Author's Note:  Thank everyone so much for your reviews.  I'm really excited about this story, and I hope you're pleased with what I've done thus far.  As ever, let me know what you think.  *looks brave*  I can take it. 

Part Five:

Over the past five years, Ginny Weasley had pretty much perfected the art of being mild-mannered.  It was best, she figured, for a girl with flaming-red hair, six distinctive brothers, and, of course, a big ol' honking secret to keep her mouth shut and her temper on a very short leash.  This was a reasonable plan, and it had worked reasonably well- for the most part, Ginny's fellow students didn't think about her at all, and on the rare occasions when they did it was with vague pity.  She was the shy one, the quiet one, and that was perfectly fine with her. 

But that was before she had spent twenty-four hours in the presence of Draco Malfoy.  If he made one more comment about her hair, her family, or her financial status, she was going to brain him with an iron skillet.

"Put.  That.  DOWN, Malfoy!" 

He looked injured.  "What?  You said we needed to add salt to the water." 

"A pinch of salt.  Not half the bloody box!"

"Well," Draco said reasonably, "How should I know?"

Ginny closed her eyes and breathed in deeply through her nose, silently counting to ten.  He was, bar none, the most irritating male she had ever met, and considering her brothers, that was saying something.  "Malfoy, why are you doing this to me?  Isn't there somewhere else you'd rather be?"  She hunted for something- anything- to distract him.  "Why don't you go back down to the village and finish chatting up that Muggle shop girl?  I think she really fancied you."  Of course, she added silently, there is the slight problem of the language barrier, but frankly, I think not being able to understand you could only increase your sex appeal.

"What, you don't appreciate me helping you?"

"Torturing me, more like," Ginny muttered, scowling into the pot of tomato sauce she was stirring.

He narrowed his eyes at her.  "You should be grateful, you know.   Malfoys do not customarily offer domestic assistance.  Or, for that matter, any assistance.  One would assume that you would be more gracious about accepting help- after all, the Ministry must give your parents quite a bit of financial-" 

Ginny shoved back her hair with a narrow, freckled hand and tried, once again, counting to ten.  One, two, thr- bugger it.  She whirled on the tall boy, pointing her dripping, tomato-y spoon at him.   "Look, Malfoy, I'm having enough trouble as it is with this whole cooking thing.  You pestering me?  Not helpful."

"I am not pestering you," Draco sounded genuinely affronted.  "Malfoys do not 'pester'.  At the very least, they inflict severe emotional distress."

"Right," Ginny said, staring at him in disbelief, her spoon still dripping  "Sorry.  I can see how important it is to make that distinction.  Not pestering.  Just hanging around the kitchen, inflicting severe emotional distress-"

"That's better," interrupted Draco.

"-with your incessant whining!"

"Malfoys, little Weasel, do not whin-"

She made a strange sound, halfway between a growl and a shriek, and advanced on him, her spoon held out like a sword.  "Get out, you obnoxious-"

"I'm leaving, Weasley."  Assuming his loftiest expression, the Slytherin boy gracefully swept out.  He couldn't help but feel a trifle sulky.  See if he offered to help the little Weasley brat again.  Not that she seemed to need much help, pointed out a tiny voice in his head.  When they had arrived at the little village market that morning Ginny had quietly taken charge, briskly loading up a handcart with cereal, milk, fruit, cheese, and an array of mysterious-looking packages and tins.  Draco had passed the time by idly flirting with the clerk, a pretty girl of about his own age who didn't seem to mind his truly appalling French.  That had been mildly entertaining, but now that they were back at the house he was left with nothing to do.  Whatever that Weasley girl had been stirring had looked a bit like Potions work. 

Damn it, he liked Potions. 

But if she chose to be ungrateful, that was fine.  He could entertain himself.  He had gone exploring earlier.  The huge old house had clearly been stripped of most of its more valuable furniture, but it still offered plenty of entertainment options.  There were a few boring-looking books (in French, which he could barely read) in the library, an ancient Victrola (which he didn't know how to use) in the drawing room, and some musty newspapers (which were in French, smelled bad, and appeared to be the primary residence for a large family of mice) in a box in the cellars.   

Draco paused and considered his choices.  Perhaps he should return to the kitchen- just to make sure that the ungrateful little brat didn't ruin his evening meal. 

Preferring not to examine his motives too closely, Draco turned back down the stairs and swept back into the kitchen.  The girl stood in profile, her impossible hair caught up in a rather untidy knot at the nape of her neck.  It was strange, he thought idly- in the dim light from the fire and candles that illuminated the room, she didn't look that terrible.  In fact, if she hadn't been a Weasley, he might even have-

With a start, Draco realized exactly which garden path his thoughts were trotting down.  Not a bloody chance in hell, he thought, giving a mental shudder.  The thought of feeling anything for a Weasley other than pure loathing- even mild lust- was utterly appalling.  He knew he should have brought Letty, he thought ruefully.  Twenty-four hours without a sexual outlet and a young man's brains turn to-

"What now, Malfoy?"  The girl sounded… tired.  Draco almost pitied her. 

"I thought you could use some help," he said.

"Not yours," she said simply.

"Manners, Miss Weasley, manners…." As he spoke, a vision of spending his evening trying to decipher French gardening texts flashed in Draco's mind and he stopped, mid-nasty comment.  "Weasley, it's really boring here.  We'll go raving mad if we don't talk to each other.  I'll… behave."

She stared at him, suspicion bright in her eyes.  "Right, Malfoy."

"I swear it," he said quietly.

Ginny sighed, swiping at her an errant curl stuck to her forehead with the back of one hand.  "All right," she hesitated.  "Look… I know it's as much my fault as yours that we're stuck together.  But I cannot and will not listen to you sniping at my family, got it?  I don't snipe at your parents, do I?"  She scowled, her lips hardening into a firm line.  "And believe me, it's not due to a lack of material," she muttered.

Draco raised a brow at her- what was she gibbering on about?  He almost asked (using exactly that phrase) before remembering his promise.  Swallowing back the nasty comment, he merely held out his hand.  With only a slight rolling of the eyes, he managed an almost-pleasant: "Right.  No jeering at the Weasley… clan."

Looking at him like he had sprouted an extra nose, Ginny cautiously shook his hand before turning back to her tomato sauce.   

"So," Draco said, after discretely wiping off the Weasley-infected hand on his robes, "Can I, er, stir something?"

TBC