Author's Note: Because some people thought so, and it was probably true, just a little bit. This is an alternate version for chapter 10 of Chocolate Biscuits and features part of the dialogue.

Cinnamon Biscuits

Malfoy pushes me back, effectively trapping me in one of the nearby alcoves. 'Weasley,' he says, and he didn't even seem to have heard me. 'I really don't get you.'

'Er –' I reply, because what can you say to that, honestly?

'I mean, there you are, Ginny Weasley, girlfriend of the great Harry Potter. Then you change your mind and go for Zabini, who's nothing but money and a good name. Then Smith, a blundering, engaged idiot, and now you're with Thomas, the great post-war portrait painter.'

I glare at him. At least two of those are wrong, the Harry one included. And what business of his is it, anyway?

'I don't get it. I don't get why I –' He leans forward, hands on either side of my face against the wall, and I can only look at him, my eyes wide and round as he leans in close, closer, closer, inky black eyelashes framing dark grey eyes –

– and then he's kissing me.

I stand, frozen, trapped between Malfoy's arms, feeling his warm lips against mine, his blonde hair against my forehead, the weight of his body pressed, hard, against me, and off their own accord, my eyes flutter closed.

He pulls back, then, his nose pressed softly against my cheek, and his breath in my neck, hot and warm and heavy.

My heart is hammering against my ribcage, my stomach aflutter with panic and something else I don't really recognise.

I look up at him, my mouth moving around letters, forming words that don't really come out.

He meets my gaze, eyes darker than before, pupils wide and round.

He hasn't said anything.

Without meaning to, without intending to, my hand reaches out, finds his robes, and drags him closer, forward – with or without magic, I can't really tell – and then I'm the one who's kissing him, hard, our bodies pressed together, his arms coming up to trap me between the wall and him.

He's the one who pulls back, eventually.

'Fuck,' is all he says, breathlessly, and I look up at him, not really sure what to respond to that.

My hair, I realise, is tangled around his fingers.

'Weasley,' he spits, eventually, looking at me murderously, 'go home.'

'Fine,' I retort, my eyes blazing, and he opens his fingers so that my hair falls out of his hands and back against my body.

I storm off, and feel his eyes follow me all the way down the corridor.