Blaise, love,

It was nice to see you, really. But if I gave this to you means that I was about to fall into your courtly charms—again. Honestly, how predictable can I get? I'm so sad. Hope you're having fun with our Pansy wench. Does it hurt your ego that she married & it wasn't exactly you on the honeymoon night? See why you just don't dump people as if they were tissues? Hope you did enjoy it while it lasted though. Really, I didn't write this letter to know about your sex life (shivers). Or lack thereof. Aw dear, stop the scowling, I was just kidding! Of course I know that you don't lack anything (snort). Keep in mind that that was just an ego booster, love; don't get your hopes high. I'm not stupid enough to fall for the same thing twice—keep your comments to yourself! That's an incident I prefer to keep between ourselves, thank you very much. Jeez, this is more difficult than I thought. Penning you a letter proves to be almost as challenging as resisting your charms, dear. So I guess I should just get down to business and stop the nattering.

Well, yes, LG does stand for you-know-what—and wipe that smirk off your face, bastard. Why did I write you this letter if I was only going to insult you? Because I enjoy doing it. Insulting you, that is. Ah dear, I'm sure you didn't miss my double entendre. I should have been in Slytherin? Well, that's another secret of mine, so shush. Honestly, if I knew that you would be reacting like this I wouldn'tve even written the letter. Oh whatever, you're simply hopeless.

You may be asking yourself why in Merlin's balls I would start attacking Draco Malfoy. Besides the obvious reason of him being himself, I hope to keep it a secret. So no, you don't get to know about it.

Yes, yes, I know. Then why did I call you? Well, because love, I can't live without you. You're all I need.

Idiot, stop parading around. I need your help, arse. You are his best friend, no? So I'm guessing that you know more of him than I will ever do. And yes, I know what you're thinking. Why would you betray your best friend for nothing? Well, you're wrong. It's not for "absolutely bloody nothing" as I'm sure you're thinking & no I don't read minds, just yours. Don't ask me, it's freakish. Now, back on topic. That's the reason I'm writing this at all, so stop pouting. Knowing that you so definitely don't lack money, I am willing to offer you anything you want.

Now, be reasonable, love. I can't really be your fuck buddy so no, choose another thing.

No, I won't have a trio that involves Pansy and you. Ew, honestly! What do you think I am? Parkinson

I can't stand the cow.

No! I won't give you any oral work.

I'm signing off now before you start wanking off at my sultry remembrance.

Whatever.

When you come up with something reasonable that doesn't have anything to do with sex, give me a call.

Oh! And of course, you talk, you die. You know what I mean. Nothing personal, just job issues.

Love ya!

Ginevra Weasley

(Mâgo)(Mägo)(Mägo)(Mägo)(Mâgo)

With a sigh, Ginny plopped down comfortably into her couch and kicked off her bloody high heels.

Those suckers.

She was sure she would be needing crutches tomorrow, so help her. And she knew just the remedy: get piss drunk.

She snapped her fingers and a crack resounded all over the living room.

"What would mistress be wanting, mistress?" The squeaky voice of the domestic elf chagrined Ginny's strung nerves.

"Just bring me some Chardonnay, please," She forced herself to add the please. She really hated their tinny voices sometimes. Enough to make you want to strangle them to take of their voices boxes.

"Yes mistress, as mistress pleases."

Heaving another tired sigh, Ginny closed her eyes. What exactly had she done back in the restaurant? She wasn't even sure. Had she flirted? Had she teased? Or had she made it straight that she wasn't even minimally interested in him?

Uh huh, Ginevra, you practically swooned all over him.

And what had those last lines been? Argh, she didn't even want to remember. She had sounded so much like a slut…and looked like one too with that bloody dress. She had literally offered herself to him.

Pathetic.

She decided she hated herself.

For now anyways.

Taking a sip of her calming wine, she basked comfortably in her place, trying to think of other things instead of the bloody SexGod she had just had a date with and that wouldn't stop flirting with her in all possible manners.

Had Blaise read the letter already?

Arse, what happened with the different topic? She didn't need Blaise Zabini interrupting her thoughts at this moment, thank you.

The letter had been a second option, but it had turned out to be the best plan. If she had stayed a bit longer Merlin knows what would she have done…or where would she have ended. And a part of her conscious really told her that it would've been somewhere near Blaise's bed. Along the lines of…

And there she went again.

"Better do something productive before I start having steamy daydreams about Blaise Zabini like a hormonal teenager," she declared disgustedly to no one in particular and with no regular emphasis, as her voice lacked conviction and her sprawling in the couch didn't cease. She didn't particularly fancy writing at this moment. She was completely and totally drained…but she had to be continuous in her attacks, or if not, people would start losing interest, and she could not afford that and then she would start thinking about Blaise and just how much could have happened and…

She would bring Draco Malfoy down even if that meant her typing her ass off.

Reluctantly, she sat up and padded barefooted to her study.

Suddenly the night seemed too short.

(Mâgo)(Mägo)(Mägo)(Mägo)(Mâgo)

Ah, what a dress did to a woman.

Well, at least Blaise wanted to believe that the confidence Ginny exuded was because of a dress. He wouldn't ever forgive himself to have let go of such a girl if it wasn't the dress that made Ginny so…fuckable. So he tried over and over again to convince himself that it was the dress that made her feel more secure of herself and therefore making her more daring and alluring, and delicious, and shaggable, and hot, and sexy, and sensual and…

Sweet Nimue was she gorgeous. She had looked almost good enough to eat! And those last words, those had definitely been the killers. That exit couldn't have left him feeling any more sex deprived. He had come home so frustrated that he had even risked phoning Pansy to bring her ass over to his apartment, and no, he didn't care if his husband happened to ask for her, he needed a good lay, now. And what—Blaise had to smirk—was Pansy to decline? A good shag was a hell of a good shag.

So she had come scurrying and so damnably hot, and he had fucked her so roughly and thoroughly that the bitch couldn't even stand the next morning.

'Tsk, tsk Blaise, you're being crude,' he reprimanded himself, but the smirk remained. He really couldn't help it. But he would change topics anyways, he was thinking too much about Ginevra Weasley already.

Draco had been so mad last night.

Served him right for pissing off such a woman.

Blaise hadn't really forgotten Ginevra Weasley during all the years that had passed since his graduation from Hogwarts.

Who could ever forget her?

She was every guy's erotic dream.

And contrary to her belief, her red hair was her most basic appeal. Red equals fire, ardour, passion, fervour, which literally assures you a wildcat in bed. And her sizable assets really did help increase the male's zeal with her bedding. Blaise admitted it, he had started talking to her just because of the vows he had heard that she was a-one-of-a-kind-shag and his oath that he would be able to seduce her into submission within the year.

Why not? She was a gorgeous vixen, and he was a guy after all.

So, he had started wooing his way into her pants.

Blaise had laughed when he had heard her state it so clearly and irreproachably. It was true dammit, and she knew it, so it had been no use denying it. And so she had let him. Maybe she hadn't cared, maybe she had; probably she was in also for the sex. Who would ever know? Blaise hadn't exactly cared. Of course he had a reputation backing him up, so it appeared to be a win-win situation.

Her kisses and caresses had been hot and tight promises as to what would've come if Blaise had stuck around enough time to find out. Yes, there had been quite some steamy sessions, but no actual…intercourse.

Yes, Pansy had found a use for him after all.

But her infatuation for him had once again been short lived and she had dumped him unceremoniously one day while at a café. So he was once again sex deprived, and yearning for a certain redhead that would fulfil his debt.

He had been quite angry with Parkinson, now that he remembered.

Actually it was a wonder how come they were still fuck buddies…

But Ginny had exaggerated on the cheating part. Really, he had never slept with anyone when he was 'going steady' with her. Things had never gone beyond some sweltering French kissing sessions when he was with the other girls and Ginny had caught them, honestly. But these girls just had to be so bloody picky!

But then again, she had a reason to be picky. She could be picky, which was a priority back then.

And she still could bloody well be picky now. Hell, now she could just arch an eyebrow at a man and snag him.

Blaise already had had some little images playing around in the edge of his conscious…

Damn, he had to stop thinking about Ginny.

As if on cue and answer to his prayers, the phone rang.

A phone. Who would've thought that wizards would actually end up using such vile muggle contraptions when they had the wondrous net of Floo?

Problem was that Floo wasn't exactly accessible anymore. Since the defeat of Voldemort—really, Blaise had to snort—the Floo network had been taken down without further ado and would be up and running in no time soon. As it seemed, the Dark Lord—a fit of laughter didn't help either—had filtered to the Ministry—gasp!—through this ever useful network, and had managed to extortionate—snort—some of its commissioners into joining his side and turning them into making-believe-useful spies for him. Ironically, after all the extents the old chap of Dumbledore had gone through to 'protect' Hogwarts, it was through there that The-One-Who-Shouldn't-Have-Been-Named-but-Still-Kissed-Blaise's-Ass had filtered through and fought the dramatic final battle, in which through a pathetically shouted "Finite Incantatem" Pothead had won. After all, it had been a spell that had kept Voldemort alive, hadn't it?

Blaise rolled his eyes as the phone continued to ring persistently, as if on purpose to irk him. Honestly, didn't people get their peace these days?

Oh what the hell. A chance wouldn't kill. After all, it was thanks to him—he was pretty sure it was bloody Malfoy who was calling—that he had stopped thinking about how positively delectable Ginny had looked and all the little naughty things he would do to her.

Growling, he picked up the phone.

"What the hell do you want, Malfoy?" he snapped.

"Sex. Though it's a shame I'm not Dray," came a sultry voice.

Blaise let out a sigh. "Chastity?" he asked morosely.

"Actually, no." Hell, he could almost hear the frown. And he knew that voice, he was quite sure.

"Margot," he continued with his guessing.

"Blaise!" That petty cry was impossible to not recognize.

"When can you come, Pansy?" he asked as he lay back in his expensive sofa, his smirk turning predatory.

"What makes you think that I want to go after you didn't recognize me?" she huffed.

"Because you're simply dying for an encore as to last night," Blaise declared arrogantly, his mind already replaying some parts.

"Arrogant git," Pansy sniffed, but didn't bother denying Blaise's statement. Too true.

"Won't your husband start suspecting something?"

"To hell with Marcus, I'm not really in the mood to be tolerating him right now," she said a tad childishly.

It really was a shame how such hot women went to waste as they married bastards.

In the whole extension of the word.

It was a well-known fact that Marcus Flint Son hadn't been born to the definitely sterile May Belle Meriwether Flint, but Marcus Flint Father had impregnated some other—conveniently anonymous—whore in his youth and later had May Belle adopt his little bastard.

But bastard or not, the prick would still inherit the whole fortune of the family, so there really weren't any buts as to where his compromise with Pansy was. Married they would remain. Until his natural death or until she had him killed.

"So when are you coming?"

"When I can actually stand, bastard," she pouted prettily. The smirk got wider.

"Then that will take some time, love," and he hung up.