way, I was thinking of changing my pen name, just you don't get freak out and you get an author alert and your all "Say what?" It'll still have "Ave" in the name.

Love.