"Draco?" Ginny's voice was muffled against his sweaty neck.

"Hmm?" His breath stirred the baby-fine hairs at her temple.

"Could we move to somewhere more comfortable?"

He moved, pulling his head away from her and rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand. "Why?"

"Because, as much as I love you, Darling, you're heavy." She pushed at his chest ineffectually.

Realization dawned across his face and he leapt off of her. "I've hurt you, haven't I? Where does it hurt?" He was frantic now, babbling.

"I'm fine. It's just much more comfortable to be curled up next to you in bed than it is to be squashed under you on a lumpy, old couch."

"But..."

She stood up, wrapping her arms about herself. "I'm freezing. Let's get into bed."

"We seem to spend a great deal of time doing that," he observed. "Perhaps we'd better just get dressed and wake up."

Ginny arched a brow at him and looked him over carefully. "You're kidding, right?"

"Absolutely."




The doorbell was ringing. Ron's sleep-addled mind processed that much, at least. What it couldn't quite figure out was why. Who on Earth would be idiotic enough to call on him at this hour in the morning? For the love of Mike, it was only ten!

It was probably somebody looking for a handout. People were absolutely ridiculous these days. Everyone was looking for a free ride. Well, screw them. He was sleeping.

A warm hand snaked around his waist and he felt Glin's mouth brush his ear. "Make the ringing stop, Ron."

"It's just the doorbell. It'll go away in a few minutes."

"Make it go away, now." She pleaded.

"Oh, all right!" He exclaimed fiercely, throwing the covers back.

"Thank you," she kissed him lavishly before burrowing back down under the blankets. "And brush your teeth. You taste like ass."

Ron rolled his eyes and slid out of bed. Pulling his bathrobe off a hook on the wall, he walked out into the entryway. He pulled the sash tight and flung open the door. "What?"

"Honey, is that velour?" The odd little man in the horribly hip ensemble asked in shock. "You're far too young for your fashion sense to have died in 1963. Where's Glin?"

"She's sleeping," Ron replied, baffled but irate.

"I bet she is, the filthy, little trollop," the man said, trying to edge past him into the flat.

"Just who in the hell-"

"What a temper you've got! Probably goes with all the red hair, doesn't it? I'm Carloooooos," he said, as if that explained everything. Pushing a business card into Ron's hand, he slipped past him and was off to the bedroom.

"Glin, Darling! We've got to get moving!"

From beneath the bedclothes, Glin argued with him. "It's Sunday, Carlos. I'm sleeping!"

"Fashion does not take holidays, Goodrich. I've gotten you a meeting with Antonio."

Her head peeped out from beneath the coverlet. "Antonio? Really?"

"Yes, really. Now haul that cute little bum of yours out of bed!"

Ron evidently took offense at the remark about Glin's bum, and said as much. "Now see here-"

"Darling, tell Patrick O'Sassiness over here to shut it and put some music on."

"Ron," she glanced at him apologetically. "Shut it, and put some music on."

"And none of that new crap, Ron," Carlos chimed in. "I'm thinking classic rock, I'm thinking 'I'm Every Woman," I'm thinking, 'It's Raining Men,' I'm thinking 'These Boots are Made for Walking...'"

"I've no clue what any of that is," Ron told the odd little man. "How about you give me an explanation. And who in the bloody hell is Antonio?"

"How about you catch?" Carlos threw a case of compact discs at him. "Pop 'Glin's Morning Mix,' in. Glin, I've got everything we need in the tote bags."

Glin jumped out of bed, seemingly ignorant of the fact that she was completely naked. Grabbing a tote bag, she fished out a bra and a pair of underwear. Or, if you prefer Ron's interpretation, she fished out a bit of floss that wouldn't be sufficient for covering a toddler, let alone a grown woman.

She wriggled into them, and wrapped a blanket around herself. "Do the hair, then the make-up!" She shouted at Carlos.

"Am I new at this?" He asked her in disbelief. "Is it not my ability that's gotten those cute little genes of yours this far?" Evidently they'd had this little spat before, as he just launched right in without waiting for an answer. Ron, hand me the curler, and get the immobility spray ready."

Having shared a bathroom with a teenage girl every summer for around seven years, and sharing a bathroom with Fleur off and on for two years, Ron knew what he considered a surprising amount about make-up and hair products. Carlos, it seemed, was not impressed.

"I said the coal liner! This is charcoal! Are you daft?" In fact, Carlos seemed to be happiest when he was being critical. One of Glin's eyelids flickered and he took personal offense. "I'm trying to create a masterpiece Glin, but I'm not going for the cubist look. Hold still!"

Ron watched the proceedings in amazement. Within fifteen minutes, Glin looked as if she'd just stepped straight out of a fashion magazine. Her hair was demurely curled behind her ears, in stark contrast to the bright red robes she was wearing. Her eyes were smoky and sexy, and her lips were blood red. Thigh-high red lace-up boots and a teeny-tiny handbag accessorized the look. She looked rather like Little Red Riding hood, only dangerous.

Blowing a kiss in his direction, they both ran out the door.





Charlie Weasley rolled over in bed, and, noticing the rays of light streaming in the window, pulled a pillow over his head.

Rather unfortunately for Charlie, the heater in the ramshackle flat he'd been leasing for the past month or so was permanently on. No matter what he did, his flat was always ungodly warm. And the pillow was only making things worse.

Trouble was, he didn't really have anywhere to go. What did the curator of a museum about dragons do on the weekends? Having only been a curator for around two weeks, he had absolutely no clue.

It was nice, not having to sleep in a tent and all, but he'd expected there to be more positives for settling down. Like being in London, where there actually was a nightlife outside of a dragon being up all night with indigestion. Like having a permanent home, and being close to his family, and being around all his friends.

And quite frankly, he had expected there to be women.

Not swarms of them or anything. He wasn't holding any illusions here. He wasn't a Gilderoy Lockhart or a Sirius Black by a long shot. But if Fred and George had found wives, it shouldn't be impossible for him. After all, Fred and George were just rich. He'd been a dragon keeper.

Operative word being "had." He wasn't entirely sure women thought of "museum curator" on their list of exciting jobs. Hell, it wasn't even on his list.

It really shouldn't be that difficult. He was an intelligent man with a wonderful sense of humor. Or so his sister said. Come to think of it, no one except his family was really that keen on him. Perhaps he was really a troll, and no one had the heart to tell him.

"Argh." He threw the pillow at the heater, hoping it would catch fire and he would die in the flames.

No such luck. It just thudded.

He pried himself out of bed and into what he assumed were a clean set of robes (they'd been in what he was guessing was the clean pile. They didn't smell anyways.) After a cup of tea, he decided to call on Lupin. Lupin was generally up for a good bit of self deprecating conversation and a game of wizard's chess on a Sunday morning.





"Harry, which do you think for the bridesmaid's dresses? Crimson with gold trim, or gold with crimson trim?"

Harry looked at her in disbelief. "D'you honestly think I'd have any manner of clue about that sort of thing?"

Hermione looked up at him. "Right. I suppose I'll have to get Glin to help me with this then. Is there any part of the wedding you'd actually like to have input on?"

"The cake."

"Do you ever think with anything other than your stomach?"

He came up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her nape. "I think with something other than my stomach a great deal of the time..."

"You don't want to invite the Dursleys, do you?"

Harry released her. "Excellent job at killing the mood. No."

"All right, just checking. Which of your quidditch fellows are married?"

"How should I know? We just play quidditch together."

"We socialize with them occasionally, I thought you'd know," she said irritably. "It's not like I'm extracting teeth here, Harry. I'm trying to make our wedding nice."

"I'll find out. I'll get a team roster or something. Don't worry. We've got six months."

"We've got only six months. Six months to plan an entire wedding by ourselves." She scrutinized Harry and retracted her previous statement. "I've got six months to plan an entire wedding by myself."

"Now, now," he comforted her. "You've got Ginny and Glin."






Remus was still trying to get over the weirdness of waking up to find a former colleague asleep on his feet, when the doorbell rang. He folded his newspaper neatly, and went to answer the door.

"Who is it?"

The someone on the other side mumbled something, and Minnie sighed. "Honestly, Remus. You'd think you'd have realized that you aren't going to be able to hear them through the door. If you were really concerned, you'd look through the peephole."

Remus didn't look through the peephole, though. It was highly unlikely that it was anyone except for Charlie, looking for a game a wizards chess and a should to cry on.

"Hullo Charlie," he said, before the door was even open.

But Charlie wasn't the one on the front stoop. It was a girl, a woman, he supposed, of indeterminate age, and she appear vaguely familiar. She had light brown hair, and she was short. At first glance, there wasn't anything remarkable about her.

At first glance that was. At second glance, she had eyes that reminded him of jewels, shining and shimmering in the light. There was something behind them, too. Something sad, and sweet, and just a bit feline. And at third glance...

At third glance he realized she was most assuredly far too young for him.

"Do I know you?"

The woman blushed and stuck out her hand. "Tracy Knight. One of the American aurors. Is McGonagall here?"

"Er...yeah, I guess." He ushered her into his small home. "I'm Remus Lupin, by the way."

"I know. I'm not in the habit of showing up on the stoops of people I don't know."

"So we've met?"

"Briefly." She didn't add that it was evidently brief enough for him to forget her. It wasn't right to expect other people to remember tiny, insignificant details like women they've only met once. Most of her friends were aurors, and she'd gotten spoiled in that regard. Still, it bothered her somehow.

The cat was sitting on Lupin's dining room table, right in the middle of the paper he'd neatly folded. She was reading, skimming the headlines most likely, Tracy thought, because cats eyes weren't ideal for reading. In fact, she probably wasn't reading them at all. She'd probably been listening to their little conversation on the stoop and was now pretending she didn't care about it a bit.

Which, Tracy though, would certainly have been what she would do if she thought people were talking about her. "McGonagall?"

"Yes..." The cat lapped her saucer of ice water disinterestedly.

"You said you'd be interested in seeing some of the junk we pulled out of Malfoy Manor?"

"Yes..." It was obvious she was feigning disinterest at this point.

"Well, I brought over some photographs of the unidentified objects. Thought you and Lupin might have a go at identifying them before we tossed them in with everything else. But if you're not interested..."

The cat looked up from the paper, finally. "Just because I don't get all wound up like a kitten on catnip doesn't mean I'm not interested. It just means I'm a cat. Bring them into the sitting room." She leapt gracefully off the table, and trotted into the next room, her tail pointing straight into the air. "And bring my saucer."

Before they were settled, another knocking came at the door. Remus stood to answer it. "That'll be Charlie."







Glin and Carlos walked into the impossibly chic restaurant with their heads held high. Carlos had a look of triumph in his eyes, like one of those ridiculous fisherman on the telly does whenever they break a record on bass size. Glin's eyes were sparkling like ice, and the look on her face said she knew that before she sat down, she'd have the job. One look at her, and they'd give her anything they could to make her theirs.

She hadn't met him before. He was tall, almost as tall as Ron. His hair was dark, as were his eyes, and his skin was a beautiful shade of olive. He looked like he should be a model, not a photographer. The way his robes fitted him had to be illegal for some reason. His body leaned in and out of the curves of the pin striped robes, following it like an expensive sports car hugging the curves of a mountain pass. Antonio's eyes were hungry, but not in an unpleasant way. He looked as if his fairytale princess had just waltzed into the room. His face stayed that way for awhile, before he put a steely business gaze in his eyes. His companion was a squat little man.

Both men stood and Glin and Carlos reached the table. The small man spoke first. "I am Mario. I believe you know of Antonio."

"I'm Carlos. I believe you know Glin."

Antonio took her hand and kissed it, his well-manicured fingernails caressing her palm. He murmured something almost inaudible, offered no further explanation, and motioned for them to sit down.

They did, Carlos and Mario having what appeared to be a staring contest as Antonio helped Glin into her chair.

Antonio spoke for the first time then, his speech tinted with only a bit of an Italian accent. "My dear, I do not like to be kept waiting. We are not Malkin's, you know."

"If you were Malkin's I wouldn't have troubled myself with getting out of bed at all," she told him honestly.

His chuckle was low, deep and rumbling. "No, I suppose you wouldn't. Let's not let business spoil our lunch." Antonio covered her hand with his. It was a gesture of assumed intimacy, and as much as it made her uncomfortable, she couldn't pull away. Not because it would offend him, and not because he was holding her hand by force. He was doing something with his eyes...

Ignoring this slightly disturbing factor, she decided to voice her opinion. "No offense, Antonio, but this is a business luncheon, not a social event."

"Why can't it be both?" He was still holding her hand.

"Because mixing business with pleasure is a nasty habit, and as you already witnessed with my little exercise in tardiness, I've got too many as it is."

His eyes flashed something...respect? Or was it anger? The look was only there for a moment before his eyes went back to their usual unreadable selves. He released her hand and sat back in his chair. "Very well, Signora. Mario?"

His miniature companion snapped to attention. "We're prepared to offer Miss Goodrich this contract."

Carlos looked over the parchment the little man had pushed across the table, skimming. Things looked pretty standard, for a first offer, except for Antonio's complete creative control clause.

"What's this about complete creative control?"

"My client simply wishes to have final say on Glin's appearance in photographs and in public."

Glin's looked at the three men disbelievingly. Antonio and Mario seemed to think this was more than reasonable, but Carlos was looking dumbfounded. "No, no way. It's my body. I have the final say."

"But..." The ferret-like little man protested.

"No," she told them, directing her answer at Antonio. "It's my body, it's my decision. I have the control or there's no deal."

"Darling," he condescended, the way he said it sending unpleasant little shivers up her spine. "I'm an artist. I must have some control over what's going prancing about town with my name connected to it."

"And I'm not going to go prancing about town with the stigma of something you thought was art hanging about my head for the rest of my life. I've been on the peripherals of this industry for five years now. I've seen what up-and-coming photographers think is art, and I've seen what they can do to models." She was fierce now, her aquamarine eyes glowing with anger. "You're developing a reputation, Antonio, as a future star. But don't be ignorant of the fact that what I say, what I do, what I try on in a store on a whim is fashion, regardless of who is snapping the pictures. I have the power to further your career, if you want to use it. But you can't harness my abilities to suit your needs. I'm riding my career to the top, and if you want to ride piggyback, that's fine, but you'll do it on my terms." She stood. "I've got things to do. Carlos will owl a contract by your office later with my terms. Sign it, don't sign it. It's your career."

She swept out of the restaurant. As she looked back to watch Carlos trailing behind her, she caught a glimpse of Antonio's eyes. She'd expected to see anger, and perhaps a bit of respect. There wasn't any anger in the deep, dark pools. There was only excitement, as if he'd given her a test and she'd passed with flying colors. To say it unnerved her would be to put it lightly.






This time, it actually was Charlie at the door, but not far behind him was Ginny's secretary, Sadie, a short woman with extremely curly dark brown hair. She appeared to be having an extremely bad day.

"Has Tracy Knight been by here?"

Missing Tracy's "I'm not here" gesture, Remus let the little woman into the house. Upon seeing Tracy, she seemed to get even more enraged. "Auror Knight, I really must insist you actually check to make sure that the Minister approves of your showing classified information to civilians."

"I sent in a request," she said innocently.

"You didn't wait to hear what the response was," Sadie added pointedly.

"I'm sure Ginny..." At Sadie's sharp look she rephrased her statement. "I'm sure the Minister wouldn't mind."

"Regardless, proper protocol must be observed."

"Fine then." Tracy plopped down in one of Lupin's armchairs and looked at Sadie challengingly. "Owl her."

"I have. I'm just waiting for a response."

"It may be awhile. He has enormous... staying power, as it were." The cat cautioned. At their shocked and horrified expressions she rationalized her previous statement. "What, like you weren't all thinking it?"

"I wasn't," Remus said in astonishment. "I don't speculate about the... whatever of former students!"

"I was," Tracy admitted nonchalantly.

"She's my sister!" Charlie squeaked, which was relatively amazing to hear from someone who looked rather like a bear.

Sadie just blushed.

"Oh, fine, Tracy and I are horrible, horrible sluttish women."

"I object to being called horrible," Tracy sniffed, with a lavish wink in Lupin's direction.

Just then, a tawny gold owl appeared at the window. Sadie went to let her owl in. "Have you got any treats for Demeter, Mr. Lupin? I haven't got any with me."

Remus handed her one of the cat treats he kept around for Minnie. The cat glared at him, but he paid her no heed. "Here you are, Demeter."

The note on Demeter's leg said, much to Sadie's chagrin, that Ginny didn't mind at all, and would appreciate it if Sadie helped them look over things, as she was rather smart about magical artifacts.

Tracy didn't even try to hide her self-assured grin as she fished an envelope of photographs out of her bag. "Well, people, let's get down to business then, eh?"