A.N.: Alright, so I wrote this story ages ago for the D/G fiction exchange and I've had it on my computer for years (okay, okay, 8 months, same difference). But I've finally gotten around to uploading it on my account (probably because I have something else I'm supposed to be doing right now).
I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, Ginny and Draco would be married with pink-haired babies. And Draco would have all his hair.
I present to you the winner of "Most in Need of a Sequel":
Ginny Weasley and the Faulty Floo
-Chapter One-
POLICE TESTIMONY- GINEVRA MOLLY WEASLEY
TAKEN UNDER MILD TRUTH POTION COMBINED WITH COMPULSION DRAFT
3RD SEPTEMBER, 2001
THIS TRANSCRIPT WAS TAKEN WITH A QUICK QUOTES QUILL (COPYRIGHT)
So you probably want to know what I was doing with Draco Malfoy in his house, when by all means I should have been at work that day, Officer. Well, I suppose that that's a fair question. I'm asking it myself. I suppose it was fate or destiny or some such bollocks like that. You don't believe me? Well, I'll just have to tell you about it. So listen up, because I'm not going to repeat this story, it's too embarrassing. God, I sound like him. A few hours with him and I already sound like him. Just hex me now…
So I'm not even out of bed and I can already tell that today is going to be utterly horrid. I can't stand the sound of that stupid phone ringing; it's splitting my head in two so that I can't think. My throat is scratchy and sore, my nose is so stuffed up it's about to fall off, and I have just about the worst job in the worl-
I sit up with a shriek that would make old Mrs. Black jealous, right hand groping desperately for my alarm. What time is it?Once I do finally locate it, it's in my hand for maybe a second and a half, because all it tells me is that I'm 'very late indeed.'
To top it all off, the phone's still ringing.
Stumbling half-asleep into the hallway, I pick it up, gasping, "Ginny Weasley speaking, who is this?"
"Weasley, what the hellare you doing still at home? No, don't even answer that, I don't care. Just get your lazy arse into work before I get over there and hex you into next quarter!" Well, fuck me. If it isn't Cho Chang, the horrible bitch who just happens to be my supervisor at the magazine. (You won't tell her I called her a bitch will you, Officer? No? Good.)
What magazine, you're asking? Oh, how incredibly rude of me. Let me properly introduce myself. We haven't really met, have we? I'm Ginevra Molly Weasley, Ginny to those who are below the age of 150 and aren't my mum. I myself am 20 years old, and I work as an underpaid slave- erm, I mean, intern- at "Wizards' Finance Quarterly." Don't laugh at me! I suppose that I should be working to get promoted to a writer, as no real paper will ever hire me if I don't prove I can write, but I can't bring myself to try to care about the stock in flobberworm breeding, which somehow manages to be gut-wrenchingly disgusting and tear-jerkingly boring at the same time. Oh, and Cho Chang, the boss' daughter and aforementioned superior? She hates my guts because Harry Potter won't stop bugging me. And I know it's for that reason because every time I start making some headway into getting her to not hate my guts, he shows up and asks me out, and she goes back to being a complete and total bitch.
Merlin, it's not like I planned for my life to suck like this at age 20. I had always just assumed that, what with my skill set, I would be offered a million and three jobs fresh from school. Actually, when the job offer for WFQ came in, I tossed it in the bin with a laugh and a sneer and told an admonishing Hermione Granger that I wasn't going to waste my prime at a boring place like that. (If you don't know who Hermione is, just know that she is the bossiest person ever.)
A week later, I found myself digging frantically through said bin, as none of the other job offers I'd imagined had materialized. You see, Hermione is not only bossy, she's oftentimes right, which is probably the most annoying combination of character traits that someone can have. It turns out that you need connections in the world of journalism more than you need skills. I think that it's a miracle that I didn't strangle Draco Malfoy when I next saw him, because he was always going on and on about connections when we were in school, and then he turned out to be right. Merlin, how embarrassing. (No! I don't actually wantto strangle him. Merlin! It's a figure of speech, Officer!)
Anyway, I ended up digging through the trash bin, because while eating my words is unpleasant, it was far better than not eating at all. Or admitting to my family that they had been right and I couldn't support myself. Oh, I shudder to think what my mum would do with such ammunition.
And that's about my life's story. Or the pertinent bits.
I let out a few choice curse words at my coffeemaker as it chooses to die an extremely dramatic death halfway through making me a cup. I down Pokey's cough medicine (Although, as it makes you sneeze, it's really just as bad as having no medicine at all. It's all I can afford as an underpaid slave- I mean, intern- at WFQ, though.) and trudge reluctantly over to the fireplace.
"Well," I mutter to myself, "here goes nothing."
I grab the smallest possible pinch of Floo Powder from the cracked china cup I keep my supply in, and toss it in. The flames roar up, green in the worst possible way, like Harry Potter's annoyingly emerald eyes, and I open my mouth to say "Wizards' Finance Quarterly" but it comes out more like "Ahhh-CHOO!" because Pokey's cough medicine may be crap but it is, as promised, fast-acting.
Let me tell you something about going through the Floo Network with absolutely no destination whatsoever: it hurts. As I shoot aimlessly though the Network, I bump into corners and fireplaces just as often as I avoid them. I'm probably going to have to add nausea and concussion to my list of symptoms when I get out- if I get out, that is.
I don't know exactly how long I'm in the Floo Network- I mean, I'm not looking at my watch as I'm spinning out of control, and the only thought that's going through my mind is variants of 'Oh Merlin, I'm going to die,' except with more curse words and less coherency. But it feels like forever. And just when I've resigned myself to an eternity of flying about the Floo Network, it spits me out onto this expensive, high grade wood floor- the type that you can only buy from the Brazilian rainforest or the mountains of Tibet or something. A very hardwood floor, I might add.
Now, at this point I'm pretty shaken. I mean, I've just taken a trip though the Floo Network at its very worst and landed on this horrid floor, but even Iknow what imported floors mean. They mean snobby people. Anyone who's willing to pay that much money for their floor to be transported from some far-off place from some endangered forest is going to be a cold-hearted bastard like Draco Malfoy. The kind of cold-hearted bastard who would have a poor girl like me arrested and fine me for dirtying up their imported floor with Floo Network soot and blood traitor sweat. So I know that I have to beat it, and fast. I think that whoever this snob is wouldn't mind if I borrowed just a pinch of their overflowing pot of Floo Powder, so I take a tiny pinch of it, toss it in, and prepare myself to step back into the flames when it happens. The Floo Network breaks. I mean, literally, it breaks. The flames turn green at first, but then there's this almighty crunching sound, and they turn back to red and disappear.
I let out a few more choice words at this and step back from the fireplace. Great. Not only am I going to have to pay for staining the Snob's floor with ash, I'm going to have to pay for the Floo Network to be fixed. And repairmen are always late, so the Snob, whoever they are, will probably blame me for that, too, because that's what Snobs like Draco Malfoy do, even if they aren't necessarily Draco Malfoy. I decide to let myself out the front door.
It was a supremely bad idea, because let me tell you, the Snob's flat is big. I'd assumed I was in an apartment like mine, but there are ten bedrooms and two lofts and I walk into three or four different kitchens at least. It's a nightmare. More and more, I regret not staying where I was. I mean, I probably would have starved to death before the Snob would have found me anyway. (It doesn't occur to me to use my wand, Officer, because it's only been three years since I turned seventeen and habits are hard to break.)
I'm walking through yet another identical hallway with yet another priceless painting hanging in it (except this one's a little different, because this one has a chaise- yes, a chaise- in it) when I hear the water turn off. I panic, but unfortunately for me, my fight-or-flight response doesn't seem to be working properly today, and all I can do is stand in the middle of the hall, frozen, while the door right in front of me opens.
And that's when I realize that the tenant of this flat- or penthouse, or whatever- is exactly like Draco Malfoy, right down to his very finely muscled abs.
-
This story was originally written for:
Ali's Prompt III
Basic premise: Ginny, for whatever reason, sneezes as she says the name of [insert location here] while Flooing, and manages to find herself in the fireplace of (guess who?) Draco Malfoy. Coincidentally, said Malfoy has just come out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist. Let the awkwardness ensue.
Must haves: Dirty-minded Draco making plenty of innuendos, some of which go over Ginny's head, some of which don't. A blushing Ginny, who, despite desperately wishing to leave, has seemingly forgotten how to Apparate.
No-no's: Nothing very serious. It should be playful!
Rating Range: T+
Bonus points: Silk boxers. (Mentioned, or making an appearance...)
A.N.: So that's the first bit done. When I've gotten enough reviews or have some more time or something, I'll put the second half up. Please review!
Thanks to my beta Farielle for reading it over again now that you aren't under a ridiculous deadline. You're awesome.
Cheers,
-Ella