Messy: Chapter 2

Author's Note: Special thanks to those who reviewed: Little-munchkin-poo, Pyro Symptoms Unleashed, lepeipei, Kim, mt-threat, Ashleigh, bouillbaise, Rialty, and lucygirl07.

There were two things Ginny Weasley had always assumed about Draco Malfoy. The first: that he hated her; the second: that he was probably gay, or at least bisexual. Remembering something Fred had said once ("When you assume, you make an ass of u and me"), Ginny knew now that her initial impressions of Malfoy had been wrong.

She remembered, with surprising clarity, that Friday night when she'd drunk—drank? Drinken? Drunken? Her conjugations were usually off—too quickly because she had felt so awkward. Truth was, Ginny had never really felt comfortable in her own body; she always felt as if she were a visitor in someone else's skin. And it didn't help that for the past couple years, her mother's rotund figure was creeping into her own. She could feel the hips ready to pop out at any second. She was glad, though, for the breasts, which was why she was afraid to lose too much weight, as her mammary glands might just retreat back into her chest cavity.

But now, in the bar, she tugged her shirt down over her love handles self-consciously, took the first tangy sip of her fourth fire whiskey and coke (nothing like muggle mixer and wizard alcohol), raised her eyes just slightly, and met the charry gaze of Draco Malfoy. She was so startled by the sight that her drink shot up and out of her nose. Nostrils burning, she saw through teary eyes a disgruntled-looking Malfoy, who sported a wet spot on his shirt from where the mixture of booze, soda, and snot had hit him.

"Did your nose just ejaculate, Weasley, or are you just happy to see me?"

And Ginny, being drunk and being Ginny, did the only thing she could do in this very embare-ass-ing situation—she started to laugh. And not polite chuckles but immense guffaws, straight from her belly. Just when she thought she was about to stop, she looked at Malfoy—wearing his stereotypical scowl—and burst out again. This did not have a very healthy effect on her stomach, which was filled with fire whiskey and bubbly soda.

And then she caught his gaze again. And held it. And something in it stilled her.

"Hi," she said. Because there was nothing else to say to someone she'd just snarfed all over. And he looked good—his natural handsomeness augmented through her beer goggles. A nice mix of musky cologne and sweat wafted toward her nose, a man smell that made her already unstable knees feel like jelly.

Things from there were a bit blurry.

She couldn't remember if they had both decided to leave. Maybe there was some sort of tacit agreement to "go somewhere quieter," but she did remember Malfoy tossing his arm around her shoulder and guiding her out into the night. How they got to his apartment was beyond her—she wasn't sure if alcohol impaired her ability to apparate. But they had gotten there all the same.

The next thing she remembered was sitting on Draco's swanky couch, kissing. Something strange came over her, and she bit his lip, hard.

She didn't remember much about Malfoy punching out her v-card, except that it hurt a lot. More than she thought it would. But it seemed fitting, in a way, to share such a painful moment with someone she'd always despised. And in her mind, anyway, she'd always somehow equated sex with hatred.

And after the 'dead was done,' he turned to her and said, "You're not going to tell anyone about this, are you?"

She shook her head weakly.

"This is not a big deal," he said, as if he were reassuring himself, as well. And Ginny, still drunk, fumbled around the room for her scattered clothes.

She couldn't remember if he hugged her or even showed her the door. But now, sitting in the chilly office, she could only remember stepping out into the street from Draco's house, feeling drained, empty, and lost—like she'd walked into a room and forgotten why she'd been there in the first place.

And as Draco turned the corner out of Mr. Spoole's office and past Ginny's reception desk, she had the vague sense of remembered purpose.