Every ounce of Ginny Weasley is begging her to run.
Instead, she quirks an eyebrow and spits "And if I don't?" out of her mouth like acid onto pavement.
The blonde boy spins around on the heel of his right foot and faces her.
"Pardon?" The word is polite, his face is impassive, but his tone of voice could make Voldemort quiver in his robes.
Ginny Weasley is easily a foot shorter than Draco Malfoy, who must be at least six foot one. She is not wearing her best clothes, nor her cloak, and the November air in Hogsmeade bites. Ginny is not feeling confident. Ginny doesn't feel like she could win an argument with a squirrel, let alone Mr. Antichrist Malfoy. Ginny is not feeling much except for cold, vaguely terrified, and ornery underneath it all.
"And. If. I. Don't." This time it isn't a question; the sentence is broken into four, with tight pauses in between. Ginny clenches her jaw and wills herself not to dash back to the Three Broomsticks, where a cup of butterbeer and her friends would surely be waiting for her, all smiles and warmth and moral support.
"Well, well, well," Draco vaguely hears himself say. "I believe we have a challenge." Draco raises an eyebrow to match hers, grey eyes flashing in the dim light. The pale colour absorbs those of his surroundings, and infinitesimal greens and would-be hazels around the edge of his iris somewhat soften its usual clear slate-silver. It's a surprisingly kind shade that betrays all of the harsh angles and aristocratic grace that creates the façade of Draco Ignatius Malfoy, Slytherin God Supreme.
Ginny watches in slow-motion as he places one delicate hand on one slender hip. The fluid movement is all Malfoy, but the position reminds Ginny of her mother to an astounding degree. Malfoy has his battle face on, Ginny is trying to put her battle face on, and it's very inconvenient that she chooses now to have the uncontrollable urge to picture the Slytherin in an apron and curlers in his hair a la Snape and Neville and laugh.
Draco watches in an odd detached way as the Weasley girl raises her eyebrows suddenly and looks like she's about to sneeze. Oddly enough, it is not the fact that he knows she could prove to be a hundred times the challenge that her pathetic-excuse-of-a-wizard brother could ever claim to be that keeps Draco from walking away, nor is it the fact that she looks very small and somewhat broken in the lighting without a cloak and with her hair flying everywhere like silk spun out of copper. It is the fact that this contradiction is so Slytherin that she could only be interesting that makes him stay. He is merely curious as to what could possibly happen.
Watching as Ginevra Weasley is clearly arguing with herself makes Draco feel like he's in Care of Magical Creatures class. He feels like he should be taking notes on the behaviour of this rare species. It is like she's a different creature, Draco decides. A creature with an astoundingly sub-human intelligence. His lips curl into a sneer.
That is simply too much, Ginny decides. The sneer. His trademark sneer. She is now picturing her mother with blonde hair, sneering and holding a spatula in the messy kitchen of the Burrow. Her mind then switches Malfoy's face to her mother's body and background, complete with twin spots of rouge and pearl earrings.
Ginny lets out a sharp bark of hysterical laughter. She shakes her head, eyes nearly closed, thin eyebrows arched north in wonderment. The laughter continues, echoing and bouncing off of the cobblestones.
Draco's mouth falls open slightly, and he looks puzzled, which only sets Ginny off further. She's spluttering now, tears sparkling at the corners of her eyes, her mirth rising in volume and her breath ragged and cloudy in the air.
"What?" He demands sharply.
Ginny shakes her head again and has to lean against a wall to support herself.
Madame Puddifoot's is across the street, and she is starting to attract stares, from lovebird students to waitresses to fat floating cupids.
Ginny's laughter slows down, and she cannot keep a dazed smile off her face. Forgetting everything, she takes a few steps forward and claps Malfoy on the shoulder.
"Nothing, Mum."
With that, she swaggers past him. Still chuckling, the heels of her boots clicking against the road, she adjusts her scarf and has apparently forgotten everything except for her desire to have a hot cup of butterbeer.
Draco turns slowly around, jaw still a little slack, and blinks hard. He puts his hands into his pocket and watches her retreating figure, dazed.