AN: I've had this written for a while - just never got round to typing it up. Oh well. Enjoy.
The man sitting next to me on the plane attempts to read the manuscript I'm currently working on. Spotting the references to magic, he assumes I'm just another fantasy writer, smiles, and goes back to his book. Which, I might add, was my latest bestseller. He wouldn't have given up so easily if he'd known who I was – that's why you won't find a photograph of me in any of the books. I don't want to be recognised.
The man on my other side, who has been asleep for most of the flight, is now reading my latest story, and grinning at some of the details. Scowling at him, I stuff the thick pad of paper back into my bag – not without some difficulty, I have to admit.
"So, which house were you in?" The question is so quiet I almost don't hear it.
"Excuse me?"
"Which house? It's obvious what that story's based on."
Ok, I have based this one on my time at Hogwarts, with just enough fiction to make it legitimate. Unless I'm very much mistaken, the blond in the window seat also went to Hogwarts.
"I'll tell you if you tell me."
"Sounds fair enough. Slytherin."
"Oh dear."
"Let me guess, you were a Gryffindor?"
I nodded. Of all the people I had to run into, why a Slytherin? Hang on, something wasn't quite right here. A Slytherin, on a muggle aeroplane? That just didn't add up. I had to ask him.
"If you were in Slytherin, what are you doing using a muggle method of transport? I thought you all hated muggles."
"Times change."
They certainly do. After Harry defeated Voldemort, the world became a much safer place. Now, all the known Death Eaters have been rounded up, and muggles (and muggleborns) are no longer at risk.
We chat amiably for the rest of the flight, both being careful to avoid any specifics such as names, or names of people we know. He already knows I'm a writer, currently in the process of finishing my seventh book. He runs some sort of business importing broomsticks, and that sparks a lively (despite being carried out in hushed tones) debate about quidditch. We both used to play, and I'm an avid follower of the game – always have been. He's always secretly followed it too, despite some disapproval from his family. We support different teams, but that's hardly a surprise.
When we land, he helps me with my bags, and I wait with him until his suitcases reappear. I know we could summon them easily, but it would probably startle the muggles, and that really isn't a good idea. Especially in a foreign country.
We agree to share a taxi – if you're going to travel muggle style, apparating just isn't done – and he manages to converse with the taxi driver in fluent Italian, whereas I can only understand about five words. Languages aren't my forte. However, that doesn't seem to be a problem, as it all runs smoothly.
As I get out of the car, he hands me a business card.
"I'd like to meet up for dinner, if it's convenient for you. Call me, and we'll arrange it."
I smile; I'd love to go out with him, even if it is just dinner. As the taxi drives away, I look down at the card, and jump in shock. I hadn't realised, until now, that I'd been talking to Draco Malfoy. Turning the card over, I find a note written on the back.
"You may not have recognised me, but I knew as soon as I saw you, Ginny Weasley. The offer still stands, if you can cope with me. Draco."
Cope with him? I would certainly say so. He's grown up, moved on from the childish insults and hexes we used to fling at each other all of the time. We've both grown up, and like he said, times do change.
Despite our past history together, I do want to see him again. I can see us being more than just friends, though that will do for now – don't want to scare him off just yet, after all.
AN: And now it's over to you, my readers, for reviews. How else am I to know whether what I'm writing is complete rubbish or not?