A/N: Mr. Lorry: Well, my dear Charles, this story came out quite late didn't it?

Charles: Why yes! Perhaps the author is in some morbid twist of fate and I should go risk saving her with disregard toward political prosecution and death threats towards yours truly!

Mr. Lorry (while sipping tea): Charles, don't be such an utter dolt.

...did I just write a mini fic ofTale of Two--? oh dear...

"Tell us how they work," Fred called after me as I left the shop, pleased that I was walking in their misshapen, mishap-making footsteps. Joan and I tested out these prototype earpieces. The new model allowed us to converse with each other for long distances, wirelessly.

I tucked the earpieces in my pocket as I put my cloak on. Joan glanced up at me from her bed. "Quidditch," I explained. "We have a match today."

Joan nodded. She was writing something in her awful little blue diary. It positively made me shudder every time I saw her doing so, partially because I have a serious grudge towards diaries and partially because she wrote in it with a dramatic magenta quill that spurted out a magenta ink so pink that it could give one a seizure if they stared at it to long.

"Joan," I said, "So now that we talk and stuff, do you want to come to my game?" I presented a huge, trying smile.

"Not on your life," she replied with a bright, nonchalant air, brushing the aggravating quill beneath her chin.

"Grand," I said through gritted teeth. (See, there's a reason why I forgot her name.)

"Ta ta..." She waved me off with her maddening quill. I then swore to myself that one day I was going to transfigure that quill into a turkey, which we learned to do in our fourth year.

I was making my way to the Quidditch pitch, which was about the only time I got to walk in the halls without dragging that wretched bag on my shoulder. It was a nice little relief. And the halls were swarming with students in cloaks and scarves brandishing their house colors.

The team had laced up and grabbed their equipment in silence. I don't know when the tradition started, but for the first game of every year, Gryffindors prepared in the locker rooms in complete silence. Harry said he'd done it for every year he'd been there. No one talked until we saw the pitch.

I grabbed my Ricochet 247, which was a great broom even though the name always worried me. It was the first broom I ever owned. Actually, I still have it today…

I stood next to my partner in crime, Louis le Fevre, as the team walked into the cavernous hallway leading to the pitch. Louis was an exchange student from Beauxbatons, and an amazing beater. One game, he nailed a bloke from Slytherin near the kidney with a bludger, and for weeks he was bleeding from his—well at any rate, Louis was a good beater, and that's basically the story. I don't think I have to go too much into it.

Louis stood stoically with his eyes on the large wooden doors in front of us, ready for them to give way. I licked my lips. Crap, I should've put on Chapstick. My lips are going to get thrashed. Geoff always has Chapstick.

I turned around and got Geoff attention. I mimed with my finger as if I was putting Chapstick on my lips. Geoff mouthed What? I repeated the pantomime. And his eyes widened and he raised his eyebrows. He gave a smug smile and waved his finger between the two of us. You and me? He mouthed. I rolled my eyes and angrily mouthed Chapstick!

He apparently hadn't understood me and made a few inappropriate gestures towards the locker room. Later, he said.

No! I replied indignantly. I pointed at my lips again and said Chapstick!

What?

"Chapstick!" I yelled.

Geoff was taken off guard and clumsily reached into his pocket and threw me the Chapstick. "Gosh! Thank you…" I muttered as I began to apply it liberally. As I was doing so, I felt something like lasers bearing down on me. My eyes slowly rolled up to see Harry staring severely at me. He was fuming. I apologetically capped the Chapstick.

I turned and offered the Chapstick back to Geoff. He winked at me as he reached for it. My arm recoiled and I whipped the tube, hitting him smack on the cheek. "Ow!" he cried.

Harry spun around, reached back, and knocked Geoff in the head. We snickered.

Suddenly the doors began to creak open, and the moment we saw the pitch, before anyone else could think to say a word, even with all the frustration on our minds, Dean burst out singing, "WHY DO YOU BUILD ME UP, BUTTERCUP, BABY? JUST TO LET ME DOWN--"

"Oh heavens…" Harry muttered.

"—AND MESS ME AROUND."

Louis glanced down at me and muttered something in French. Something positive, I understood from his smile.

"AND WORST OF ALL"

The crowds were cheering.

"YOU NEVER CALL WHEN YOU SAY YOU WILL"

I smacked my lips.

"BUT I LOVE YOU STILL!"

I looked towards Ron and Harry. "This is a bet, isn't it?" I asked.

"I would put money on it, yes," Ron replied.

"I NEED YOU!"

"I bet Seamus put him up to it," Harry said as he led them onto the field.

"MORE THAN ANYONE, DARLING."

"He is not a good singer," Louis said aloud. As we neared the center of the pitch.

"YOU KNOW THAT I HAVE FROM THE START!"

"Ooo, ooo," I sang behind him, giggling.

"SO BUILD ME UP"

The Hufflepuff team met up with us.

"BUTTERCUP"

We all lined up.

"DON'T BREAK MY HEART!"

Dean inhaled heavily and smiled, satisfied. The crowds roaring in laughter around us.

"Are you finished," Madame Hooch asked bitterly with her arms crossed.

"Oh, yes, quite," he replied promptly, wide-eyed. "Don't let me hold you up." She glared at him. "Tension-breaker," he said under his breath to her with a wink.

Madame Hooch had the captains shake hands. Ron leaned over and asked Dean, "How much did Seamus pay you to do that?"

"Five galleons."

"Oh heck, I'd do it too."

Red and gold and yellow and black pennants blazed the pitch that day, but it was not at all the ideal game day. It was late September. A disappointing drizzle clinging to our robes like the prerequisite to sweat. The sky, though, was an unusually bright yellow behind the grey clouds.

Dean's serenade must have acted as some twisted form of good luck, because we won the game. We kicked major badger tail and laughed mightily as they scurried back to their insignificant burrows. So, of course, there was a party that night. First game of the season to Gryffindor, how could there not be?

Fred and George decided to add to the pile of traditions last year, stating that the Beaters would always throw the parties for Gryffindor's victories. Well, they quickly realized in their seventh year that a tradition is quite futile with no one left to carry it out. So they "trained" me to be a Beater and quite literally "passed on the torch." The torch was a sparkler. It burned my finger. I had originally wanted to be a Chaser (or Seeker, but honestly, what chance had I at that?), but a Beater was honorable too, right?

Amid the celebration I sat and politely listened to Hermione tell me about her future knitting plans when Louis, who I think had too many butterbeers (sans the butter), came stumbling down the Boy's Dormitory stairs. He and his fellow sixth years decided on initiating a rousing game of spin-the-bottle. He asked me if I wanted to play, and my mind said, "Teenage hormones... must resist urge. Must retain sanity... Cannot lower self to that level... must--"

"Sure!" I said.

"Great!" he hollered, stumbling over by the fire and waving a bottle in the air.

I looked back at Hermione, who gave me a kind of glare.

"Don't kid yourself, Ginny; we both know you're not that cheap," Hermione sighed. "Plus, you're too afraid to kiss a guy, much less date one for over three weeks."

Before responding to Hermione's snide comment, I called out to Louis, "On second thought, I'm not that cheap, okay?"

He nodded.

I turned to Hermione and gave her a disgusted look. "Not true," I said.

She had a smug and silly look, as if she gotten some point across. I rolled my eyes in jest. She looked away and began talking about her knitting again. I don't know why I even offered to join in on the game, if the bottle had landed on me, I would have squirmed my way around it. I invented ways to avoid that "goodnight kiss" Michael would nonchalantly mention when we were dating.

A mixture of fifth and sixth years, and a few hopeful male fourths and giggly girl fourths, grabbed a pillow and sat down in a circle around the aptly-named and highly decorated Bottle of Love, "the only bottle in existence that you were pleased to find yourself at the bottom of."

A girl with a Gryffindor banner tied around her shoulders like a cape leaned forward and spun it so that the red and gold ribbons attached to the bottle blazed in circles around it. It stopped, pointing at a smarmy looking fellow, who began to grin and leaned in for the kill. There was a wave of "Wooo!" around the circle, and I began to get uncomfortable just watching.

Joan sat down at the circle. How dare she, I thought, join in on a celebration she didn't support in the first place. She winked at Louis. I was kind of hoping the bottle wouldn't land on him.

I glanced away from the circle and saw Ron looking at me peculiarly. He glanced at the circle and looked away. Hermione was criticizing me, and Ron was warning me. Hermione caught on that my mind was elsewhere and suggested that we'd go check out the snack table.

When we walked over to the snack table (i.e. a study table, loaded with stolen goodies), where Ron and all his friends were hanging out, Ron gave me an approving grin, but my chest felt empty. Ron had this radical, communistic Ginny-doesn't-date campaign, and it's not that I abhor communists or anything, they just have terrible health coverage and it's something you have to watch out for. And being the youngest and the only girl, I received a lot a "family wisdom." All together, this made it quite hard for me to date and break the news softly.

I took up a bottle of strawberry soda and stood amidst the group of seventh years, talking about the game and classes and whatnot. I was enjoying the conversation between Dean, Hermione, and Neville, to which I would occasionally pipe up if I could get my word in.

It's been said that those who have little friends value the ones the have, and those who have many friends value their true ones. Well for me, Hermione was someone I valued because I could confide in her. But strangely, I don't think Hermione felt the same way I did about her. I looked up to her, I guess you could say, and I know she cared about me, but in a motherly sort of way. I could appreciate this relationship, but it wasn't quite the friendship I wanted. The only other people who I can think of who may have felt the same way I did about friendships was Harry and Neville, but the difference was that everyone knew Harry's name.

I heard a fit of laughter erupt from behind me. Our posh group all glanced over. And I laughed to see a boy with a very disgusted face glaring at Louis, who had the bottle pointing at him. Louis threw his hands in the air and cried out, "I'm done!"

We all laughed at the circle, and the conversation then returned to its usual after the random bout of amusement. My mind wandered off from my relational statuses and I began to engage myself in a hilarious story Dean was telling; he was always a magnificent speaker, charming and enthralling.

A hand fell on my shoulder and I turned to see Louis, he was smiling brightly, and didn't look at as smashed as he did before. He looked to the group. "What did I miss?" he asked. Louis seemed to easily fit into the crowd of seventh years. He looked the part and talked the part, and knew some of the academics that they did, since his school taught a different curriculum.

"Looks like you were having fun at Spin the Bottle," Dean commented, rather perturbed to be interrupted.

"Looks like there will be no snogging for me tonight," Louis replied. I giggled, because Louis, with his strong French accent, could never manage to say the word snogging. Well, he could say "snogging-g," I suppose, but the problem was that he always put a heavy pronunciation on the last "g" ...twice.

Harry was distant from the group, not unusual, and brightly whispered something to Ron. Ron chuckled and said aloud, "I'm sure he would have kissed you anyway."

Harry made a small snicker behind the back of his hand.

"Yeah, you know I'm never quite sure how you English folk… 'swing,' is it?" he replied. The seventh and sixth year boys made an extra effort to rip on Louis since he was new. But Louis was ever so resilient to them. He had a brilliant and almost ridiculous confidence.

Hermione said aside to Seamus. "Seamus, when are you leaving for Greenland?"

Seamus detached himself from the other conversation. "Hm?"

"When are you—"

"Oh, in two weeks," he said. "We couldn't get a Portkey cleared until then. I'm going to be so late in the curriculum."

I laughed. "Like you care," I butted in. "I heard you talking to Dean; you just want to hook up with some Greenlandic bird."

Seamus looked insulted. "I'd never," he said simply.

"I'm also sure you never bet him five galleons to sing 'Build Me Up Buttercup'." Hermione nodded towards Dean

"No," he said indignantly. "But that does remind me…" He took a small money pouch from his robe and elbowed Dean. Dean saw the bag, nodded and pocketed it. Dean made a face and Seamus sneered back.

Noticing the obvious transaction, Harry said, "Is that your bribe, Dean?"

Dean shook his head. "Naw, hair care products."

The festivities continued, and the group continued to talk until the rest of the common room began to thin in numbers. Lavender delicately checked her watch and groaned. "It's nearly half-past one."

Most of them started to yawn and groan, display sudden onsets of fatigue, and set off towards their dorms. Ron however smiled at Hermione and nodded towards a chess board that Harry was sitting at. "Sure," she said, "I would love to commentate on one game—but only one game."

I leaned over to Louis and mumbled, "They'll be up to three watching Ron win."

Louis took my arm in his and I was slightly taken aback. "Well, may I walk you to your staircase?" he said.

"You're a character," I stated. He looked hopeful with a brilliant, unabashed smile. "It's seriously only ten seconds away."

"Ten seconds I will forever cherish," he said as he started walking. I jerked forward after him, conceding.

Louis was a huge flirt, I think he liked the idea of meeting so many new people, and so many new girls. He constantly flirted with me. I would always leave him with a bland comment; it didn't seem to make him falter. Like I said, he was ever so resilient.

"Well this is my stop," I said, "I hope I didn't wear you out."

He flashed his debonair smile. "Fantastic quidditching today," he said. (He later explained that in French the word for Quidditch was both a noun and verb. His use of the word "quidditching" had confused us until Seamus finally cracked and confronted him on it.) Louis turned to leave and, attempting an English accent, said, "Bonsoir, ma chérie!"

I shook my head and muttered, "You vicious sweet talker."

"I try," he laughed, "Good night."

"'Night…" I muttered.

I walked the stairs to my dormitory, but stopped at the balcony to watch Ron, Hermione, and Harry. They tended to be loud for three people who often kept to themselves I noticed.

"It's very intense," Hermione remarked. "Within sixteen moves, Potter is deadlocked within his second check." And Harry would move his piece, and Ron would counter it, until finally, Harry was trapped. Ron would say "Checkmate." Hermione would cry out, "Oh! And it's over for Pawn Man Potter!"

Harry glared at Hermione and she would say "What?" and he would playfully push at her, demanding a rematch from Ron. Hermione'd exclaimed indignantly, "I said one game!"

"But it took just five minutes," Ron reasoned.

I giggled softly. My light laugh caught Harry's ear and he looked up to the balcony. I was put off guard, embarrassed to have him catch me watch him in the intimacy of their friendship. Ron and Hermione followed Harry's gaze.

"Is my failure amusing to you?" Harry asked. His attention threw me into an embarrassed state. I colored in my cheeks.

"No," I said shyly, nervous to be confronted.

I quickly bid them goodnight with a sheepish smile before my whole face was consumed with a burning red glow. Harry still had that effect.

It felt so good that night to curl up and just sleep, after the long day. I was so exhausted, and not in the least bit looking forward to any form of tutoring tomorrow.

But at least Joan and I could put "plan B--not A" into action.

"Plan B" consisted of some of the most maniacal plans ever devised by woman. Joan and I went over our strategies several times. We had written a Plan A, but I pointed out that Plan A's never worked, so we ditched the idea and came up with Plan B instead.

I was making my way to the library and Joan was rambling in my ear about her problems.

I flattened my hair to make sure my hair was covering my ear with the device in it and muttered, "If I keep talking to you down this hall people will think I'm a rambling loon."

She made a huffy snort in response and I think that I could even hear her cross her arms over the static.

"Okay," I mumbled, "I'm going in..."

"Oh-hoho, you sound so serious! Oh, I'm so excited." I could hear the bed springs squeak beneath her over the earpiece. She must be some kind of happy to be bouncy about. I, on the other hand, was scared out of my mind. She continued to giggle in such a sickening stereotypical way.

"Covert missions are no time to giggle!" I hissed, hiding my face behind a book.

"Sorry..."

I calmly sat down at table 24 or 17 and opened my book. Malfoy made no move to welcome me or make any notions that I was there, except for the fact that he began to talk about potions, as if he were reading notes aloud to himself more than to another person.

"What a prat," Joan complained, and after a while she said in a shockingly serious voice, "Go. Do the first thing."

I set down my quill from note-taking and reached into my rucksack, retrieving a metal nail file. I began to file my nails. Joan snickered in my ear. Her persona was suddenly shifting. "Are you doing it? Are you?" she pleaded.

"Would you mind?" Malfoy said in a tired voice.

"Oh, so I am here…" I commented, thoroughly sounding bored, not lifting my eyes from my nails. Joan's behaviors began to mix with mine; she, after all, was much more wise in the ways of affecting a man.

"Well of course you sodding are…"

"You know I walk in here," I began blandly, emotion growing in my voice. I felt cold, like I was about to shiver, but I kept up the front. "And you just don't acknowledge me or anything. It's like you don't care!"

"Perfect…" Joan whispered, I could hear her crunching on something on the other end. She was living it up, enjoying our show. "You know, this could be a new WWN drama show."

"It's very possible that I don't care," Draco replied.

I crossed my arms and furrowed my eyebrows. "That is so like you." Joan giggled and I felt so unlike myself; I found myself pretending to react to the situation like I was her.

"You're crazy," he muttered, reaching for his noted again. Looking them over, he said, "Now actually pay attention."

I made to pick up my nail file.

"And no nail stuff," he added with a certain whine behind his voice. He put his hand over the file and pushed it to the table.

I slapped my hand to the table. "You cannot tell me what I can and cannot file!"

My life is a circus.

"Would you quit it? I will make Snape fail you two times over!" Malfoy nearly shouted this, which cause Madame Pince to "Shhhhhhh!" at us, and fling her arm threateningly towards the door.

…An absolute circus.

"Abandon file!" Joan shrieked dramatically.

Circus, circus, circus…

"You can't really make him fail me… can you?"

Draco shrugged. "You wouldn't want me to try though, would you? Now quit it and listen. It'll go by faster."

So I went back to taking notes, and Malfoy went back to his monotone facade; and Joan declared that if I wasn't going to do anything soon, she was going to paint her nails-- which I'm sure she was doing anyway. Malfoy was discussing Avagodro feathers in a Callous Draught. Our first plan really didn't work too well…

He was a very static figure, I noticed. So dull. How could he be so sarcastic to my brother and such a good Quidditch player and, heck, a Death Eater, for all I know, and be so dull?

"Try again..." RL whined in my ear. "Oh… and what polish should I use? Cough once for red and twice for purple."

I coughed twice.

"Really? I was sure you'd pick red."

"Malfoy," I said politely, interrupting his monologue about Potion. He glanced up and I leaned forward, lacing my fingers under my chin with my elbows on the table. "Are you gay?"

"Excuse me?" He hissed in disbelief, averting his eyes from me to his text. Joan reveled again.

"Oh, nothing… I was just wondering," I said carelessly, sitting back and prepping my quill to my note paper as if I were ready for him to start talking again.

"No, I'm not gay! What would make you think that?" He became incensed, and I was quite satisfied to see this emotion. Perhaps he wasn't as static as I thought.

"Nothing! Nothing, I was just wondering!" I replied forcefully while shrugging him off innocently.

"Well there has to be a reason why you would think that," Malfoy said frantically, completely abandoning his book. "You just don't ask people if they're gay for no reason!"

I rolled my eyes dramatically, and let out a heavy sigh, shoulders drooping and all, "Well... it's just that you come off as a bit, mmm, tarty... at times."

"What?" he looked absolutely bewildered. RL was enjoying it as she gave a deep chuckle while singing through the static, "Stand down, little man… stand down." in my ear.

"It's no big deal, Malfoy, I've read it in all the books. Young men your age tend to display different preferences as an act of defiance towards society." I gave a pitiful click of my tongue. "How's your relationship with you father? I bet that's it..."

Malfoy stood up, and I suddenly remembered what had happened to his father, but I felt little pity. "This is ridiculous! There is no… "preferences," no-- no defiance," he was beginning to stutter. "How do I come off as tarty?" He began pacing, just slightly, and muttering to himself, "I can't possibly give this impression to everyone; no one's said anything. You know, I blame my mum," he paused and pointed at me. "That inane woman sent me to etiquette and ballroom lessons!"

"How charming of Mr. Homophobe," Joan commented.

I suppressed a laugh in my throat, which came out as a kind of a snort.

He leaned forward on the table and came too close for comfort, which is about a foot for future reference. He closed his eyes and replied calmly. "I know it. I am not gay. I listen to R.E.O. Speedwagon, and they are the voice for straight men everywhere..."

"Uh, Malfoy," I said, sitting back and blinking spasmodically (there was a twitch in my left eye that wouldn't go away, so I put my hand to it for a bit), "Could you ack off?"

He sat down and put his head between his arms, looking quite sordid. "Do other people think this?"

"No, no, of course not. But anyway, being gay is nothing to be ashamed about." I could hear Loon clapping. I put my hand forward and patted him on the shoulder. His breakdown made no sense to me whatsoever, but I was just glad we had cracked him.

But when I touched him, he seemed to recoup. He coolly sat up and looked at me. He calmly took out his wand and pointed it at me. "Revo Reveale," he said plainly. The act was done with such normalcy, I hardly could register what was happening. The wand was still pointed at me as I felt a hot-cold sensation in my stomach that made me lurch forward and begin to cough as if I were to vomit. "Speak of word of this conversation to anyone else and your tongue will be ripped out instantly," he said in a strange infuriated serenity.

"Ginny?..." Joan called in my ear.

"Right," I coughed, "No crazy talk… Is this how you usually handle a situation after you have a mental breakdown?" And suddenly there was a piercing cry of static in my ear. I let out a split-second scream before I clasped my hand over my mouth. I was still making some sort of noise, to which Malfoy instantly responded.

"Silencium," he whispered

My voice halted in my throat, but I was still screaming in my head as I clutched at my ear to rip the shrilling equipment from my ear and throw in across the room, hitting a book shelf. Oh that was stupid…

Malfoy stood. "Accio." The ear piece came whizzing to him. He clutched it in his hand and inspected in briefly before glaring at me with raised eyebrows. "Come on," he said resolutely, "Get up." And he took me by my arm, nearly dragging me, behind bookcases far off from the study tables.

He pushed my shoulder against the books with one arm and held the ear piece between our faces with the other. "Explain," he breathed, "Emplorium."

I wanted to pretend that my voice hadn't come back, but a little bit of that scream was left in my throat and came out as a little "eep." I put up my hands defensively and pushed at him. "It was just a prank," I said hoarsely. "W-- I was just trying to bother you, I didn't expect you to go all loony bin on me," I snapped, true anger welling.

He wouldn't take his eyes off me, as if I were going to move any second. He brought the piece to his lips with his eyes still fixed and said into it, "Listen, if anyone is on this other end and says any tiny bit against me, I will kill you. I will hunt you down, and I will kill you." He dropped the ear piece.

"Oh honestly," I said sarcastically. "Kill?"

He put more pressure on my shoulder. More angry than scared, I refused to appear pained, gritting my teeth and glaring. "Now, Weasley," he began civilly, "I know my type and yours have never really gotten along, would you like to try pushing that further?"

Have you ever been through a hurricane or a tropical storm? Last year (in modern time now) I traveled to St. John, and we were caught in a hurricane. But when the storm hit us, it passed rather quickly. Some harsh winds, dying down, and then the eye. That eye was an eerie calm. Everything turned grey in that moment. You could feel the danger in the uniform movement of the air—it wasn't a breeze, but a shift in the atmosphere. All remained still. Very dangerous, but so very still.

Now forgive the blatant symbolism, but in that moment I relate that Draco was very much so like the eye of a storm, calm but ominous. And I found it frightening that his eyes reflected his nature. I could see myself in the black reflection of his pupils, and felt like I was absorbed in his eeriness. The grayness of some looming threat.

"Would you?" he repeated.

I had completely forgotten what he was talking about. "Wha…What was that again?"

His face became hard as a bed of nails and he said, "I'm quite fed up with your jokes, and you in general. You're not going to go snitch on me, are you?"

"Well, if I do I get my tongue ripped out, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, no then," I said with a nervous laugh.

"Good."

"But since I'm not aloud to say anything to anyone else, can I still make a sarcastic quip to you with the guarantee of not getting brutally disfigured?"

"Eh, sure, go ahead."

"You know," I said a little seriously, "you're belligerent and mad and you have all the makings of taking over the world."

"Yeah?" he chuckled with a childish smile, looking at the ground with eyes that shined for the first time that I'd ever seen.

A/N: Insane? Perhaps. Morbid? Maybe. Awesome? Totally.

Review cinnamon bunnies!

Much love and thanks to: madxmadamexmim, Calla-ForEvEa (you reviewed on this fic v1.0, didn't you?), Mishavay, Alatariel97, Funnykido, BlackMystick (Aren't you a veteran reviewer too?) , Possum132, Silver Magiccraft

If you want to see the product of my sweet Paint skillz, check out this picture I made of a giant Snape head yelling at Ginny--I set it as my homepage in my profile.I think the picture would have gone better with the first chapter, but I didn't think of it then. Give your eyes a rest from all them words.