Warning for mild swearing, blood, mild PTSD, and implied murder.

1920s — Chicago

Ginny stepped back from the body of her boyfriend — well, ex-boyfriend — and wiped the blood off the ornate knife with his elaborate dress shirt. Ricardo had made an enormous mistake — trying to quite literally to drive a knife between her shoulder blades, which would've connected if Ginny's dress hadn't been padded. The knife had been lodged in the thick padding, giving Ginny time to kick him in the groin area and reach behind her to pull out the knife.

And then...well, Ricardo hadn't stood a chance.

He hadn't stood a chance — he hadn't concealed his intentions well, nor had he concealed the papers containing the instructions to murder her. The papers had been stamped with the seal of an organization she recognized all too well.

Tomorrow, she would go confront the leader of that organization. Tonight, though...she gazed down at Ricardo's prone form. First, she had to dispose of the body…or better yet, hide his body until she could take it herself to the organization's headquarters and show them what would happen if they sent any assassins after Ginny Weasley.

It was a shame though; she had dressed up to pretend as if they were truly going out — she'd worn her prettiest dress and done an excellent job (as usual) on her makeup to play along with Ricardo's charade. It would be a terrible, terrible shame to waste it.

But first, she had to cover up the murder.

Ricardo was heavier than she thought. For a slender man, he was quite cumbersome to lug down the hall to her bedroom. She dumped him facedown on her bed and pulled the blankets up to the base of his head so the wound in his neck would be covered. The bleeding had already stopped, so her sheets wouldn't be soiled.

Once he was safely tucked in the bed, it was time to discard the evidence. Ginny quickly rinsed in the sink; the pretentious idiot had his initials engraved in the hilt, so she couldn't repurpose it as a kitchen knife. That meant…

She slid it into the pillowcase under Ricardo's head. As an afterthought, she took it back out, lifted Ricardo's head (heavy head, mind you; it was inflated with arrogance), and pierced the pillowcase's delicate fabric. The knife was positioned so that it looked like his own blade had slit his throat open.

There was no blood around him though, so that would be a problem — but she was exhausted from setting up the crime scene, and like an idiot, she had already cleaned up all of Ricardo's blood, and she very well couldn't use her own. Fake blood would be useless. She couldn't use any more of Ricardo's blood, because extra wounds would be a dead giveaway.

The crime scene would have to remain incomplete, for now. Despite all her efforts, she doubted the police would come knocking unless the organization tipped them off — shit, she hadn't thought of that.

Ginny surveyed her work as her mind raced. She would have to bank on her "absence" as an alibi and also hope that that the organization wouldn't realize that Ricardo had been missing so long and tattle to the police — or worse, come check on him themselves.

After a quick look in the bathroom mirror and adjusting her hair and dress (thank god, her makeup hadn't been smeared), she swapped her low heels for a pair of stilettos. She was feeling particularly reckless tonight.

As she left, Ginny made sure to lock the door behind her — just the one lock, so it wouldn't look suspicious.

Ginny was almost in a pleasant mood when she arrived at the bar. The bar was an underground speakeasy, and she could hear the faint sounds of jazz music playing over the speakers. She flashed her ID at the bouncer, who let her in without a fuss — they were casual friends, and she was a regular.

The lights were low as she entered and murmurs drifted around her as people enjoyed the tranquil yet upbeat atmosphere. A few couples swayed almost hypnotically on the floor, but the main crowd was around the bar today, where a couple of harassed-looking bartenders whipped up drinks with alarming speed.

Ginny wisely chose to sit at the end of the bar, where there were fewer patrons — she wasn't that eager for a drink, and she was content to watch the jostling crowd. One man stomped on another man's foot, and that led to a full-scale argument. A punch was thrown. A brawl began.

"Come here often?" A seedy man leered at her, his oversized lips pulled back into what he thought was a charming smile. Judging from the cloudiness in his eyes (unless she was imagining it in the dim light, but she doubted she was wrong) — this man was inebriated.

Ginny swallowed a sigh; this wasn't her first time dealing with men like him. "Yes," she said politely, playing along for now.

"Well, I've never seen y-you here b-before," he said, hiccupping rather unattractively. "And I come here ev-everyyy —"

Ginny yelped as his body toppled over, right into her and causing her to grip the counter behind her. Why are men so heavy?

As she contemplated whether or not to outright shove the body away from her, a friendly voice interrupted her internal debate. "Need a hand?"

"Harry!" Ginny said, half-relieved and half-horrified that he had to catch her like this, with a disgusting man's lips planted on her breast. If he weren't unconscious, she would've thought it was on purpose and knocked him six ways till Sunday.

"Was this man bothering you?" Harry began prying the man's body off hers, and Ginny took a moment to breathe and recollect her thoughts.

"Nothing I couldn't handle," she said airily, not for the first time appreciating the way Harry's defined arms strained against his sleeves as he hefted the man and laid him on one of the empty tables. The table groaned but remained standing, and Harry slid onto the barstool next to hers.

"Are you sure?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "You seemed a little... flustered. And you haven't even ordered a drink yet."

"You were watching me this whole time?" she countered. "If I didn't know you, that would be like, five different kinds of creepy."

Harry's ears turned red, but his answer was confident and nearly knocked the breath out of her lungs. "Gin, with the way you look, you stole the room's spotlight when you walked in."

And suddenly Ginny was thrust into the past. Memories of Harry's fumbling compliments, her equally awkward responses, and the clumsy flirting game they played flashed through her mind. They were both young and novices at romance — his sweaty hand would slip into hers, and they would both blush profusely. She would kiss his cheek, and there would be a faint, glossy mark on his cheek for the rest of the day.

That had been years ago. Ginny had become a pro at capturing men; she knew the art of fluttering her eyelashes and catching a man's attention. And yet Harry made her feel like she was still the thirteen-year-old girl who had been his first kiss, who had held her hand and made her feel like she was roasting from the inside.

It hadn't helped that Harry had grown into an attractive man. And that somewhere along the way, he had also learned to flirt.

Ginny allowed the compliment to consume her for a moment, and then she replied, "You're getting smoother, Potter. Got a girlfriend yet?"

He turned his head away slightly from her, and she felt guilty for brushing off his attempt at flirting — he was obviously crestfallen, but before she could apologize, he was back to his bright, smiling persona.

Something banged against her ribcage — her heart — but she ignored it. And then she realized that the banging wasn't her heart — it was the sound of gunshots ringing through the bar.

She only had a moment to gasp out "Harry!" before he lunged and tackled her. They both rolled onto the ground, Harry on top, and Ginny's heart ceased to function.

Snap out of it! This is no time to behave like a breathless schoolgirl!

Screams blasted her eardrums and Harry pressed closer, intent on protecting her — and his lips hovered just inches above her own, his green eyes boring into her eyes.

Keep yourself together.

She didn't know how long they stayed like that; she was too busy trying not to kiss her childhood friend while battling her memories — memories of a gun biting into her skin, of sticky blood pooled around her body, and —

Only when the yelling stopped did she return to reality, of the roaring silence, and Harry — Harry was still so close to her. She was half-tempted to push him away — don't wreck this, you just murdered a man, what the hell are you thinking — and she gave in to the temptation.

Or at least partly.

She started to push him but found her arms moving of their own accord, snaking around his neck and crushing his mouth against hers. Or perhaps it was he who crushed her lips into his. Either way, it didn't matter, because they were kissing, and oh, it was glorious.

Ginny got very, very drunk.

Once the confusion was sorted out, everyone started to leave — afraid that the cops would show up or something — but Ginny remained behind, taking advantage of the bartenders' skittishness by ordering drink after drink.

Harry, responsible as he was, decided to join her.

One thing led to another and suddenly they were stumbling out of the speakeasy, wrapped around each other and laughing senselessly, and once they reached his apartment, it was all over.

Ginny woke the next morning in Harry's bed, sore but glowing, and turned to kiss him awake — only to see a folded note in his empty place, with a familiar seal glistening on the crisp paper.

Dumbfounded, she unfolded the note.

Dear Gin,

I'm sorry, but I had to. I wanted to stay but I couldn't — not with you've done. The game is up. The police are waiting outside the building.

I'm so, so sorry.

— HP

She stared blankly at the words for a moment, and then with a strangled scream, hurled the note. It fluttered to the ground without hitting anything.

"I hate you!" she shrieked to the air. The air did not answer.

Defeated and with a pounding headache, she slid out of bed and searched for her clothes. Her pretty dress was not in the room; it was out in the hall. A painful memory flashed in front of her eyes — Harry's fingers scrabbling on the zipper, and they'd stumbled into his bedroom with only their underwear on. With numb fingers, she stepped into it and pulled it over her body.

At least I'll look pretty, she thought mournfully. She ran her fingers through her messy hair, remembering how skillfully he had mussed it the night before.

Ginny wandered into the kitchen in a daze. A glass of water sat on the kitchen table and without thinking twice she gulped it down. It helped her headache a little, but it still felt like drummers were inside her skull.

Smoothing out the wrinkles of her dress, she gave the kitchen one last glance before walking out into the hallway, and then, the door.

She half-expected to see Harry, but there was no sign of him as she went down the steps. Her mind was empty of thoughts as she mentally braced herself.

How did they — he — find out?

The thought came unbidden and she skated through the possibilities. She had covered all of her bases — right?

The answer the police gave her was simple: fingerprints. And Ginny was cursing herself. She'd forgotten something critical — gloves. She'd done everything with her bare hands, including touching the blade, and they'd found her fingerprint smudges all over the blade. They'd had Harry identify the fingerprints — he knew them perfectly because they were unique and special.

She didn't see Harry as she was cuffed and put in the backseat of the police car, but she didn't care — he'd practically betrayed her, betrayed ten years of friendship and an almost-romance, and she never wanted to see him ever again — and she probably wouldn't.

It still hurt, though.

2100 words

Auction - All That Jazz - Chicago