Author's note: To anyone who may read this.
This writing isn't 100% mine! About half of this chapter is my own writing. Also the title isn't mine. I've taken this story, which is the sequel to "Before the Storm" by Glass Mermaid, and tried to continue it. I've done as best as I could! Really the first story was so beautiful, so anyone who enjoys stories about Ginny Weasley and Draco Malfoy falling in love, go read it! I couldn't bear the fact that Glass Mermaid left the story unwritten, so I copied and pasted what was left (on the Ice and Fire Archive) and put it into a word document and did my best, though it isn't finished. Enjoy :) There is much more to come, but if you don't read the first book (before the storm by glass mermaid) this story won't be half as good.
I feel very inspired by Glass Mermaid's writing, and don't want to look like a plagiarizer. I'm just an aspiring author like everyone else.
Draco strode through the wide doors into the Headmaster's office, nodding coolly at the old wizard seated behind the desk, who looked weaker and more fragile than seemed acceptable.
"Very good my boy," the old man smiled. "I see you've had no trouble fitting into your new appointment." He gestured to Draco's tailored ministry attire, the elegant and expensive black robes of one who knew how to dress properly.
"I was bred for this," Draco said offhand, taking the seat the old wizard offered.
"You are well, Draco?" Dumbledore asked kindly.
"Are you, Headmaster?" he returned coolly.
Dumbledore smiled.
"I am a youth no longer. I feel my age."
This was frightening, and so Draco chose to ignore it, instead inclining his head slightly towards the window.
"The rain held off long enough for the ceremony. We ought to be thankful."
"Of course, of course…"
Draco glanced at him, silver eyes narrowing. "I suspect I was not summoned here solely for small talk, Headmaster. Do get on with it."
"I merely wanted to warn you, my boy. There is already word of unrest stirring in different areas of the wizarding world. I trust you have upped security about the Ministry, but I fear you have not extended the same to yourself."
Draco's face remained impassive. "I assure you, I am able to defend myself aptly enough. Meanwhile, I have contingency plans for contingency plans for contingency plans. Fear not for me, Headmaster Dumbledore. Your efforts will not have been in vain."
Dumbledore seemed to ignore his caustic words, instead smiling tiredly and rising. His deep purple robes drew gently about him like the violet smudges of a sunset, and he adjusted his tall, matching hat.
"I need not explain my actions, young master Draco. You know as well as I do that you are very important and very dear to us all. I am glad you are safe. You weathered your storms with a strength even your father would have envied.
Draco stared at him blandly, though a strange tautness fisted within his chest. "Thank you, Headmaster."
The old man turned to look at him narrowly, his blue-eyed gaze weighty.
"There is another matter which I must discuss with you, Minister Malfoy," he emphasized the young mans title, and Draco stiffened.
"Yes?"
"I recall a promise I made to you, that you would be given that which you so desperately sought to keep should you become Minister of Magic."
Draco remained silent, still, a serpent tensed to strike.
"At this present time, I believe that a young Miss Weasley is located in Greenhouse Three, where she is helping Professor Sprout care for a series of Honking Daffodil seedlings."
Standing swiftly, Draco nodded curtly to Dumbledore, and swept out of the room.
Ginny hummed quietly to herself, accompanied by several weak little honks from the tiny daffodils before her. Carefully, she detangled loose dirt from around the roots of the young plants, before moving them into larger pots filled with fresh soil. She only had three more trays to go before she would be able to go relax in her quarters for the evening, and work on some of the research notes she and Professor Sprout had compiled.
One of the daffodils hissed at her when she attempted to lift it from its home and she glared at it.
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," she muttered, and plucked it up.
Settling it into its new bed, she continued on and on and on, until only one tray remained.
By then, she was a bit overheated from the moist greenhouse air, and tucked a strand of hair that had fallen from her pony-tail away from her face.
"Bloody humidity," she sighed, and wiped her work gloves on her apron.
It was muggy and she was becoming crankier by the second, the warm dampness making her feel grimy and tired. Perhaps I'd better call it a day, she decided, I can always finish this in the morning when it's cooler.
She shucked her work gloves with a sigh, tossing them onto the table and stretching out her fingers. She doubted that Professor Sprout would mind terribly if she called it quits a bit early. The Honking Daffodils weren't going anywhere, and it wasn't as if Neville couldn't stand to do a few flats himself. Yawning, Ginny chastised herself for her uncharitable thoughts as she opened the greenhouse door and began to head towards Hogwarts.
Neville Longbottom was, after all, an apprentice a year ahead of herself. After the war he had come straight to Hogwart's and asked Madam Sprout if he could complete the apprenticeship he had to abandon at the start of the war. He had probably done all the grueling, thankless tasks she was doing now, without complaint. He had seniority, and getting nettled by it wouldn't make a difference.
The cool evening breezes refreshed her spirits considerably, and she glanced back over the greenhouses to see the beautiful smudges of orange and purple sifting across the fading azure sky. With a small smile, Ginny turned back towards the school, pulling her hair from her pony-tail as she went. Her scalp was sore, and she rubbed her fingers along the roots in an effort to ease the stinging after-ache of the too tight hairstyle.
The sunlight was spilling through the trees of the Forbidden Forest as it began to sink beneath them, pooling like molten gold along the cracked stone pathways. With a blissful sigh, Ginny lowered her hands from her hair, slowly walking calmly, her eyes closing peacefully for several seconds, simply enjoying the carefree environment. She opened her eyes, lifting them from the ground and up the path, frowning softly when she caught sight of a man heading her way, an uneasiness at his familiarity unsettling her nerves and sending alarms jangling through her body.
She stopped, staring hard and, with a sharp blossom of shock welling in her chest, recognition hit, his pale, silvery hair, catching a wash of sunlight, shone a honied gold.
Draco.
Her heart constricted, seeming to cause the rest of her insides to clench as well.
For over two years, Ginny had not seen, heard of, or heard from Draco Malfoy. The last night she had seen him, tumbling into his bed in a frenzy of violent, miserable, bloody passion, was the last time he had seemed to exist. She had accepted his loss with as much outward dignity and strength she could muster, but inwardly she pined for him, heartbroken and disconsolate. She was lost in a sea of confusion and anger, never knowing if he would turn up dead or she would hear word of devious exploits and wicked rumors chained to his name.
For over two years, she had done her best to forget him, he of the arrogant smiles and cold charisma. She had tried to lose her memories of him by drowning herself in the creation of new ones. She had tried to overshadow her love of him by turning to Harry Potter for solace, but could not bear to do more than touch his arm. She had tried to move forward, past the pain he had left her with, but could lose it no farther than the palm of her hand.
Now that a time for celebration had overcome the grim façade of battle, and the Wizarding world returned again to peace and civility, Ginny had time once more to realize that she was still hollow and lonely inside, that her heart still bled when she thought she saw his pale silver eyes within a crowd, or wondered if she truly had caught sight of his rich cloaks flickering around a hundred corners, every day.
It had been a cruel and bitter shock to have him once again tossed into her life from the emotionless newspaper pages, stepping from obscurity to accept the title of Minster of Magic from Dumbledore without even a note of apology. Her hurt and fury had scalded her, but it had been easiest to pretend that he was still missing from her world and that the man splayed on every newspaper page was a stranger.
But now he was here, striding towards her as if he owned the world, and everyone in it, including herself.
How dare he… How dare he!
She came to an abrupt halt, watching him warily as he approached. There could only be one thing he was seeking out by coming to the greenhouses this late in the day. There was no one else about but her.
Oh God, it is him, she thought, as he came to a sweeping stop before her, his grey eyes gleaming in the fading dusk.
He was taller than she remembered and almost painfully thin. His face was lean and somber, his mouth a harsh twist where once there was a curling sneer. His pale hair fell over his forehead, longer then it had been during his school days, and brushed into fashionable neatness. He wore long black robes trimmed with grey silk, ornate black embroidery scrolling along the seams. Smooth leather gloves covered his hands and wounded her pride. She knew what they hid, what they stood for; the scars he had etched into his palms as a symbol of his devotion to her hidden away where the world could not see. As Ginny raised her eyes back from her thorough inspection of his form, to his face, however, she drew in a quick breath.
Draco Malfoy was staring at her like that of a starved man watching a piece of ripe fruit. His eyes held her own with a frightening intensity, a fervor, a longing, that had her taking a step back like a frightened doe. He looked like a mad man, a desperate, dangerous mad man, and all at once she was struck by pity and sadness and longing for the boy she had loved so dearly.
But fury soon welled hot within her, along with a myriad of questions she deserved the answers to. She wanted to lash out at him, slap him, punch him, shriek at him, tell him that he had broken her heart and she wanted nothing to do with him ever again.
Instead, she dug the one sarcastic barb out from the surface of her brain that had burned, hot and low, for the years he had been gone, flinging it at him with all the cold aggression she could muster. It was a lie he had told her long ago, when she had been stupid enough and sad enough to believe him without question.
"How was Paris?" she spat scornfully.
For a moment she wondered if he would reply at all, his silver gaze glittering in the warm light, looking at her as if he suddenly realized that time had passed and she might have changed.
"I have never been," he replied offhand, and began to circle her like a hawk, his eyes feverishly raking her face and her body.
His cool, calm voice was deeper than before, harder.
He was taking in her changes as if he were a drowning man filling his lungs with water at the last, desperate seconds before death. Indeed, he felt as if he were dying a small death, looking at the changes of a girl who had become a woman though his mind has always kept her as the girl he had known before.
She was taller, slimmer than she had been, almost nearing thinness, and more poised. Her hair hung long and loose down her slender back, caught by the cool evening breezes. She watched him warily, the eyes he remembered for their warmth and joy, their open tears and longing, closed to him. She still stood with the same gauche grace. Her hair was still the burnished red of fire and poppies. She still trembled when he came close to her. She still smelled of dusky roses and morning glories.
"You don't even have the gall to lie to me anymore, Draco?" she scoffed.
"Not to you," he said, his cloak brushing the hem of her faded jeans as he circled around her. "I do not lie to you."
A note of forced humor entered her voice, as if she were straining for an easiness she didn't feel. "You always lied to me. You're nothing but lies."
A graceful shrug as he swept behind her, then, "Vilify me all you need, Ginevra. I did what I had to do to keep your innocence intact."
She gave a choking little cough of lost laughter, the horribly exhilarating déjà vu of his presence, his arrogance, his bearing, pressing down at her from all sides.
"Where have you been?"
And now her voice was weak, anguished, and she spun to face him and his gloved hands reached out and grabbed her arms. He dipped his face close to her, and his skin smelled of the clean sea and the painful past and she nearly wept again. He held her upright, his fingers digging into her tender flesh, his lips brushing against her forehead.
"I have been everywhere. I have been nowhere. I have been to Hell and back, and the only thing that kept me from dying was the thought that you were here, waiting for me."
Ginny kept her eyes on his, willing herself to stay strong.
He is a liar. A manipulator. I mustn't believe him. There can be nothing left of him but his evils now.
"I wasn't waiting for you, Draco," she said. "I gave up on you long ago. The only thing I waited for was news of your death."
He dropped his hands from her, stepping away. He eyed her as if she were a poisonous flower, something he dearly longed to touch but dared not for fear of the venom.
"You lie," he hissed, and she did.
"Go back to your world, Minister," she said angrily, feeling the sting of tears scratching at the back of her eyes, making her voice hoarse, "and leave me to mine."
Draco drew himself up, his face becoming a study of cold hardness. He squared his slim shoulders, and withdrew a silver headed cane from the pockets of his robe, a disturbing reminder of who he was and who his father had been. His gloved hands fell to his sides.
"I will never leave you, Ginevra Weasley," he said with a sudden, dangerous glint in his eyes and an edge to his voice. "I killed men and women to get back to you. I spied and stole and betrayed to see you once again. I became Minister of Magic so that I might skirt my social claims and have you once more."
He turned, sweeping back towards the castle, his robes billowing around his ankles. Ginny stared at his receding back, awestruck and horrified and filled with perverse pleasure.
"Prepare yourself," he threw over his shoulder, and was gone.
"Prepare yourself," Ginny mimicked angrily, slamming the door to her room shut. "Prepare yourself!"
She threw her hair tie to her dresser and kicked off her shoes.
"Like he's just declared war! Cad! Prat! Insufferable, arrogant pig!"
Fuming with a sickly mixture of anger, hurt and lost, shivering desires, Ginny crossed her arms and threw herself into a cushy chair. Her foot beat an irritated staccato on the carpet and she huffed uncomfortably, shifted, and promptly decided that it was best not to avoid thinking about him. It was better to face him head on.
"God," she tipped her head back and frustrated tears stung the corners of her eyes. "He's not dead! My Draco is not dead."
A part of her was wondering why she wasn't the happiest girl in the world. Draco was alive, the minister of magic, and he had come back to her. In fact, he seemed most determined to have her. Shouldn't she be ecstatic about her own twisted fairytale?
"Only the damsel isn't supposed to be in love with the villain," she frowned. "It's because he left me so horribly. It's because I never knew anything about him. It's because he just assumes I waited for him!"
You did wait for him, said a quiet voice in the back of her mind. "But I thought I gave up," she whispered. Well aware that she was talking to herself excessively, Ginny rubbed at her temples and groaned.
"I need to get out of here."
Snatching up her cloak, she swung the voluminous folds over her dirty clothing and stomped out the door.
Draco's thoughts were a tangled web of anger, hurt and longing. The way she had looked at him, as if he were a vile and dangerous creature, made his heart turn cold. He pressed his palms into his eyes, elbows propped on his grand ebony desk. Her voice had been sharp enough to wound him to the core, and it had. Lovely cinnamon brown eyes looking, underneath the loathing, like a cornered and hurt animal.
That is how you left her, his conscience told him. Bloody and heartbroken... Only your Malfoy ego could have convinced you she would be waiting with open arms.
His ego aside, he had not truly expected it, though he had hoped to see the love he felt for her mirrored, to some degree, in her own eyes. He had wanted to take her into his arms and erase it all with passionate kisses in a long awaited embrace, but his fantasies had been snuffed out by her harsh words.
I wasn't waiting for you, she said viciously in his mind, I gave up on you long ago.
Draco's hands slid into his hair and clenched into fists around the silky strands, heedless to the need to maintain his spotless image.
"This is what she does to you," he snarled in a whisper, not wanting to bring his dolt of a secretary in to check if all was well. "Driving you mad with need for nearly two years and when the time comes, knocking your legs from under you."
Two years is a long time, his mind whispered, betraying his anger with the truth. More than a year spent as Voldemort's henchman, until the infallible Harry Potter could defeat him, another six months cleaning up one Dark mess after another. Then a message from Dumbledore telling him to come rejoin society and take his promised place as Minister of Magic. Three months solidifying his position, taking interviews and pictures, shaking hands and donating money, burning to see her, and dying every day he delayed. Then yesterday his visit to Hogwarts...
His mind swayed around the memories he had cherished deep in his dark heart for that soul-destroying year. The only thing that kept him sane, kept his humanity intact, was that vicious harpy he had encountered yesterday. But like the predator he was, he had smelled her desire swirling through her beautiful body as he circled, the fury and the hot, shivering passion lying just under the surface.
Suddenly he stood and smoothed his hair. I will have her, he thought with cold certainty, I will die before I let her slip away from me.
He stalked out of his office and told his secretary to schedule a meeting with the head of St. Mungo's board of directors, a charity event of some kind would soon be in order.
Ginny felt, once again, as if her world was off center.
"Barely a ten minute visit from the prat and suddenly it's like I've fallen into a void," she muttered to herself as she, for the third time in an hour, shook herself from a daze. It had been almost four days now since she had seen Draco on the lawn of Hogwarts, barely fifty yards from where she now crouched, planting hellebore seeds in the soft soil. Plenty of time for her to regret her words, wish she could take them back then angrily admonish herself for her softness only to repeat the same cycle of thoughts over again.
The new school year would soon be starting and Proffessor Sprout was determined to have every greenhouse stocked to bursting with all the necessary plants. At first Ginny had been unsure about accepting payment for doing what she loved, but she was glad of it now. An entire summer spent on hands and knees in the dirt, planting and potting and repotting with little compensation, other than a sense of accomplishment, would have been hard to maintain enthusiasm for. But as it was she made several galleons a week.
She stayed in Griffindor's Head Girl's room which had once belonged to Hermione and in her free time meandered about the school grounds or visited Hogsmeade. The castle itself always felt much too empty and lonely to bear.
All the staff that stayed over the summer would eat together with their respective apprentices and the odd visitor, overall numbering around twenty. Ginny often skipped dinner, preferring to go drink at The Hog's Head, fully taking advantage of her nineteen years of age, and always enjoying the murky quietness and the dingy bar. Always managing to stumble up to the school on unsteady legs before midnight, when the doors were locked.
Sometimes she would apparate to the Burrow and spend a quiet evening in her strangely empty home. All the boys rarely visited, leaving Molly alone with her new house elf, who had been purchased for exactly that purpose, Arthur and, more recently, Lavinia, George's pregnant fiancé. George stopped by more often than the rest of them, although Ron and Harry had a good excuse the way Minister Malfoy kept the Aurors running to and fro.
Ginny sighed and stood, pressing her hands into her lower back, and leaned this way and that, feeling a pop in her spine.
The day had been warm, with a soft balmy breeze but she could barely appreciate it. The clouds in her head were thick with memories, though not all of Draco, and tainted by feelings she had desperately hoped were gone. Ignoring them, she decided, would be better in the long run.
And what is the best remedy for unwanted emotions? she asked herself.
A bath and a change of clothes was all that needed done before her night in Hogsmeade could begin. Dressed in a pair of dark denim jeans and a thin, long-sleeved blouse that matched the black of her new mary jane's rather well, she walked down to the entrance hall, but before pushing open the doors sensed someone watching her.
"Headmaster!" She said in surprise. "I was just going to go... for a walk."
His warm, sad smile informed her that he did not believe her words, though she had not really expected him to. "Enjoy the weather, Miss Weasley," He said kindly. "You never know how quickly the harsher seasons may come upon us." He inclined his head towards her and swept off to dinner, looking very regal in robes of soft silver-blue.
As she walked down past the gates to the apparation border a strange thought occurred to her. Dumbledore has always known. From the start he knew what would happen to us.
She hurried on to the Hogs Head, suddenly in desperate need of a drink.
"Minister! Good afternoon. Your owl took me by surprise, but I was very glad of it!" Othelia Cobblestone whisked into Draco's spacious office, seeming to fill it with and aura of well managed problems and brisk, productive conversation.
"Yes, Miss Cobblestone I feel fortunate that you were able to meet me on such short notice." The truth was that he had hoped to meet with her in a week, but she had insisted on seeing him as soon as she possibly could.
"So!" Othelia exclaimed, not one to waste time, "A charity gala, ball, barbecue, picnic, breakfast, brunch, lunch, or dinner?" She tittered at all the options she listed.
"I believe a ball of some sort would be best."
"Best? Perhaps, yes. Casual or formal?" She did not know of the Minister's ulterior motives for wanting this ball, what she did know was that St. Mungo's desperately needed a new wing, preferably an extension to the psych ward.
"Formal, though not so formal as to be seen as catering to the wealthy."
"Ah, that is probably wise! We don't want to look like hustlers." She laughed at her joke. "So, music is a definite yes! Something upbeat leaning towards classical, and nothing overly modern? Food?"
"Something light but savory, no salad or sandwiches. We need tables, but not so many that everyone can sit, I want mingling."
"Refreshments?"
"A bar, nothing resembling punch bowls. Wine and other light drinks, I don't want guests abusing the free alcohol and ending up vomiting on the dance floor." Draco did not realize it, but Othelia was rather impressed. Not even twenty-two years old, the youngest Minister of Magic ever, and he knew his own mind, as well as how to organize a ball.
"Invitations will be plus one?"
"Yes, sent to all prominent wizarding families. Although we might leave it open to people who know the location. Of course it would have to be an exclusive location to dissuade undesirables from attending."
A sudden unpleasant thought occurred to Othelia; Put a large group of prominent people together and suddenly there was potential for dangerous trouble. After all, the war had not ended all that long ago. "I... hesitate to bring up the problem of security as it may be a touchy subject to someone who has so much of those sort of problems on his hands, but I'm sure safety won't be an issue."
Honestly, Draco was incensed by the not-so-subtle question in her feigned confidence, but he didn't show it. "Don't worry, Miss Cobblestone, I will personally insure the safety of all the guests. I'm not the Minister of Magic for no reason."
"I have every faith in you, Minister Malfoy. Now, I can see that you want this to be a big event and I completely understand! A society coming together after the war to make much needed improvements upon our recovering world. It's very poetic and the idea will sell very well, I'm sure. But it does beg the question, how will we make this a big enough event to where one simply cannot refuse the invitation?"
Though he was becoming a trifle irritated by this overbearing woman's mannerisms, charm was a Malfoy's middle name, and he needed her to pull this together. "I would like to believe that simply because I am the one doing the inviting all the wizarding world would love to attend, but that may not be the case." He smiled smoothly to show her that he was not being serious. "I do hope you will assist me in making this a success, I will pull some strings and I count on you to do the same."
Miss Cobblestone had, of course, noticed that the Minister was a handsome man, and her pale cheeks turned a light pink at the sudden warmness under his business like demeanor. "I will not fail you, Minister." She said and glanced away from his intense gaze rather too quickly. "I will find the perfect location, never fear."
He stood and she did likewise. After bidding him good afternoon Othelia turned to leave, but before reaching the door looked back and said. "I'm sure you hear this all the time, but I believe those who doubted your ability to run the Ministry because of your young age were very much mistaken. You seem to be in control of everything, despite it."
Draco knew that she was in her mid thirties, though she didn't look it. "I might say the same to you, Miss Cobblestone."
She smiled and left quickly, and Draco sat down at his desk again. Some women, he thought smugly, are simply too easy.
"Violet," he called. In normal circumstances, his secretary would not have heard her name, but as it was she heard clearly and popped through the door a split second later.
"Yes, Minister?" She asked, round face pink and sounding almost out of breath.
"Send an owl to Pansy Parkinson. I need to speak with her."
"Right away, sir. Is that all you would like me to say?"
Draco smiled slightly. "Yes."
"Nothing like gardening at noon to cure a hangover, eh?" Said Neville with a chuckle.
"Oh yeah," Ginny replied rather waspishly. "It's just bloody marvelous."
"Do you even remember what happened last night, Gin?" Neville's voice sounded a bit serious now, and she decided she didn't want to know.
"Please, Neville. Now is not the time to regale me with my own drunken foolishness," she bent back to weeding the vegetables and muttering bug-repellent charms.
"It's not that you were acting a fool," he said persistently. "But you seemed to go from depressed to devilishly happy and back rather quickly. You're lucky I was there!" Then he laughed. "I'm lucky I was there, come to think of it. Ron would have killed me if he knew I had let you fall into the laps of any of the rogues in that bar."
Ginny groaned inwardly. "What exactly do you mean by 'fall into the laps of'?"
He remained quiet for a moment, prompting her to look up at him in worry. "Oh, it's not that big a deal, really..."
"Oh, Neville!" Ginny covered her eyes with the back of her hands so as not to get dirt on her face. "I knew I was drinking too much, I just couldn't help it. The more I drank the better I felt!"
"There were a lot of nasty buggers in there, Gin, that's all I'm saying. And under normal circumstances I'm confident you could have handled yourself. It's just..."
She sighed. "Go on, then."
"You seemed... rather eager... Oh I don't know!"
"Rather eager to have some greasy oaf take me to bed?"
His face, already pink from exertion, went scarlet.
"I'm sorry you had to protect me. Really, I am. I'm so ashamed. I had it under control for a couple hours, really, but I'm rather small to be drinking with men twice my weight."
"Gin, I don't know what happened, and you don't have to tell me. But the war got to all of us. I know you must miss Fred a lot, and whatever else is bothering you... you can always talk to me, alright? Gin?"
"Thank you, Neville." Ginny smiled at him. "I know I can."
"And next time you need a drink, first, invite me and, second, go to the Three Broomsticks. I get the feeling the Hog's Head will be getting more male business for a couple of weeks after a night like last."
Neville ducked as a big piece of dirt nearly hit him in the head, and laughed.
Minister Malfoy sat behind his dark L shaped desk idly scanning the reports that the DMAC as well as the DRCMC had sent him of how the dementor sweeps were coming along. After being left leaderless most of the Azkaban dementors, not knowing what to do and left with the unfulfilled promise of endless gluttony, had returned to the prison. The others had apparently gone on a feasting rampage among muggles as well as wizards.
The head Auror, Moria Delancey, had been wounded during a skirmish in the east with members of what seemed like a cult that worshiped Voldemort and sought to live as he had in his glory years before Harry Potter became the boy who lived.
"What a joke," Draco muttered, shaking his head.
Pansy swept into his office as if she owned it, not bothering to stop at Violet's desk to be announced. "I adore how you think you can simply call and I'll come running." She said sarcastically, taking a seat.
"Thank you for proving me correct," he said and she simply glared at him in silence. "I need a favor."
"I'm not surprised," said Pansy, though she actually was.
"St. Mungo's needs a new hospital wing, and I'm organizing a charity event of sorts." Draco said, knowing that she always took comfort in exchanging pleasantries, false though they might be.
"How fascinating," Pansy's lip curled in annoyance. "I don't suppose you're going to ask me to help fund this new hospital wing."
"I wouldn't dream of imposing upon your family's resources."
"I hope you're not suggesting that I don't have the means." Pansy said, anger flaring. "The rumors that my father went bankrupt are false, for your information."
"I had heard no such rumors, but I do give my condolences." Draco smiled icily, loving that this heiress of the aristocracy could lose her composure so quickly.
"Tell me what you want, Draco." Pansy said, seated like a stone in the chair, legs crossed at the knee, back straight and stiff, and a haughty look on her face.
"I need you to make sure the ball I am sponsoring is popular enough to make it a success, both with appropriating the money St. Mungo's needs and as a post-war celebration."
Pansy hated that she felt a small blush of pride at his knowing she was the go-to person to make any event, as he said, a success. The blush did not show on her face. She smiled slightly "Oh, indeed? How flattering."
He simply smirked, seeing through her icy words. "I'm sure. So you will lend me your help?"
"Do I have a choice in the matter?"
"Does anyone?"
Her eyes narrowed at his cryptic answer. "I'll take care of it, Minister."
"See that you do." He turned away from her back to a letter he was writing, and she stood with a scowl and left. He knew that she would not disappoint him, she never could resist the siren's call of his approval.