He'd wronged her for the last time, and he was going to pay.
Ginny carefully crept down the corridor of Draco Malfoy's London flat, walking lightly. The polished oak was solid, but she didn't want to risk a creaking floorboard.
She wasn't really a vengeful person. Not really. Her temper was like a firecracker—it exploded at a volume that popped and echoed in your chest, but it drifted away into a smoky nothing, forgotten after a moment.
But he was evil personified. He deserved his just rewards.
She stole into the bedroom, relieved that the door was ajar. The shower was running in the adjoining bath, and she crossed her fingers that he'd stay in it. Draco dripping wet and wrapped in a towel would ruin the entire plan.
Not that she'd mind, under normal circumstances. For all his wicked, conniving ways, the man was hot.
But being caught red-handed in front of his bureau, her fingers clasped around his wand? That would cause all sorts of problems, from escaping his wrath to devising a new plan for revenge. That would take time, and Ginny did not share the popular position on chilled retribution.
She slipped his wand through her fingers and bit her lip. This next part was risky. But it would be so worth it.
He'd pay.
She reached her arm through the cracked door, hoping he wouldn't hear her over the noise of the water. Her fingers found their target—soft, warm cotton—and Ginny yanked the towel from its bar with a gleeful hiss.
She ran back down the hallway and threw the plush towel into the hall cupboard, where it landed in a heap on top of every other towel in the flat. Grinning, she looked down greedily at her stash of fine Egyptian cotton, and decided that premeditation had its advantages.
Twirling his wand in her fingers, she locked the cupboard door, and then slid the stick of hawthorn through the crack to join her sealed treasure trove.
The shower turned off, as if on cue, and she waited with baited breath.
A long moment passed. And then—"Ginny? What have you done with my towel?"
He'd find them eventually. But he'd be dripping, naked, and just slightly blind with rage. He'd be mortified. Scarred for life.
He'd never leave his towel on the floor again.
A/N: To all my American readers: happy Independence Day. Like that firecracker simile? :)
And yes, this one comes from where you probably think it comes from. And no, it didn't work. Rawr.