Author's Note: Okay. I have, like, three things to say, mainly. One of them
is that I'm really truly sorry about the delay in getting this out, but my
computer's been fucking up, and I was busy with exams.
The second is, I'd like to know how many of you have livejournals, because I'd like to add some of you to my lj friends list (my lj username is _gutterbunny_ )
The third is, where the hell did my earliest and most faithful reviewers go? Gwen, Fyrekun, SophieB and Mandraco, where the fuck are you guys? It's been a while since I've heard from you and I'm getting worried!
By the way: I know that Blaise is a French boy's name. But it just suits a girl better in English.
xox Gutterbunny
* * *
Thursday was the last day of the seventh year's final exams and very stressful for everybody. Lavender Brown was in tears, persuaded she had failed Charms (ironically, it was one of the few classes that she'd passed). Hermione, suffering from a bad case of nerves, hadn't eaten any breakfast, and that evening in the Common Room she curled up in an armchair and didn't speak a word to anybody, despite numerous pleas to join the party that a few sixth-years had started.
"I can't," she said. "I'm too worried. Oh gosh, what if I failed Transfiguration? Oh, I'm sure I did, too."
Their Transfiguration exam had consisted of turning various animals, supplied by Hagrid, into large household objects. Hermione had done it all perfectly until she'd gotten to the bear cub that had to be transformed into a wooden table; she had muddled up the words of the spell, and her table had ended up with four slightly furry legs. Her mistake was not a very important one, but Hermione mastered the art of turning molehills into mountains, and stressed over it until the people around her would have thrown sharp objects at her head if it would have gotten her to shut up.
"Come on, Mione," said Ron, shouting to make his voice heard over the loud music, "you've won the record for Smartest Person in the Universe, do you honestly think you'd fail a class?"
Hermione glared at him but said nothing, and Dean took advantage of that to put in his oar: "Besides, McGonnagall likes you; she'd prolly add a point here, a point there, until you got a passing grade. "
"Don't joke about things like that! Don't -" and Hermione buried her face in a sofa cushion. When she looked up a few seconds later, she saw Ron dancing with Seamus; the two of them were tightly wrapped around each other. Seeing like that brought a smile to her face. "I wonder," she mused out loud, "do Mr. and Mrs. Weasley know that Ron's gay?"
"No," said a voice, sounding as though its owner was positioned very close to Hermione's head.
Hermione turned and saw Ginny perched on the chair's armrest. Judging by the pallor of her face and the dark circles under each blue eye, she hadn't gotten much sleep and hadn't an easy time with her own examinations.
"They don't," said Ginny quietly. She sounded as though she had wanted to speak those words for a long time, but wasn't fully aware that she was speaking them. "But then again, nobody knows that much about Ron - not even Seamus. He's not too keen on opening up, Ron." Ginny's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she stared across the room at her brother.
"I know Ron very well," said Hermione, a tad indignant.
"No, you don't," Ginny contradicted. "Do you even know what kind of work he wants to do once he graduates?"
"Well," said Hermione uncertainly, "I suppose he. I mean, I know that he wants to play Quidditch." The realisation that she wasn't certain came as a surprise; she hung her head, feeling ashamed, and wondering what was wrong with her - she had been Ron's best friend for seven years, had even dated him for a few months, yet she didn't know what kind of job he wanted.
"You see," said Ginny with a smirk, proud over her small victory over the smartest witch in school.
Hermione frowned pensively, thinking that Ginny was wrong, that she, Hermione, knew Ron very well, apart from that little slip-up concerning Ron's future career - and that the person she didn't know was in fact Ginny herself. She had always thought of Ginny as a naïve, insecure little girl - but now the little girl had grown up, seemingly overnight, and Hermione looked at her warily, as one might look at a potentially dangerous stranger in the street. Hermione hadn't given Ginny much thought tin the past two years. Did Ginny read books? Did she feel things and think things? Who was she friends with, and did she still have that silly crush on Harry?
"Ginny," said Hermione, "what do you."
She trailed off. Ginny was no longer sitting there. Hermione frowned, squinted around the room, and saw Ginny's small, shiny skirt disappearing in the crowd at the same time that she saw Harry walk through the portrait hall and skulk up the stairs.
She frowned at him. She'd seen Draco that morning - their Houses had had their Transfiguration exam at the same time - and she sighed sadly as she remembered how the boy had looked. Eyes red-rimmed, face tearstained, shuffling his feet and staring, not at the people around him, but at the floor. His hair had been tangled and tousled; Draco had not taken the time to brush it out, which was a bad sign. Hermione's frown turned into a glare. Draco had had his heart trampled on, had been knocked down from the throne he'd occupied as resident sex god, had been reduced to nearly just desperate and sad another face in the crowd - and here was Harry on his high horse, going on about how he'd been terribly wronged and look what a bastard Malfoy is, locking himself up in his room and worrying everyone to death, not eating, not speaking.
Hermione stood up suddenly and walked across the room and up the staircase, which targeted a disappointed cry from Ron - "she's gone to read a book or something! Aw crap!" She didn't realize how angry she was until she reached Harry's dorm door, and instead of turning the doorknob, she kicked it open.
Harry, who had been enjoying a recently-borrowed library book ("How to commit bloody murder and get away with it" by Elias Slicendice) seemed quite startled. "Gee, Mione, you look pissed," he remarked, hastily slamming the book shut and shoving it in a desk drawer, hiding it from view. "Who're you mad at?"
You," snapped Hermione, and before Harry could voice his surprise, she added, "you're really hurting Draco, and I hate you for it."
Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, looking like a fish on dry land. "What?" he spluttered, his eyes flashing behind his glasses, "you're on his side now?"
"I'm not on -"
"I thought you were my friend!"
"I am! But that doesn't mean -"
"If you were my friend," said Harry with an air of stubborn finality, "you'd support me one hundred percent."
"NOT WHEN YOU'RE ACTING LIKE A JACKASS!" yelled Hermione. "AND BELIEVE ME, YOU ARE!"
"OH, I AM, AM I?" Harry yelled back, very red in the face.
"YES, YOU ARE -"
A raspy noise issued from Hermione's throat; she clutched her neck, unable to yell any longer. "Just listen to me, okay?" she said softly, and without waiting for Harry's assent - or dissent - she sat on the bed next to him. "Look, everyone in Hogwarts who's old enough to know who Draco is, knows that Draco cheats. You know that -"
"From experience," interrupted Harry loudly.
"And you knew that when you started dating him," Hermione went on, "you knew quite well that there was a very strong chance that one night Draco would wake up next to somebody who wouldn't be you. You knew that it would happen."
"So what?" said Harry sulkily.
"So, you knew that one day or another he'd cheat. And that knowledge means you lose the right to whine like a little girl when he does." Hermione took a deep breath, hoping that Harry wouldn't explode - he was quite red in the face. "You've blown things way out of proportion."
Harry had lost his vocal functions during her little speech, and now gaped at her, scratching a rash on his leg at the same time.
"I'm sorry if I was blunt." Hermione sighed. "But I didn't know how else to put it, and I hate watching you act like such a prat."
He muttered something under his breath that she couldn't quite understand. He looked as though he was struggling with all she had just told him.
"Harry? Are you. all right?"
Harry shook his head. "I just - I know you meant well, so never mind. You look like you have something more to say."
"Yes, I do, actually - that letter you found in Draco's dorm, the one from Fleur? You had absolutely no right to search his dorm. He deserves some privacy - and the least we all know about Draco's turbulent love-life, the better."
"Maybe he deserves his privacy -" Harry stood up abruptly, and glowered down at her - "but does that mean I deserve this? Being cheated on and lied to and fooled by the one person who said over and over again that he loved me?"
Hermione swallowed wetly and looked at the floor, sad and thoughtful. She didn't know how she'd react if Padma ever did something like that. She didn,t want to think about it.
"I'm sorry," said Harry, feeling a twinge of something much like guilt, for a reason unknown to him. "It's been a bad week for everyone."
"And you haven't made it easy on anyone by moping up here all the time. Everyone was so worried about you - and all the classes you skipped!" For a moment Hermione sounded like her old self, as though this was just another day and she was telling Harry off for not doing his homework.
Harry smiled dryly.
"Why don't you go down and join the partying?" Hermione suggested. "It might do you good to - dance it off a bit."
"No, I don't think I will." He shook his head vigorously. "I think I'll stay here and. think about what you said."
Hermione headed towards the door, and said, "I hope you do the right thing."
"I will." Harry turned around to thank her, but she had gone.
* * *
Fleur, for her part, felt purely awful. The planets had aligned against her that week. On Tuesday she lost her job at the Ye Olde Sexe-Shoppe. She found work a few hours later, as a part-time bartendress at the Three Broomsticks, but Madam Rosmerta paid her half her old salary - just enough for Fleur and her owls to starve on. Her shift started at seven and ended in the wee hours of the morning; Fleur was not a night person and found the transition quite hard. Not to mention that mixing drinks could not, and would never, give her the feeling of mischievous, perverted delight that spread inside of her whenever she sold a whip or a collar to a young hormone-driven couple and imagined it being put to use.
On Thursday the bar was nearly empty. Unusual, because, as the only bar in Hogsmeade that allowed underage students, the Three Broomsticks enjoyed a roaring trade. The emptiness worried Fleur, who wouldn't get any tips if there was nobody to tip her. She scanned the room, hoping and praying for a customer - just one - and saw a blonde-white head in a far, dark corner.
"Hello," she called warmly, wanting to be friendly.
The person turned toward her. Fleur smiled and blushed before she could stop herself.
Ginny had quickly tired of the Gryffindor party - people whom she mostly didn't know, dancing to the type of music she had liked at age twelve, and stuffing themselves with the most disgusting food (Ron had somehow acquired three large bags of pickle-flavoured crisps). A walk around Hogsmeade would cool her heels.
In the village she had run into Lavender. The seventh-year blonde was looking for a dress to wear to the graduation ball, which would take place Saturday night. (Sunday night they'd leave Hogwarts by train and be in London by Monday morning.) They had gone to Gladrags Wizardwear, where instead of the usual severe-looking robes, they found an assortment of coloured gowns, tuxedos, t-shirts and jeans. Muggle clothing had become more and more popular in the wizarding world.
Lavender, true to form, had rushed to the rip-off section: clothes which were both ugly and expensive, clothes that were usually worn by old ladies and young witches with an odd resemblance to Britney Spears.
"What d'you think of this one?" she asked Ginny, holding up a Lycra dress of a violent, bright purple.
Ginny wondered what had made Lavender think that she was willing to become her fashion consultant. "Um, it doesn't really flatter your skin tone," she answered, and walked away quickly before Lavender could ask for any more advice. She sat down behind a rack of sleek black gowns made of silk - there was no risk of Lavender finding her here, as she never went for elegant clothing.
Ginny fiddled with her shoe-lace and sighed. It seemed as though her life was almost abnormally complicated these days, and she found it deeply unfair that she was only sixteen and so confused about everything. Her self-confidence had taken a nosedive: the magic that the Veela had worked on her hair at the Hogsmeade salon had worn off, which meant that, once again, her tresses were shoulder-length and red, and her freckles were back and more obvious than ever. She had also gained three
the counted, and became suddenly angry. Only last year had Fred and George begun to make some profits from their joke-shop. Before that, everything owned by a Weasley child was a hand-me-down, the Weasleys had saved every spare Knut - and they could have lived for a year on what Lavender was paying for a dress now.
While the cashier struggled under the weight of dozens of Sickles, Ginny stood up, ran out of Gladrags, across the street and into the Three Broomsticks. A walk hadn't cooled her off, but surely a drink would. She ordered a Gillywater (a drink which contains no alcohol) and looked around for a place to sit down. The "kiddie bar", as the Three Broomsticks was often referred to, was very crowded. In fact, the only free seat left was across the room, at a table occupied only by Draco Malfoy.
She took her drink and sat next to the Slytherin boy. Draco's nose was buried in his tankard.
"Hey, Malfoy, what're you doing?" asked Ginny in a fakely cheerful tone.
"Drowning my sorrows," Draco answered, turning his tearstained face towards her. He sounded as though his nose was stuffed. "I want to forget."
Ginny peered into his tankard. It was filled with Butterbeer. "Well, then you'll need something stronger than that stuff," she said matter-of-factly.
"Wanted to buy a redcurrant rum," added Draco, "but they wouldn't let me, they said I was under legal drinking age."
"Are you?
"Yeah, but it's not as though they never fell for it before. Hey, legal drinking age is eighteen, right?"
"I guess," said Ginny. She turned around towards the bar, and saw that there was a single witch serving drinks. She was pretty hard to miss, with her short bright-yellow sundress and waves of blue-streaked blonde hair. "Who's 'they'?"
"Ma'am Rosmerta," said Draco thickly, "and her boobs."
"And her boobs?" repeated Ginny, wide-eyed
"Damn things deserve their own zipcodes, they're so big." His voice was slurred. "See that painting over there, the huge one with a tankard and a bunch of bottles in it? Behind it is a bar that only adults can go in - the drinks are served by these lovely Veela." Draco gulped, sounding bitter: "But I forgot the password."
"You know, you've only had Butterbeer, but you still seem drunk."
Draco smiled at her and looked like his usual self. "I'm not that drunk," he said, in his normal voice. "I was just pulling your leg. But I did want a redcurrant rum to drown my sorrows in. It's just that. life's so weird, you know? And at times it seems that mine's weirder than most people's."
Ginny acknowledged his life's weirdness with a nod. "You're the school prettyboy. You've got more beaus than you have uses for, and because of that you're inclined to cheat, which you did, and now your boyfriend's making a big deal out of it."
"Wow," said Draco, half-admiringly, "you've just summed up my life in two sentences."
Ginny grinned flippantly at him. "Bet you can't do the same for mine."
Draco thought for a second, then told her: "You're the youngest of seven children and you're also the only girl, which means you'd do anything to get a place in the spotlight, and now one of your plans - probably involving a man of some sort - to grab attention backfired." He took a deep breath. "There, that was one sentence."
Ginny laughed despite herself, and wondered with a smirk what Ron would do, say and think if he were to walk in and see them like this: Draco half- slumped over in his chair, clutching an empty tankard, and Ginny, with a big smile on her face, nearly sitting on the table. You can never be too sure of anything, she thought. I never dreamed I'd one day befriend Draco Malfoy, and here I am beginning to. She felt strangely comfortable in Draco's presence, perhaps because he gave her the feeling that she could ask him (almost) anything, and he would (try to) give her an honest answer.
"Draco? Do you ever worry about. about you and Harry?"
His little, twisted, half-drunken smile vanished, and his face took on a blank, bleak look. Ginny bit her tongue, praying with crossed fingers she hadn't offended him, but wanting an answer. She scanned his eyes for signs of anger; she found none, and this emboldened her enough for her to tap her fingers on the table in an imitation of impatience.
When Draco answered, his voice was harsh and tinged with uncertainty. "What kind of worrying do you mean? Worried that I won't be able to win him over again? Oh, I will, don't you worry your little fire-engine head over that."
Ginny took very little offence over the slur to her hair colour. "Of course you will," she agreed, with an almost inaudible touch of sarcasm. "But. what I mean is, you're graduating in three days. Harry wants to leave his aunt and uncle's house as soon as possible - I know because he told Ron - and it's unlikely he'll give you his new address so you can contact him. You only have three days. Are you worried about the deadline?"
Draco hung his head, burying his nose in his tankard again. He looked as though he was giving up - on Harry, on himself and on the world in general - which elicited a raised eyebrow from Ginny, who had been half expecting him to tell her to fuck off, it's none of your business, Weasley, and since when do you care anyway? But Draco said nothing at first, and gave a sigh so great that it seemed to rack his spine.
"Granger would give me his address. she would if I asked her nicely to."
"You sound pretty doubtful."
Draco's patience was now completely worn away by her constant worry- inducing questions. This was, after all, none of her business. "What's it to you?" he snapped. "Why are you so fucking curious all of a sudden?" It had suddenly occurred to him that there was a chance, however slight, that the female Weasley was going to tell all of this to the male Weasley later that night.
".. sorry.." Ginny shrugged, looking sheepish. "I was just wondering."
"Wonder about something else, okay?"
Ginny raised another eyebrow at the pair of grey eyes that were glaring into hers. "And here I was thinking that maybe - just maybe - you were starting to become nice," she said, disgusted. "But I should have known you'd prove me wrong, Malfoy."
She gave him a brief, angry, withering look before spinning on her heels and making for the door. Draco, watching her walk off into the steadily darkening evening, felt strangely impotent - not because there was anything wrong with his dick, but because he was so powerless to stop her.
The second is, I'd like to know how many of you have livejournals, because I'd like to add some of you to my lj friends list (my lj username is _gutterbunny_ )
The third is, where the hell did my earliest and most faithful reviewers go? Gwen, Fyrekun, SophieB and Mandraco, where the fuck are you guys? It's been a while since I've heard from you and I'm getting worried!
By the way: I know that Blaise is a French boy's name. But it just suits a girl better in English.
xox Gutterbunny
* * *
Thursday was the last day of the seventh year's final exams and very stressful for everybody. Lavender Brown was in tears, persuaded she had failed Charms (ironically, it was one of the few classes that she'd passed). Hermione, suffering from a bad case of nerves, hadn't eaten any breakfast, and that evening in the Common Room she curled up in an armchair and didn't speak a word to anybody, despite numerous pleas to join the party that a few sixth-years had started.
"I can't," she said. "I'm too worried. Oh gosh, what if I failed Transfiguration? Oh, I'm sure I did, too."
Their Transfiguration exam had consisted of turning various animals, supplied by Hagrid, into large household objects. Hermione had done it all perfectly until she'd gotten to the bear cub that had to be transformed into a wooden table; she had muddled up the words of the spell, and her table had ended up with four slightly furry legs. Her mistake was not a very important one, but Hermione mastered the art of turning molehills into mountains, and stressed over it until the people around her would have thrown sharp objects at her head if it would have gotten her to shut up.
"Come on, Mione," said Ron, shouting to make his voice heard over the loud music, "you've won the record for Smartest Person in the Universe, do you honestly think you'd fail a class?"
Hermione glared at him but said nothing, and Dean took advantage of that to put in his oar: "Besides, McGonnagall likes you; she'd prolly add a point here, a point there, until you got a passing grade. "
"Don't joke about things like that! Don't -" and Hermione buried her face in a sofa cushion. When she looked up a few seconds later, she saw Ron dancing with Seamus; the two of them were tightly wrapped around each other. Seeing like that brought a smile to her face. "I wonder," she mused out loud, "do Mr. and Mrs. Weasley know that Ron's gay?"
"No," said a voice, sounding as though its owner was positioned very close to Hermione's head.
Hermione turned and saw Ginny perched on the chair's armrest. Judging by the pallor of her face and the dark circles under each blue eye, she hadn't gotten much sleep and hadn't an easy time with her own examinations.
"They don't," said Ginny quietly. She sounded as though she had wanted to speak those words for a long time, but wasn't fully aware that she was speaking them. "But then again, nobody knows that much about Ron - not even Seamus. He's not too keen on opening up, Ron." Ginny's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she stared across the room at her brother.
"I know Ron very well," said Hermione, a tad indignant.
"No, you don't," Ginny contradicted. "Do you even know what kind of work he wants to do once he graduates?"
"Well," said Hermione uncertainly, "I suppose he. I mean, I know that he wants to play Quidditch." The realisation that she wasn't certain came as a surprise; she hung her head, feeling ashamed, and wondering what was wrong with her - she had been Ron's best friend for seven years, had even dated him for a few months, yet she didn't know what kind of job he wanted.
"You see," said Ginny with a smirk, proud over her small victory over the smartest witch in school.
Hermione frowned pensively, thinking that Ginny was wrong, that she, Hermione, knew Ron very well, apart from that little slip-up concerning Ron's future career - and that the person she didn't know was in fact Ginny herself. She had always thought of Ginny as a naïve, insecure little girl - but now the little girl had grown up, seemingly overnight, and Hermione looked at her warily, as one might look at a potentially dangerous stranger in the street. Hermione hadn't given Ginny much thought tin the past two years. Did Ginny read books? Did she feel things and think things? Who was she friends with, and did she still have that silly crush on Harry?
"Ginny," said Hermione, "what do you."
She trailed off. Ginny was no longer sitting there. Hermione frowned, squinted around the room, and saw Ginny's small, shiny skirt disappearing in the crowd at the same time that she saw Harry walk through the portrait hall and skulk up the stairs.
She frowned at him. She'd seen Draco that morning - their Houses had had their Transfiguration exam at the same time - and she sighed sadly as she remembered how the boy had looked. Eyes red-rimmed, face tearstained, shuffling his feet and staring, not at the people around him, but at the floor. His hair had been tangled and tousled; Draco had not taken the time to brush it out, which was a bad sign. Hermione's frown turned into a glare. Draco had had his heart trampled on, had been knocked down from the throne he'd occupied as resident sex god, had been reduced to nearly just desperate and sad another face in the crowd - and here was Harry on his high horse, going on about how he'd been terribly wronged and look what a bastard Malfoy is, locking himself up in his room and worrying everyone to death, not eating, not speaking.
Hermione stood up suddenly and walked across the room and up the staircase, which targeted a disappointed cry from Ron - "she's gone to read a book or something! Aw crap!" She didn't realize how angry she was until she reached Harry's dorm door, and instead of turning the doorknob, she kicked it open.
Harry, who had been enjoying a recently-borrowed library book ("How to commit bloody murder and get away with it" by Elias Slicendice) seemed quite startled. "Gee, Mione, you look pissed," he remarked, hastily slamming the book shut and shoving it in a desk drawer, hiding it from view. "Who're you mad at?"
You," snapped Hermione, and before Harry could voice his surprise, she added, "you're really hurting Draco, and I hate you for it."
Harry opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again, looking like a fish on dry land. "What?" he spluttered, his eyes flashing behind his glasses, "you're on his side now?"
"I'm not on -"
"I thought you were my friend!"
"I am! But that doesn't mean -"
"If you were my friend," said Harry with an air of stubborn finality, "you'd support me one hundred percent."
"NOT WHEN YOU'RE ACTING LIKE A JACKASS!" yelled Hermione. "AND BELIEVE ME, YOU ARE!"
"OH, I AM, AM I?" Harry yelled back, very red in the face.
"YES, YOU ARE -"
A raspy noise issued from Hermione's throat; she clutched her neck, unable to yell any longer. "Just listen to me, okay?" she said softly, and without waiting for Harry's assent - or dissent - she sat on the bed next to him. "Look, everyone in Hogwarts who's old enough to know who Draco is, knows that Draco cheats. You know that -"
"From experience," interrupted Harry loudly.
"And you knew that when you started dating him," Hermione went on, "you knew quite well that there was a very strong chance that one night Draco would wake up next to somebody who wouldn't be you. You knew that it would happen."
"So what?" said Harry sulkily.
"So, you knew that one day or another he'd cheat. And that knowledge means you lose the right to whine like a little girl when he does." Hermione took a deep breath, hoping that Harry wouldn't explode - he was quite red in the face. "You've blown things way out of proportion."
Harry had lost his vocal functions during her little speech, and now gaped at her, scratching a rash on his leg at the same time.
"I'm sorry if I was blunt." Hermione sighed. "But I didn't know how else to put it, and I hate watching you act like such a prat."
He muttered something under his breath that she couldn't quite understand. He looked as though he was struggling with all she had just told him.
"Harry? Are you. all right?"
Harry shook his head. "I just - I know you meant well, so never mind. You look like you have something more to say."
"Yes, I do, actually - that letter you found in Draco's dorm, the one from Fleur? You had absolutely no right to search his dorm. He deserves some privacy - and the least we all know about Draco's turbulent love-life, the better."
"Maybe he deserves his privacy -" Harry stood up abruptly, and glowered down at her - "but does that mean I deserve this? Being cheated on and lied to and fooled by the one person who said over and over again that he loved me?"
Hermione swallowed wetly and looked at the floor, sad and thoughtful. She didn't know how she'd react if Padma ever did something like that. She didn,t want to think about it.
"I'm sorry," said Harry, feeling a twinge of something much like guilt, for a reason unknown to him. "It's been a bad week for everyone."
"And you haven't made it easy on anyone by moping up here all the time. Everyone was so worried about you - and all the classes you skipped!" For a moment Hermione sounded like her old self, as though this was just another day and she was telling Harry off for not doing his homework.
Harry smiled dryly.
"Why don't you go down and join the partying?" Hermione suggested. "It might do you good to - dance it off a bit."
"No, I don't think I will." He shook his head vigorously. "I think I'll stay here and. think about what you said."
Hermione headed towards the door, and said, "I hope you do the right thing."
"I will." Harry turned around to thank her, but she had gone.
* * *
Fleur, for her part, felt purely awful. The planets had aligned against her that week. On Tuesday she lost her job at the Ye Olde Sexe-Shoppe. She found work a few hours later, as a part-time bartendress at the Three Broomsticks, but Madam Rosmerta paid her half her old salary - just enough for Fleur and her owls to starve on. Her shift started at seven and ended in the wee hours of the morning; Fleur was not a night person and found the transition quite hard. Not to mention that mixing drinks could not, and would never, give her the feeling of mischievous, perverted delight that spread inside of her whenever she sold a whip or a collar to a young hormone-driven couple and imagined it being put to use.
On Thursday the bar was nearly empty. Unusual, because, as the only bar in Hogsmeade that allowed underage students, the Three Broomsticks enjoyed a roaring trade. The emptiness worried Fleur, who wouldn't get any tips if there was nobody to tip her. She scanned the room, hoping and praying for a customer - just one - and saw a blonde-white head in a far, dark corner.
"Hello," she called warmly, wanting to be friendly.
The person turned toward her. Fleur smiled and blushed before she could stop herself.
Ginny had quickly tired of the Gryffindor party - people whom she mostly didn't know, dancing to the type of music she had liked at age twelve, and stuffing themselves with the most disgusting food (Ron had somehow acquired three large bags of pickle-flavoured crisps). A walk around Hogsmeade would cool her heels.
In the village she had run into Lavender. The seventh-year blonde was looking for a dress to wear to the graduation ball, which would take place Saturday night. (Sunday night they'd leave Hogwarts by train and be in London by Monday morning.) They had gone to Gladrags Wizardwear, where instead of the usual severe-looking robes, they found an assortment of coloured gowns, tuxedos, t-shirts and jeans. Muggle clothing had become more and more popular in the wizarding world.
Lavender, true to form, had rushed to the rip-off section: clothes which were both ugly and expensive, clothes that were usually worn by old ladies and young witches with an odd resemblance to Britney Spears.
"What d'you think of this one?" she asked Ginny, holding up a Lycra dress of a violent, bright purple.
Ginny wondered what had made Lavender think that she was willing to become her fashion consultant. "Um, it doesn't really flatter your skin tone," she answered, and walked away quickly before Lavender could ask for any more advice. She sat down behind a rack of sleek black gowns made of silk - there was no risk of Lavender finding her here, as she never went for elegant clothing.
Ginny fiddled with her shoe-lace and sighed. It seemed as though her life was almost abnormally complicated these days, and she found it deeply unfair that she was only sixteen and so confused about everything. Her self-confidence had taken a nosedive: the magic that the Veela had worked on her hair at the Hogsmeade salon had worn off, which meant that, once again, her tresses were shoulder-length and red, and her freckles were back and more obvious than ever. She had also gained three
the counted, and became suddenly angry. Only last year had Fred and George begun to make some profits from their joke-shop. Before that, everything owned by a Weasley child was a hand-me-down, the Weasleys had saved every spare Knut - and they could have lived for a year on what Lavender was paying for a dress now.
While the cashier struggled under the weight of dozens of Sickles, Ginny stood up, ran out of Gladrags, across the street and into the Three Broomsticks. A walk hadn't cooled her off, but surely a drink would. She ordered a Gillywater (a drink which contains no alcohol) and looked around for a place to sit down. The "kiddie bar", as the Three Broomsticks was often referred to, was very crowded. In fact, the only free seat left was across the room, at a table occupied only by Draco Malfoy.
She took her drink and sat next to the Slytherin boy. Draco's nose was buried in his tankard.
"Hey, Malfoy, what're you doing?" asked Ginny in a fakely cheerful tone.
"Drowning my sorrows," Draco answered, turning his tearstained face towards her. He sounded as though his nose was stuffed. "I want to forget."
Ginny peered into his tankard. It was filled with Butterbeer. "Well, then you'll need something stronger than that stuff," she said matter-of-factly.
"Wanted to buy a redcurrant rum," added Draco, "but they wouldn't let me, they said I was under legal drinking age."
"Are you?
"Yeah, but it's not as though they never fell for it before. Hey, legal drinking age is eighteen, right?"
"I guess," said Ginny. She turned around towards the bar, and saw that there was a single witch serving drinks. She was pretty hard to miss, with her short bright-yellow sundress and waves of blue-streaked blonde hair. "Who's 'they'?"
"Ma'am Rosmerta," said Draco thickly, "and her boobs."
"And her boobs?" repeated Ginny, wide-eyed
"Damn things deserve their own zipcodes, they're so big." His voice was slurred. "See that painting over there, the huge one with a tankard and a bunch of bottles in it? Behind it is a bar that only adults can go in - the drinks are served by these lovely Veela." Draco gulped, sounding bitter: "But I forgot the password."
"You know, you've only had Butterbeer, but you still seem drunk."
Draco smiled at her and looked like his usual self. "I'm not that drunk," he said, in his normal voice. "I was just pulling your leg. But I did want a redcurrant rum to drown my sorrows in. It's just that. life's so weird, you know? And at times it seems that mine's weirder than most people's."
Ginny acknowledged his life's weirdness with a nod. "You're the school prettyboy. You've got more beaus than you have uses for, and because of that you're inclined to cheat, which you did, and now your boyfriend's making a big deal out of it."
"Wow," said Draco, half-admiringly, "you've just summed up my life in two sentences."
Ginny grinned flippantly at him. "Bet you can't do the same for mine."
Draco thought for a second, then told her: "You're the youngest of seven children and you're also the only girl, which means you'd do anything to get a place in the spotlight, and now one of your plans - probably involving a man of some sort - to grab attention backfired." He took a deep breath. "There, that was one sentence."
Ginny laughed despite herself, and wondered with a smirk what Ron would do, say and think if he were to walk in and see them like this: Draco half- slumped over in his chair, clutching an empty tankard, and Ginny, with a big smile on her face, nearly sitting on the table. You can never be too sure of anything, she thought. I never dreamed I'd one day befriend Draco Malfoy, and here I am beginning to. She felt strangely comfortable in Draco's presence, perhaps because he gave her the feeling that she could ask him (almost) anything, and he would (try to) give her an honest answer.
"Draco? Do you ever worry about. about you and Harry?"
His little, twisted, half-drunken smile vanished, and his face took on a blank, bleak look. Ginny bit her tongue, praying with crossed fingers she hadn't offended him, but wanting an answer. She scanned his eyes for signs of anger; she found none, and this emboldened her enough for her to tap her fingers on the table in an imitation of impatience.
When Draco answered, his voice was harsh and tinged with uncertainty. "What kind of worrying do you mean? Worried that I won't be able to win him over again? Oh, I will, don't you worry your little fire-engine head over that."
Ginny took very little offence over the slur to her hair colour. "Of course you will," she agreed, with an almost inaudible touch of sarcasm. "But. what I mean is, you're graduating in three days. Harry wants to leave his aunt and uncle's house as soon as possible - I know because he told Ron - and it's unlikely he'll give you his new address so you can contact him. You only have three days. Are you worried about the deadline?"
Draco hung his head, burying his nose in his tankard again. He looked as though he was giving up - on Harry, on himself and on the world in general - which elicited a raised eyebrow from Ginny, who had been half expecting him to tell her to fuck off, it's none of your business, Weasley, and since when do you care anyway? But Draco said nothing at first, and gave a sigh so great that it seemed to rack his spine.
"Granger would give me his address. she would if I asked her nicely to."
"You sound pretty doubtful."
Draco's patience was now completely worn away by her constant worry- inducing questions. This was, after all, none of her business. "What's it to you?" he snapped. "Why are you so fucking curious all of a sudden?" It had suddenly occurred to him that there was a chance, however slight, that the female Weasley was going to tell all of this to the male Weasley later that night.
".. sorry.." Ginny shrugged, looking sheepish. "I was just wondering."
"Wonder about something else, okay?"
Ginny raised another eyebrow at the pair of grey eyes that were glaring into hers. "And here I was thinking that maybe - just maybe - you were starting to become nice," she said, disgusted. "But I should have known you'd prove me wrong, Malfoy."
She gave him a brief, angry, withering look before spinning on her heels and making for the door. Draco, watching her walk off into the steadily darkening evening, felt strangely impotent - not because there was anything wrong with his dick, but because he was so powerless to stop her.