"Damn," she says, tossing back her head, "who knew a Malfoy knew how to have fun? You're usually so uptight."
He chuckles, "Sweetheart, I'm a Slytherin, you Gryffindor fools—"
"Whoops!" she falls back onto him, tipsy, and her fingers trace the contours of his face, dragging dangerously close to his lips and he leans into her before she giggles like a madwoman (isn't she?) and pulls away, "Oh, no, I'm a Slytherin . . ."
"But you were one, a long time ago . . ."
"No, honey, wrong again, you mean 'a long time in the future'."
"Well, doesn't somebody just know everything right now—"
"I'm—" she hiccups, "smart!"
She almost falls off his lap and he rolls his eyes and tugs her back towards him, bending her head over his shoulder. She snuggles in, eyes drooping a little bit. "Maybe you should go to bed, you get tipsy quite easily, that's got to change soon, you know, you're a snake now—"
Her bleary eyes open and she half-heartedly punches him in the shoulder (unladylike, ginny, be a lady! She can hear in her head, oh mother . . .), "I'm fine, Malfoy."
"No. Sleep."
And she does.