Chapter three – Working Girl

"That one is lovely!" Luna exclaimed dreamily. "You look like a giant bumblebee, buzz…"

I let out a frustrated sigh and quickly wriggled out of the black and yellow suit which my great Aunt Rena had given me for Christmas six years ago. For most of its life it had lived in the deep recesses of my wardrobe, making friends with odd socks and impulse buys (the hippogriff feather cat suit for one) but finally today, on the 27th December, it had an opportunity to shine, well, it did before I threw it out of the open window.

"This is hopeless," I moaned, staring dismally at the pile of rejected outfits. Today was meant to be the day that I dragged my body back to the office, slumped down at my desk and charmed the office fairies to spit in Hell Bitch's carefully styled hairdo. But no, in stepped fate dressed as Harry Potter, and my plans, as fast as you could said 'clucking bell' had transformed into a 6'o clock dress up session.

"Here you go," Hermione said, dropping some of her own perfectly folded clothes onto the bed. "Tell me again why I'm letting you borrow my things?"

"Firstly," I began, picking up a long grey skirt. "It's because, as the best flatmate in the universe, I'll be doing all the housework this week and secondly it's because I need to wear something prissy and prudish. You're the first person I thought of."

"Ah shucks, how flattering!" Hermione responded sarcastically before sitting beside Luna, looking warily at her real-apple earrings.

"You know what I mean," I said apologetically. "I don't want him to think I care."

"Now where would he get that idea?" she mused, a sly smile on her face.

I rolled my eyes, not bothering to answer. One bad thing about living with Hermione was that 95 of the time she was right and for a person prone to staggering feats of wrongness like me, it was especially annoying.

I pulled on the skirt and teamed it up with an equally grey shirt, which if Percy ever took up cross-dressing, would be sure to fit in with his 'dress-like-I'm-dead' look.

"How about this one?" I asked Luna and Hermione. Peering with squinted eyes in the floating mirror, I let out a 'yikes' at the roundness my backside before quickly reassuring myself that the lardy culprit was actually my newly discovered Siamese twin.

"It's perfect," Hermione answered flatly, "You're glorious transformation into a walking chastity belt is complete!"

Oh dear. It sounded as if I wasn't the only one suffering from post-Christmas meltdown. Mind you, after the train-wreck of a day at my parent's house, which reached dizzyingly impressive heights of 'shoot-me-now' awkwardness as the hours dragged on, Hermione had every reason to be Grinch-like. It must have been pure torture to sit across from Lola and not reach for the carving knife.

"So, erm, what's up?" I ventured tentatively. Hermione had perfected the art of biting innocent friend's heads off, namely me, whenever that question is asked. Normally I would avoid it like I avoid narrow corridors and Slughorn's 'oopsie daisy' accidental gropes but a friend in need and all that…

She let out a sigh. "I have a date with Ron tonight and I'm utterly terrified. I'm sorry that I've been giving you such a hard time over Harry, Gin; it was completely hypocritical of me. You've seen him once in the last five years whereas I've seen Ron in every way, nearly everyday for the past fourteen years! But tonight, we could maybe sort things out. Not that'll I make it easy for him, that is. After his behaviour a serious grovelling session is required." Hermione chanced at look at my reaction. Confused just about covered it.

"When did all this happen?" I asked, thinking back on Christmas Day and remembering nothing but Lola's overflowing bosom, the terrible trio's pointy horns, forked tails and of course, the return of prodigal boyfriend Harry. I think I would distantly remember the reconciliation of the most miss-matched/perfect couple ever.

"Think back, to just after four o'clock," Hermione began, in a settle-round-the-campfire voice. "The twins had knocked themselves out; Molly was frantically cleaning up and the children had just finished sprinkling super-smelly vinegar into your shoes."

Hmm! Fond memories…

"Fleur, unaccustomed to the direness of British Christmas tradition, had suggested a game of charades," Hermione put on an artsy French accent, "or charadies as she liked to call them. Anyway one hour in, a certain busty ditz volunteered to go next. The twins soon perked up as she began lap dancing around the living room. Ron was mortified and nodded for me to join him in the kitchen. I consented, mostly because I didn't want her bits jiggling in front of my face anytime soon!"

Luna giggled and commented dryly, "That sounded like fun."

"She was meant to be a veela," I added reasonably but was soon silenced by Hermione's glare.

"He started going on about how he never wanted her there and how much he missed me," Hermione said, slightly sadly before turning to me and asking, "Who's Ricky anyway?"

I smiled at the supreme dumbness that was my brother and shook my head innocently. "No idea."

"Oh grumble!" Luna said loudly as she suddenly jumped from the bed. "I'm late for work! Good luck to both of you! Bye bye darlings!" With a crack, she apparated away. Unlike me, Luna hadn't been the slightest bit annoyed about not getting the job (which was meant for me!) Seven years ago, her long-lost uncle/aunt, John/Julie, had died and left her a humongous fortune, so she now held her own Quidditch commentating classes at the local college, free of charge. At the moment her pupils included deaf squib Archie, six year old Fabian and a talking cat called Boris.

"Nervous?" asked Hermione as I looked for the nine-hundredth time in the mirror.

I stared hard at my slightly-green face, are you nervous? I asked it. Hell yes! The green tinge replied.

"Of course not!" I replied with bravado. "I've got a good feeling about today. Something is going to happen, I know it. Today is going to be…"

1

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…mind numbingly boring! For the last hour I have sat at my tiny, cluttered desk, making lists on the back of a beer matt.

No. of times Colin Creevy has told me he's reconsidered my tempting offer (the fleshy flashdance) 6

No. of times I've looked through the job ads 9

No. of times Hermione has owled me 3

No. of times I've considered killing anybody who mentions the office party 35

Even at 2.30 in the afternoon, Hell Bitch and boss George have yet to grace us with their presence. The rumour is that they had a gigantic row on Christmas Eve after she had found her randy husband in a tricky position with Lavender Brown. Apparently George's claims that he and the slim, gorgeous secretary were merely practicing yoga movements together, didn't go down too well. Colin (the office gossip) had said that Hell Bitch had put a force field around their house, causing George to crash in the garden shed and giving her time to turn all his expensive shirts pink and frilly. As is the way with those two, they soon reconciled and had spent the last two days having wild, middle-aged, make-up sex. (Thank the Lord this was told to me before I had my 11'0 clock cake and coffee break!)

Despite all my worrying, I have only seen Harry 'doesn't-my-job-look-fabulous-on-you' Potter once. I had been grumbling under my breath in the staffroom, when he appeared. When I say the 'staffroom', don't allow the imagination to stretch to plush chairs, clean carpets and a smell which doesn't resemble week-old socks and smoke. Even though the Prophet had been taken over by new management three years ago, boss George didn't deem the staff room worthy of a revamp and so we lowly workers (the bigwigs were rumoured to have a separate fantasy room with a swimming pool and actual heating!) were stuck with the old 1970s décor.

Although it was my first day back after the generous Christmas holiday of two days, I had quickly fallen into my old routine, and was at 11.05 in the morning, banging on the coffee machine and thinking wistfully of the infamous, super duper magical machine of the bigwigs (it was supposed to ask you, ever so politely, just how you'd like your tea, offer you travel advice and all the while, freshly baking delicious chocolate cookies)

I was raising the cup of murky, thick coffee to my lips, when Harry walked to my side.

"Good morning," he had said brightly. Nodding towards the veteran machine, he continued, "What would you recommend?"

"Well," I answered easily enough, "if you have taste buds, nothing. But if you want to experience the worst taste known to mankind, then I'd go for the cappuccino."

Harry grinned and following my advice, opted for nothing. Out of the corner of my eye, I discreetly checked him out. He was wearing scruffy jeans and a red t-shirt. The last time I had worn jeans Hell Bitch had sent me home to change.

"I know," Harry said, noticing my disapproving frown. "But can you imagine me in a suit? I'd look like a cross between James Bond and an undertaker!"

"James Bond?" I replied with raised eyebrows. (I had been watching Dad's collection)

"Shaken not stirred? I don't think so. You're more like Rocky. The plucky underdog."

Harry scoffed. "Rocky is a beefy boxer, Ginny, a beefy boxer with very little brains!" He put a hand to his heart and exclaimed, "The lady does offend me!"

I rolled my eyes, secretly marvelling how easy it all was. Of course, I was still completely confused about his 5-year holiday to never-never land or wherever but at least I had controlled myself enough not to get him by the throat, shove a nipping gnome down his pants and demand answers. I was quite proud of myself.

"Will you meet me tonight?" Harry had asked more quietly. "We can talk about things. I bet you have a few questions."

A few! A few! Try a few thousand!

I smiled despite myself. "Sure, that'd be fine."

The consoling voice of one of those naff self-help tapes had suddenly come to mind…that's good Ginny, play it cool. You're in control. Feel the power, good girl!

We looked at each other for a moment. There was no awkwardness, well not much. We smiled the smile of old friends. Everything was going to be ok.

"Miss Weasley, ah!" had come a horribly familiar voice. A firm, fat hand clamped down on my shoulder. Feck!

"Mr. Slughorn," I had greeted uber-politely, without turning around. I could smell his dodgy aftershave. Oh god, it was the same smell which refused to leave my black dress. Please, please, please, don't let him mention Christmas Eve. If there is a God in heaven then strike the old walrus dumb, please!

"Harry Potter!" he burst out happily. "I haven't seen you in forever!" He thankfully let go of my shoulder and moved to pet Harry's hair. Harry moved away with a scowl before saying hello in a very frosty manner. I'm not surprised, in the sixth year Slughorn had practically wanted to adopt him. The now showbiz columnist was renowned for his arse-kissing skills.

Noticing his less than delirious response, Slughorn turned his back on Harry and said to me, in a very loud voice, "As much as I'm flattered by your attention Miss Weasley, I'm afraid I just can't partake in an office romance. I'm positive that given time you're broken heart will get over me."

Get over yourself!

Slughorn, with his giant moustache and big shiny cheeks, had made to move closer towards me. Surely he can't be going in for a kiss? Just in case, I had leapt to seek cover behind a very bemused Harry. Looking haughty, Slughorn reached for something in his bright yellow tweed jacket. He handed it to me. It was my wand!

"I found this in a, ahem, private place. I expect you'll be wanting it."

Cringing, I nodded my thanks and he had traipsed away. Harry had begun to laugh.

"Don't ask," I had uttered with a sigh, "Don't bloody ask."

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So here I am, waiting impatiently for what the night with Harry could bring. I had already rearranged my quills into height order; proof read tomorrow's edition and convinced Lavender Brown that she couldn't sue George Skeeter because he hadn't given her a promotion. ("You did sleep with him Lavender…no it doesn't matter that you didn't actually sleep, you still did it!")

"Afternoon Weasley, you busy?"

Speak of the devil, a pink-shirt wearing George, sat down on my desk and stared at my outfit, finding it severely lacking in short hem-lines and cleavage, he sniffed and said, "Look different today Weasley, I wouldn't mind a reappearance of that sexy little black number you wore at the party."

"I don't think you're wife would agree," I replied pleasantly, "Where is hell – I mean Rita today?"

He chuckled, obviously thinking that I wanted his missus out of the way so I could seduce the living daylights out of him. Not likely! Although a nice enough fellow, shiny bald heads and goatee beards do nothing for me. I looked past him, through the busy office and to the front doors. Thankfully, there was no sign of Rita; a woman who may have started out as an annoying gossip but had soon, due to marriage and new power progressed into becoming a truly horrible creature (think the love child of Cruella de Ville and Hitler)

"She's still in bed, resting up, if you know what I mean," George said with a knowing wink. Ew…just ew…

"Anyway," he began, popping one leg up on the desk. I hastily averted my eyes.

"I've got a new assignment for you. Think 2-page spread. Your name in big letters, 'written by Ginevra Weasley' Sound good?"

Did it ever! I'd dreamt of being a proper journalist all my life. I just knew that story I had put on his desk (and owled to his house three days in a row) would lead to big things. It had taken me forever to research the details and nearly broke my heart when I heard the tales of the survivors (of the European wizarding war) but now, oh yes now! it was all coming together. Goodbye to running Hell Bitch's errands! Goodbye to writing the sodding obituaries! Hello success!

Who cares about mine, I mean, Harry's job? I had integrity. Finally, I would have some respect!

"Strap on a mini-skirt darling, you'll be posing as a groupie."

Thud! The sound of me crashing back to earth.

"What?" I asked George, dismayed.

"We need a feature on the hottest band around. Since you're the only one in the office who looks half decent and has a brain, you're the gal for the job. Excited?" George looked at me and beamed. Did he expect me to drop down on my knees and thank him? The bloody cheek!

I ran a hand through my messy hair. Think positively, I told myself, there had to be a silver lining! The band was probably a cool little Indie number with a drop dead gorgeous lead singer, who would fall in love with me, buy the Daily Prophet and run over George and Rita in a tractor.

"What are they called?" I asked hopefully.

George surveyed me with a suggestive wiggle of his thick black eyebrows before saying in a school-boy fashion, "Poison Balls. They are very big in America."

Groan…that silver lining must be around somewhere, surely…

"At least I'll get to travel," I said more brightly. I've never been to the US, might be nice.

"Afraid not lass. They are playing at the Pegasus Palace. Colin will go with you; you know what he's like around boy bands." Yeah, like a big fawning fan girl...

I sank in my chair slightly…poison balls! What the hell kind of name was that?

"The Palace is down the street," I said pointlessly. How could a troundle down the road with Creevy be my big break?

"Yep!" he replied, shuffling closer towards me. I leapt from the desk and muttered something about finding Colin.

George's voice called after me, "Remember to wear something slutty!"

Well, integrity is overrated anyway…