A/N: Well, I was sitting on my ass watching Buffy, rooting for the vampires to kill Sarah Michelle Gellar as usual, when I thought: Hey, I should write another chapter. So here's to my reviewers, my awesome beta threadsofregret, and hoping the All-Powerful Creativity Gods remain with me.

To give credit where credit is due: One of Pansy's fantasies (the superglue one) has been lifted out of context from The Onion (it's original context referred to suitable endings for Bennifer in the movie Gigli). Also, the name Jasper Jacks (Draco's PR guy) is a character from General Hospital, from which the inspiration for starting this story was drawn.

Of course, there's a South Park quote, and this one's pretty easy to catch.

But if you can tell me where the name Carlo Carson comes from, you get super special acknowledgement next chapter.

If you can say "Still some static-y sound" five times fast, cheers!

I'm planning on posting the next chapter very soon, and I'm going to be writing all through August.

DVD Extra:

The Weasley-->Malfoy Insult Creator:

Amuse your friends and destroy your enemies with this scathing repertoire of insults you can create yourself! Simply take one word or phrase from the first column, one from the second, and one from the third, and put them in subsequent order to fill in the blank:

"You !"

Dirty --------------two-faced--------------- ferret

Slimy--------------over-bred--------------- rat

Rotten ------------good-for-nothing---------toad

Spoiled -----------low-down--------------- bitch

Stupid ------------son-of-a----------------- worm

Wretched ---------high-society------------- maggot

Arrogant ----------vomit-inducing---------- skunk

Revolting---------- no-good ---------------creep

The Malfoy --> Weasely Insult Creator to come.

Note: (hates me/is a part of a vast government conspiracy/is prejudiced against certain keystrokes) and will not let me use mass amounts ofspaces to create my columns, thus, the hyphens.

Chapter Seven

It was the last reply from the last Concerned Citizen in the last fifteen minutes of Ginny's first day. As soon as I finish this, I can leave.

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

As a concerned mother of two I must say your position on education is very alarming and I for one am blah blah blah blah blah blah blah

The position she was referring to was "Fuck it," and it occurred in the context of some heavy alcohol and a persistent reporter. So many complaints had been received that there was actually a form letter for it. Ginny signed and sealed it, and prepared to go home and sleep.

Of course, you the reader know that at the exact time you need something desperately, even expect it, it moves just out of your grasp. And so it was that Ginny, after an hour long wait in the line for the coat check, missed the last regularly running bus out of the Ministry area. Since the Knight Bus did not qualify the center of the wizarding world as "stranded," Ginny was forced to walk the half mile to get out of the radius of the anti-apparition spells cast on the Ministry. She got back to Neville and Colin's and fumbled for her key. If something was faintly off kilter, her mind didn't recognize it just then.

But she sure did when she opened the door—it was the noise level in the house. Neville and Colin had decided to spend the excess cash they brought in doing nothing all day to throw a massive party/orgy combo, complete with a throbbing bass line, bare-assed cocktail waiters serving drinks that Ginny suspected were laced with dragon spit (a pretty well respected hallucinogen, at least by Neville and Colin's standards), and every dignified member of society in very undignified positions. There were at least three couples getting it on, on the couch where Ginny had been planning to sleep.

This is not what I need right now. As if to prove her point, Neville and Colin stumbled up, clearly under the influence of several substances at once.

"Ginny! OmyyyyGawdlyGod! You-" Colin shrieked suddenly, and pointed at something unseen just behind Ginny. When she turned to look, Neville burst into tears. They careened away, holding each other up. Ginny set down her purse and wandered around the house, finally finding a spare piece of carpet and a blanket in the attic. She hadn't even changed out of her work clothes when she fell asleep.

Pansy spent her night in her hotel room, idly doodling pictures of Draco's head exploding, him being eaten by wolves, having his mouth and nose super-glued shut so he would have to chew through his lips to breathe, etc. on the back of his campaign schedule. They were just fantasies, really. What she had in mind was much better. And Draco would only have to wait until (she flipped over the schedule to check the date) this Friday to find out what it was. Giggling, she penned Mrs. Draco Malfoy at the top of the schedule, the same area where she used to write her name on her papers in school—pre-disintegrated marriage and pre-exiled wife. Four days, Draco. Four days.

Mrs. Malfoy

Mrs. Draco Malfoy

Mrs. Pansy Malfoy

Mrs. Parkinson-Malfoy

Mrs. Parkinson Malfoy

Mrs. Pansy Parkinson-Malfoy

Mrs. Pansy Parkinson Malfoy

To hyphen, or not to hyphen?

Draco arrived at his interview that night for Living Like a Queen very drunk, and the host, a surprisingly ordinary looking guy named Carlo Carson, took full advantage of it. By the end, Draco had admitted that he was only on the show to win votes, that he actually hated gay people, and that he divorced his wife so he could sleep with other women more freely.

"Yeah, I'm a really biiiiiiiig ass-hole," were Draco's parting words at the end of that miserable hour.

Incidentally, Jasper Jacks, the Head of Draco's PR Department, was found dead the next morning, having hung himself.
Draco, on the other hand, convinced himself that the interview was a ripping success, and sang love songs to his security detail all the way home.
Blaise, who was listening to the interview at home, was getting more pissed off by the second. Draco had to get elected as Minister before Blaise could execute his plans for world domination.

Draco's voice cruelly came through the radio: "Yeah…My policy is really just to have no policy! You know? Just take it as it comes…Free love, dude."

Sadly, this was a high point of the interview.

Draco, please, shut the fuck up!

Not only was it looking like he'd d have to put Plan B into action, Hermione had turned him down earlier, and she was essential to Plan B. An idiot and a teacher's pet were screwing up both his plans, and they weren'tt even trying! Well...he supposed one was...but the point was that the plan was still up shit creek without a paddle.

He tossed the radio across the room with a wave of his wand and poured himself a stiff drink. His meeting with Dominic, an old Voldie supporter, hadn't gone as planned, either. This was bad, because he couldn't take over the world without minions. It was an unavoidable problem that Blaise decided would be much better tackled after he'd gotten some sleep and hopefully, blocked the interview from his memory. As he walked past the remains of his abused radio, he was shocked to hear that there was still some static-y sound coming from it.

"So, Draco," the host was saying, "Why have you divorced your wife?"

"She's like, a total psycho bitch…and I wanted to start fucking other people."

Blaise nearly cried.

Ginny woke up the next morning still tired from the night before. She got up and sleep-walked into the bathroom, where she splashed some water on her face and tried to wake up.

…groklaraplarg…Need…More…Sleep…

Somewhere in Ginny's mind, a little red flag was waving.

What day is today? And why am I in this house?

…Oh, right. Tuesday. Left my husband.

She was forgetting something. It was screaming at her. But not as badly as her cramped neck muscles.

Why am I wearing these funny clothes?

…

Oh, right, work.

…

Think I'll go back to bed.

She had just gotten into her guest bed (which was now, thankfully, devoid of party goers), and pulled the covers up around her, feeling very comfy as a thought came to her.

Oh my God, work!

By the time she got out of bed and checked a clock, she estimated that she had about five minutes to bathe, dress, and borrow a broomstick from Neville and Colin, unnoticed (she had one, but it was a tragically outdated anniversary present, and she was also pretty sure she might have burned it on her pre-leaving-Harry rampage.) If she disregarded all current laws and regulations, she could conceivably go fast enough to be there on time.

Ginny ran back to the bathroom, banished a few overzealous, unconscious partygoers from the shower, and had soaped up in nearly the time it took the water to get warm. She dressed in record time, pulling a blazer and skirt from her new wardrobe and blindly tossing on a top she had in one of her suitcases.

On her way out, she picked up her purse, noticed an awful smell, and found that some partygoer had, naturally, taken it for a barf bag. Totally disgusted, she tossed it back inside and apparated to the edge of the No Apparition zone, where she mounted Colin's speedy new broomstick and zipped off.

After a bit of low flying, Ginny realized that her divorce hearing was today. About three seconds later, she realized she was about to crash into a tree.

Around 8:00 was breakfast time in the (Ronald) Weasley household, and Hermione was resisting the urge to cackle deviously. She had a plan. It was smart, it was foolproof, and it would be effective immediately. Or almost immediately.

She had made the love potion, and it was good. Completely tasteless, and only a few drops in Ron's coffee should do the trick. Ron would be coming back home to make love to her by mid-morning.

Ah, Ron. So easily led.

In a couple of hours, you'll be back in our bed.

…Heh. That rhymes. Hmm…

Drink up, Ronnie, honey

That coffee's not funny!

Maybe that's a bit off of meter. Let's try haiku:

Drink up, Ron, sweetheart

And don't think for a second

Of…

Of…

Ron interrupted Hermione's last line, which still sought four more syllables.

"Say, Hermione,"

Hermione gave her eyelashes a few bats. "What's that, sweetie?"

"I don't think you've ever been this nice to me before."

Hermione gave a smile that felt a little less tender then she'd intended. "Ron, you know I love you. Now hurry up and finish your coffee."

"So, why're you taking off work today again?"

"It's just so boring in there. I need a day off every once in a while to keep me sane."

"Huh. I've never seen you take a day off before…"

"Really?"

"Is there something else going on here?"

"Ron, don't be an idiot. That coffee'll get cold if you just let it sit"

"Or maybe I'm just more intelligent then you realized, eh? Why are you really taking the day off?"

"Ron," said Hermione with more then a bit of edge to her voice, "I have no ulterior motives. There is no reason for you to be suspicious. Now shut up, and drink your coffee."

When Hermione was irritated, she spoke in italics.

Merlin, thought Ron. Talk about PMS.

He finished his eggs, gulped down the last of his coffee, and was out the door for work.

Well, thought Hermione, that was easy. She got up and started clearing the dishes from the table.

Better work fast Ron. You'll be back home in an hour, and we'll be screwing our way to the top of the polls.

Hermione went back to her bedroom and put on the lingerie from her wedding night. She artfully arranged a few candles and poured two glasses of wine. Then she sat back with a book to wait for the potion to work it's magic.

Ron got in to work around 9:00. He worked steadily until 9:30ish, when he felt something strange happening. He was all tingly in his stomach…it was the same puppy love feeling he used to feel in school with Hermione. It made him happy and carefree. He started to hum as he worked.

Ten minutes later, he was thinking some very carnal thoughts, and considered going home early.

I am not ready to be a father.

He found a boring book on Spell Copyrights and tried to ignore the hot, sweaty feeling.

Hot and sweaty is good…

No, no it isn't. Not at all. There is nothing sexy about hot and sweaty, or for that matter Dragon's Veela of the Month spread or-

Godammit.

It was 9:45. Ron should be getting home any minute now. Hermione found a stopping point in her book and started to practice, arranging herself into various sexy poses which would best highlight her attributes.

"The legalities involved with spells are a complex maze for the inexperienced spell writer."

This is interesting, absorbing material that is in no way turning me on.

At 10:00, Ron still hadn't come home yet. Hermione started to sip at her glass of wine. Maybe Ron was resisting for a while, but she wasn't worried. The potion wouldn't wear off for an hour yet.

10:20 arrived very, very slowly for Ron.

I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex. I am not thinking about sex.

What in the fuck is going-

Wait! Not fuck. I didn't think fuck. I thought Hell. Hell!

Fuck.

Hermione poured another glass of wine, and cleaned up some candle wax that had spilled over. Her favorite cinnamon candle, part of Ron's anniversary present for her, was burning a bit low. She would have to see about buying a new one.

It was 10:40, and Ron needed to have sex with something now. All rational thought was consumed by desire. Fornication was necessary to continue breathing.

Ron poked his head out of his office.

"Christie," he said. His voice was not like his own. "I need you in my office, now."

Christie giggled. The other secretaries giggled. Ginny did not giggle, because Ginny had not come into work yet.

Christie applied some fresh lipstick, unbuttoned one of her blouse buttons, and slipped into Ron's office.

"Good morning Mr. Weasley, can I help you this morning? You know what a good worker I am, and- Eek! Merlin, darling, do you have somewhere else to be?"

"Shut. Up." Ron was weird, possessed, cave-guy Ron. He did not want to talk. He wanted to screw. And in the back of his mind, there was something telling him not to, some little voice he had to ignore in order to make that wish of his come true.

It was 10:45. Ron should've been home a long time ago.

Hermione poured her third glass of wine and wondered whether wearing her engagement ring with her wedding ring was a bit too flashy.

"Well," said Christie "That was a bit quick."

One of the downsides to screwing hot, twenty something sex kittens, was that they could afford to be picky.

The potion had served it's unintentional purpose, and the effects were fading fast.

Something occurred to Ron.

"Now hurry up and finish your coffee."

"Drink your coffee, Ron."

"That'll get cold if you just let it sit."

..She slipped me love potion.

"Bloody Hell."

"What was that, sweetheart?" Ron realized Christie was still there. He looked her up and down, disgusted. He was not at the point of self blame. But he was at the point of blame, all right.

"Why the Hell did you let me cheat on my wife?"

"You didn't give me much of a choice, then, did you?"

Ron was horrified. "You're fired!"

"What did you say to me?"

"I said, you're fired."

"On what grounds?"

"Ruining my marriage!"

"Oh, you've got a lot of nerve saying that!"

"I'm going home to my wife. When I come in tomorrow, you won't be here! Got that?"

Christie hopped of the desk and started getting dressed. "You're a right bastard! I'll consider this paid leave."

"Get out! What part of 'fired' do you not understand?"

Christie stalked out to her desk. Ron stormed out after her, going home. "You go to Hell! You go to Hell, and you DIE!" She yelled after him.

"That's where I'm headed NOW, no thanks to you!" And with that, he was gone.

Christie giggled. The other secretaries giggled. They knew damn well that they hadn't seen the last of each other.

Ron stumbled into his house at 10:55 and plopped down in the nearest chair. His hair was tousled and his shirt was untucked. He looked an utter wreck, but Hermione didn't notice. There were, to the best of her knowledge, five minutes left for her to be having Ron's child and she was going to take full advantage of them.

"Welcome home, honey," she said, straddling him, "Let's have sex."

…

"Uh-oh," she said. "Why aren't you hard? Didn't it work?"

"Hermione, I need to tell you something. It's not an easy thing to say…"

"What? What's wrong?" She searched her mind for reasons the potion could have backfired.

"Well, first of all," he began with a heavy sigh, "I want you to know that I still love you to the ends of the Earth."

A bad idea was quickly forced into the Denial section of Hermione's brain.

"And also, I want you to know, that what happened was technically your fault."

A/N: DA NAH! There's your brand, spankin' new chapter. I hope you like it, and though I will not hold the story hostage for reviews, I still love and appreciate them. In fact, for every one who's reviewed me already, here's a giant Review Cookie, complete with chocolate chips or whatever else you like:

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