Author's note: Sorry about the length of this chapter. I'll be off to school tomorrow, and probably won't have internet access for at least a week, so I thought it best to leave you with a bit to discuss. Lot's of new questions in this chapter, and I'll be interested to see what your take on them is. On an aside, a warm get well wish goes out to Tracy. Hope you feel better.
A rather fierce man, aptly named Brutus, spotted Glin in the line outside of "Hex," the club Glin's pal Mark owned. "Hex" would more appropriately have been named "abandoned warehouse with a liquor license off the ill-kempt alleyway." Although, that probably was a bit lengthy for a sign comprised of graffiti, and he was entirely unsure about the legality of the whole business.
"Oi!" Shouted the burly man with "mum" tattooed on his arm. "You gits make way. She's on the list."
The crowd didn't move, but Glin still managed to edge her way to the front of the line, pulling Ron along behind her.
"New toy, love?" Brutus asked as he unhooked the velvet rope barring their entrance.
"A friend, Bru."
"I'll keep an eye out then. The place is packed tonight."
"Thanks." Glin pulled Ron over to a set of stairs where yet another bouncer waited. "Name," inquired the refrigerator of a man.
"Leo, you know me. Don't be an ass."
"Name?" The caveman responded threateningly.
"Glin and guest," she told him as she sighed in exasperation.
"Last name?"
"My last name is 'don't make me tell Mark you've been harassing the celebrities, again.' It's on the list..." She feigned innocence.
The giant's eyes darkened, but he let them pass without another word. As they walked up the stairs, Ron could feel the man watching them. Evidently, Glin sensed it, too, for she stopped and spun around rather abruptly.
"Stop looking at his ass, Leo. He's straight."
The mountain turned his back to them, and they proceeded to the upper level of the club.
The remainder of the night was rather uneventful. They danced a fair bit, and Ron definitely began to see the merits of muggle clothing. Glin's outfit left very little to the imagination, and what he couldn't see was very plainly illustrated to him by the way she was dancing against him.
When Glin went to say hello to the band, Ron sat down at a table with Brutus, who was evidently on a break. Thankfully, Brutus alerted him to the fact that the every flavor beans he'd almost eaten were not actually every flavor beans, but rather a muggle drug called "Quaaludes." Luckily, he'd been stopped before taking a handful, as Brutus explained that even one would have probably "righteously fucked" with Ron's head. Glin had allayed his tension over the Quaaludes by dancing with him very slowly, and then pulling him into a closet.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending upon which side of the closet one was on, Ron suspected that this would quickly become a "normal" evening for him.
Ginny padded out of her bedroom, and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She was just scanning the headlines of "the Prophet," when she noticed Lavendar's front page column on the rumors about her and Draco. From "Minister's Affairs," it was only a hop, skip, and a jump to "Wizarding Weekly's" "Dark Wizard Frenzy: Minister Weasley gives go-ahead to Aurors." The only redeeming bit about the morning's news was that the wireless listed her approval rating as much higher than anticipated. A voice called out to her, and she walked into the living room.
"Bill?" She asked in bewilderment. "Why's your head floating in my fireplace?"
"Wanted to know if you'd like to go to dinner with me," he replied curtly.
"I supposed that wouldn't be terrible. Pick me up at six from the Ministry?"
"See you then."
She supposed she should just chalk it up to a bit of familial nostalgia on her brother's part, but she couldn't help being suspicious. Her family only spoke to her when they wanted to know something, or they had something to tell her about. Bill had never been particularly big on either.
"Le Studio," was delightfully French, and delightfully pretentious. Although, when you think about it, the two terms are almost completely interchangeable. While Ginny appreciated Bill's taste in dining, she was puzzled at his selection of conversation.
It seemed Bill, who had always possessed "a way with the ladies," as he himself put it, was now completely heartbroken. A woman he had only just met had canceled a date with him.
"But perhaps she really did have to apparate to Milan for a fitting," Ginny said hopefully.
"No," Bill moped. "She just realized that a man my age-"
"You're not even thirty!" Ginny scoffed.
"A man my age," he continued, "has nothing to offer a beautiful model."
"Bill, models haven't ever seen anything wrong with you before. You're only upset because you're not used to rejection."
"See, 'rejection.' I've been rejected."
"That's not what I meant, Bill. D'you want me to take it up with Glin and see what she thinks?"
"No," he said in a pout.
"All right then. What're you going to order."
"The Pizza Marguerite," he said automatically.
"Delightfully un-French, yet still pretentious," Ginny observed.
"It's a gift."
They watched as the Minister and her brother ate. They listened to the banter and catalogued what might prove important.
"He's very handsome," said one thoughtfully.
"He's irrelevant," the others responded coldly. "Only the minister matters."
"You're right of courses. Shall we watch him, too?"
"We will not. He's much more of a risk if he's observed, also."
"Right. Shall we check in with the cat again?"
Hands flew over a keyboard, and the Minister's flat showed on one of the many television screens. A large tabby was sitting on an overstuffed sofa, belting out the theme to "Perfect Strangers."
One of them groaned in disgust.
"At least she's not cleaning herself again," replied one of the others.
A satisfied grin swept over their faces. The subjects were completely and totally clueless.
A rather fierce man, aptly named Brutus, spotted Glin in the line outside of "Hex," the club Glin's pal Mark owned. "Hex" would more appropriately have been named "abandoned warehouse with a liquor license off the ill-kempt alleyway." Although, that probably was a bit lengthy for a sign comprised of graffiti, and he was entirely unsure about the legality of the whole business.
"Oi!" Shouted the burly man with "mum" tattooed on his arm. "You gits make way. She's on the list."
The crowd didn't move, but Glin still managed to edge her way to the front of the line, pulling Ron along behind her.
"New toy, love?" Brutus asked as he unhooked the velvet rope barring their entrance.
"A friend, Bru."
"I'll keep an eye out then. The place is packed tonight."
"Thanks." Glin pulled Ron over to a set of stairs where yet another bouncer waited. "Name," inquired the refrigerator of a man.
"Leo, you know me. Don't be an ass."
"Name?" The caveman responded threateningly.
"Glin and guest," she told him as she sighed in exasperation.
"Last name?"
"My last name is 'don't make me tell Mark you've been harassing the celebrities, again.' It's on the list..." She feigned innocence.
The giant's eyes darkened, but he let them pass without another word. As they walked up the stairs, Ron could feel the man watching them. Evidently, Glin sensed it, too, for she stopped and spun around rather abruptly.
"Stop looking at his ass, Leo. He's straight."
The mountain turned his back to them, and they proceeded to the upper level of the club.
The remainder of the night was rather uneventful. They danced a fair bit, and Ron definitely began to see the merits of muggle clothing. Glin's outfit left very little to the imagination, and what he couldn't see was very plainly illustrated to him by the way she was dancing against him.
When Glin went to say hello to the band, Ron sat down at a table with Brutus, who was evidently on a break. Thankfully, Brutus alerted him to the fact that the every flavor beans he'd almost eaten were not actually every flavor beans, but rather a muggle drug called "Quaaludes." Luckily, he'd been stopped before taking a handful, as Brutus explained that even one would have probably "righteously fucked" with Ron's head. Glin had allayed his tension over the Quaaludes by dancing with him very slowly, and then pulling him into a closet.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending upon which side of the closet one was on, Ron suspected that this would quickly become a "normal" evening for him.
Ginny padded out of her bedroom, and poured herself a glass of orange juice. She was just scanning the headlines of "the Prophet," when she noticed Lavendar's front page column on the rumors about her and Draco. From "Minister's Affairs," it was only a hop, skip, and a jump to "Wizarding Weekly's" "Dark Wizard Frenzy: Minister Weasley gives go-ahead to Aurors." The only redeeming bit about the morning's news was that the wireless listed her approval rating as much higher than anticipated. A voice called out to her, and she walked into the living room.
"Bill?" She asked in bewilderment. "Why's your head floating in my fireplace?"
"Wanted to know if you'd like to go to dinner with me," he replied curtly.
"I supposed that wouldn't be terrible. Pick me up at six from the Ministry?"
"See you then."
She supposed she should just chalk it up to a bit of familial nostalgia on her brother's part, but she couldn't help being suspicious. Her family only spoke to her when they wanted to know something, or they had something to tell her about. Bill had never been particularly big on either.
"Le Studio," was delightfully French, and delightfully pretentious. Although, when you think about it, the two terms are almost completely interchangeable. While Ginny appreciated Bill's taste in dining, she was puzzled at his selection of conversation.
It seemed Bill, who had always possessed "a way with the ladies," as he himself put it, was now completely heartbroken. A woman he had only just met had canceled a date with him.
"But perhaps she really did have to apparate to Milan for a fitting," Ginny said hopefully.
"No," Bill moped. "She just realized that a man my age-"
"You're not even thirty!" Ginny scoffed.
"A man my age," he continued, "has nothing to offer a beautiful model."
"Bill, models haven't ever seen anything wrong with you before. You're only upset because you're not used to rejection."
"See, 'rejection.' I've been rejected."
"That's not what I meant, Bill. D'you want me to take it up with Glin and see what she thinks?"
"No," he said in a pout.
"All right then. What're you going to order."
"The Pizza Marguerite," he said automatically.
"Delightfully un-French, yet still pretentious," Ginny observed.
"It's a gift."
They watched as the Minister and her brother ate. They listened to the banter and catalogued what might prove important.
"He's very handsome," said one thoughtfully.
"He's irrelevant," the others responded coldly. "Only the minister matters."
"You're right of courses. Shall we watch him, too?"
"We will not. He's much more of a risk if he's observed, also."
"Right. Shall we check in with the cat again?"
Hands flew over a keyboard, and the Minister's flat showed on one of the many television screens. A large tabby was sitting on an overstuffed sofa, belting out the theme to "Perfect Strangers."
One of them groaned in disgust.
"At least she's not cleaning herself again," replied one of the others.
A satisfied grin swept over their faces. The subjects were completely and totally clueless.