Title: Of Memories, Of Quicksilver Author: Firefly Lantern1 Rating: PG-13 for language, character angst, sexy Draco, sassy Ginny, and violence. All the good stuff.
Author Note and Bare Bones Info: This story takes place 5 years after the defeat of Voldermort. Ginny is 23 years old and living by herself in muggle London. She's taking a break from the world of magic and trying to find herself. And she's the published writer of a deliciously fun romance novel, rawr.
Disclaimer: JKR owns the HP characters. As much as I'd like to keep Draco, I only borrowed him for this story.
Oh, and P.S. Yay for DMGW! This is a Draco Malfoy + Ginny Weasley pairing. You'll see -. This is typed with wordpad so please excuse any weirdness. Woo! Much love and enjoy!
Of Memories, Of Quicksilver
Chapter One
Soft strains of jazz and the scent of vanilla cupcakes floated through the spacious bookstore cafe. Ginny's golden topaz eyes wandered over the dark mahogany bookshelves, the lush burgundy carpeting, and the inviting circle of comfy chairs arranged in the center of the room. The bookstore was inviting, but the cafe was downright cozy. Each table had a single long-stemmed white rose in an unique vase. One table's rose rested in a plastic Grecian urn ; another used a yellow porcelain watering can. Ginny's favorite vase was a vintage French wine bottle that reminded her of her three years spent at Beauxbatons. It was tres chic and magnifique.
"Hi there, Michelle. A fat-free cappuccino in a to-go cup and a pink buttercream cupcake, please." Ginny smiled at the raven-haired girl behind the faux marble counter. Ginny knew all of the staff by name because she practically lived here for half a year. Every day, she'd gone to Cafe Bella to relax and write on her laptop. Ginny'd spent many hours snuggled up in her favorite chair, sipping hot coffee and furiously typing the rough draft. What started out as snippets of thoughts had evolved into a scandalous first novel. The story flowed from a place deep within her; it was as if 'Siren's Song' had emerged whole and beautiful from her heart. The words were somehow dear to her.
"Our 'artiste in residence' needs her caffeine and sugar..." Michelle set the the cappuccino on the counter and placed the pink iced cupcake on a small green plate that had a white lace pattern painted on it. "What's in store for our hero and heroine today?" She leaned closer over the counter, resting her chin in her palm. "Please tell me it's a steamy sex scene. I need something to get me through this crazy day."
"Nope, no steamy anything today. I'm working on developing the heroine's angst... A boy she loved betrayed her, and now she's having trouble trusting men..." Ginny's hands moved animatedly as she spoke.
"Hon, you don't have to trust 'em to make out with 'em." Michelle winked. "You can use that quote in chapter five. But hey. If you're looking for some inspiration, take a good look at who's sitting in your usual chair. I think you should go reclaim what's yours and take him prisoner while you're at it." She discretely pointed toward the romance section of the bookstore.
Ginny's glossy red hair moved in a ripple as she gracefully turned her head. She instantly lost her breath. The guy occupying Ginny's favorite chair clashed horribly with the cafe's easy-going, comfortable atmosphere. Why was a guy like THAT camped out in the middle of the romance section? And--noting the cover of the book in his hands--why did it look like he was browsing through an especially tarty bodice-ripper? Ginny couldn't help but ogle him. He was sorely out of place, and he was strikingly handsome. She was transfixed. Her keen writer's eyes drank in every detail of his body.
The intriguing man didn't just sit in the chair--he stretched out his long legs and reclined in rebellious apathy. His collar-length platinum hair was casually combed back but not slicked down. The slightly-tousled style accentuated the sharp angles of his aristocratic face. Ginny noticed his earlobe was gauged with a small black plug that looked like a miniature thread spindle. Since she only saw his profile, she couldn't tell if he had both ears done. Fascinated, Ginny's gaze traveled downward over his fitted black t-shirt, his distressed jeans, and his Italian black leather dress shoes. Ah, so he was a designer-label bad ass, Ginny smiled. He had a mysterious, brooding quality that made her wonder if she'd ever met him before. In her dreams, maybe?
"Who the heck is he?" Ginny's pink lips parted in a little lady-like gape.
"Don't worry about the 'who' or 'what'. Just think about the 'where' and 'when': the 'where' being your apartment, and the 'when' being tonight..." Michelle whispered with a shameless grin.
Three years of charm lessons--the kind about grace and style, not magic and fancy wand movements--at Beauxbatons had taught Ginny that a lady should always act with tact and elegance. Still, a spark of her old self flashed bright in her eyes and she smiled with demure wickedness.
"You're terrible." Ginny scolded her friend with a laugh, gathering her cappuccino and cupcake from the counter. She walked away with a saucy sway that said she was up to no good. She opted for a squishy navy chair near the vegetarian cooking shelf. It was the perfect distance away to steal glimpses of him.
Why was she so captivated ? Yes, he was one of the sexiest guys she'd ever seen, but there was something more to him. Something tangible; of substance. Ginny wanted to touch him to make sure he was real. There was something haunting about his hair, his profile, and the haughty way he held his shoulders. He was almost ... familiar. Maybe he'd been to the bookstore before, but she'd been too absorbed in her writing to notice? She took a sip of cappuccino and waited for her laptop to boot.
"Hello." A soft voice said from nowhere. Ginny glanced up to see the sexy stranger standing over her, his arms folded casually across his toned chest. His eyes were liquid silver and luminous against his pale face. Her eyes widened in shock as a lazy smile curled across his lips. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm not quite sure what this word means..." Innocently enough, he held out an opened book for Ginny to see. His long finger rested over half of the word he wanted her to read.
"Um... Let me see." Ginny said politely, taking the book from him as if she didn't care how attractive he was. "The word is "appropriate" and it means to take something that doesn't belong to you. It's easy to get it confused with the word 'appropriate' meaning 'suitable' because they look the same on paper, but are said differently." She did her best to smile and offered the book to him. He did not take it. Instead, he sat down in the seat beside her. He stretched out his long legs and watched her with unabashed interest; he chuckled lightly to himself.
"It's interesting play on words, don't you think?"
"Yes, but--" Ginny tried to answer, but he kept talking.
"When is it appropriate to appropriate something? If it belongs to you?" His fingers laced behind his head as he spoke. The intensity of his gaze slightly unnerved her. His eyes simmered, waiting for her to respond.
"Well, technically speaking, you can't steal something if it belongs to you. If you take back something you own, then you'd be reclaiming it." She tucked a long strand of fiery red hair behind her ear. Her fingernail caught against the long gold dangle of her earring. Glancing down at the book in her hands, she flipped it over and read the cover. It was Siren's Song. Her novel. The one she'd published under the pen name Gina Caragh. A cold sense of warning chilled her heart.
"I'm glad you understand the concept, Ginny." Her name darted from his mouth like a forked tongue. He spoke with the soft hiss of a snake.
"What? How did you know--" She gasped as his fingers curled crushingly around the fine bones of her wrist. The next instant, both chairs were empty. Ginny's untouched buttercream cupcake sat invitingly on the arm of the chair; her piping hot cup of cappuccino remained standing nearby on the floor. The slither of warm steam creeping from the plastic lid was the only signal of her distress. It rose in faint coils before disappearing, unseen, into the wide atmosphere of the room.