Greetings, my dear readers! Thank you all for the lovely reviews I received on the last chapter. I am glad you liked it, and I hope you will enjoy this one as well.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and the Wizarding World belongs to J.K. Rowling.
WILFULLY: CHAPTER 3
Draco Malfoy was in a predicament, and he had only himself to blame for it.
Actually, that was not quite true. His situation was entirely the fault of Ginevra Weasley and her sexily dangerous mouth. That girl was more trouble than she was worth, what with that stubborn attitude and that fiery recklessness. Not to mention that she was a Weasley – a bloody, red-haired, classless Weasley.
If he were any smart, which he was, he would stop seeing her.
The only problem was that he couldn't. For reasons beyond his comprehension, he was finding her company far too enjoyable and did not think himself ready to give it up just yet.
Shit.
xx
Draco had decided by 4 pm on Monday that this was one of the longest weeks of his life. There had been a horrendous mix-up of memos in the office, resulting in the wrong consignment of Wideye Potion to be sent to St. Mungo's Hospital and he had spent the entire morning doing damage control. After that, his other meetings had run back-to-back, leaving him no time to have anything more than half a cup of tea for lunch. On top of that, Nigel Wolpert, the young Auror that the Ministry had sent for their mandatory semi-annual molestation of the Malfoy accounts, was a dolt.
Wolpert looked like a sixteen-year-old, and for a second Draco wondered if the Ministry was grabbing children from the cradle and throwing them into Auror training just because their poster boy happened to be a teenage hero. They had sent said hero to the Malfoy offices a few years back, which had made for some interesting quarrels if nothing else. Of course, Saint Potter was now the Deputy Head of the Auror Department, too important to grace anyone unworthy with his presence.
Dealing with Wolpert had taken nearly two hours – a hundred and twenty minutes that Draco spent reminding himself that hexing the useless, Potter-worshipping, patronising imbecile would only land him in unnecessary trouble. Resisting the urge was hard though, as Wolpert made sure to remind him time and again that he was only doing his duty, though he didn't seem to be too bummed about it, and that the Malfoys deserved to be monitored due to their "past deeds".
As if the idiot – or the rest of the Ministry, for that matter – would ever find something that Draco didn't want them to find. He didn't care if his wealth was in the open; after the war, he had spent a while shutting down some of the more questionable business avenues of his father's, and now all his business dealings were entirely legal and on paper.
But the Malfoys had other possessions too, which included a vast collection of ancient artefacts and scripts, most of which either dealt with Dark Arts or were priceless relics from the wizarding past. Some of those were hidden in a secret Gringotts vault – his father had taught him early on that an affirming working relationship with the goblins would prove quite beneficial in the long run – and the rest were kept in secure rooms beneath the Manor, sealed off by ancient blood magic that was nigh on impossible to trace. He had no intention of using these artefacts, but it was an invaluable collection that had been in his family for years and he would not have it confiscated by anyone, least of all this baby Auror.
Draco had dropped the fake smile he had plastered on his face the second Wolpert left. Cooperating with the Ministry was testing, but necessary. He had learnt many lessons in his life, most often the harsh way, and one of them was the importance of the art of diplomacy. It was one that his father had tried instilling in him when he was younger, but he had dismissed it in his prideful youth. Now, though, not only he understood its value but also played it with remarkable efficiency.
Besides, he felt a special, twisted sort of pleasure in trampling the so-called honourable fools of the current Ministry regime with his own brand of polite disdain – using his sharp tongue with a voice imbued with just enough affability that he succeeded in causing offense that the receiver could not quite object to.
In any case, halfway through the day, he had sent Ginevra an owl, informing her that he was in absolutely no mood to take her out to dinner like they had planned, but that she was welcome to swing by the Manor 'to get some' tea and biscuits and that he'd be 'pleased to host her'. The dual meaning had been intentional, of course, but he hadn't expected her to actually take him up on the offer.
Still, when she showed up outside the Manor wards later that evening, he wasn't about to turn her away.
They had decided to forego the untimely tea-time in favour of other activities by unspoken agreement. It was interesting how they seemed to share a lot of those moments where they managed to communicate without uttering a single word. Or perhaps they were both just too laden with lust.
As he lay on top of her, their bodies rocking in throes of passion, the feel of her warm skin exquisite against his and the sound of her moans music to his ears, Draco decided that maybe his day hadn't been as bad as he had originally thought.
Afterwards, when hunger had kicked in, he had asked his personal house-elf, Yugo, to prepare a simple meal for them. He slipped on a pair of silk pyjama bottoms and a plain t-shirt – he had always hated button down pyjama shirts for some reason – and padded into the main living room where Ginevra had relocated. She sat curled up on the settee, garbed in his emerald dressing gown which she had borrowed without his permission, unschooled simpleton that she was.
Her eyes turned to him when he entered, and she bit her lip as if to stifle a giggle.
"What?" he demanded, an eyebrow raised in question.
She shook her head. "Nothing. It's silly, really–"
"Most of the words that come out of your mouth usually are." Draco sneered, fully aware that him doing so would anger her. He had realised not too long after running into her in France that he rather enjoyed pushing her buttons. She reacted differently every time he threw insults her way and, whether she chose to reply with her impressive wit or resort to ignoring him with thinly veiled scorn, it was always fascinating to observe.
Sure enough, Ginevra shot him a dirty look and went on as if she hadn't been interrupted. "I was surprised to see you wearing a t-shirt. I didn't think you owned any."
Draco stared at her as if she had sprouted a second head, wondering what in the name of Salazar's blood did him wearing t-shirts have anything to do with anything, and why would she find the sight of him dressed in one so amusing. "Why wouldn't I own t-shirts?" He asked, unable to keep a hint of bewilderment out of his voice. "To the best of my knowledge, there is no law that prevents me from acquiring the particular item of clothing."
"It's just that I've only seen you dress so formally–"
"Were you dropped on the head when you were little?" He cut in, mildly irritated at how sometimes she would say such ridiculous things. The woman was intelligent, of that he had no doubt, even though she was not blessed with the drive to use her brains to full potential for her gain. But he supposed that was what made her a fitting Gryffindor. "I am a businessman. My profession demands that I dress formally, and while I shan't deny that I am quite fond of my formal sense of style, I don't wear it to bed."
"I know, I know," Ginevra said hurriedly, her eyes once again roaming over his form. She seemed to take the insult in good stride; it was something she had done previously as well, and had surprised him completely by doing so. He had not expected a Weasley to exhibit such tolerance, especially when it came to him. "You look cute."
He paused, finding himself torn between feeling flattered or indignant, which was something he often felt when he conversed with her. For now, he decided to stick to the latter. "I must ask you to refrain from using that word in relation to me, Ginevra," he said as he took a seat on the other end of the couch. "I mean, puffskeins are cute."
"As are you. In a tee." She grinned.
He pressed his lips together, fully aware that she would make it a habit of using that particular adjective in regard to him if he expressed any further dislike towards it. Deciding that it was best to change the topic, he pointedly looked at the robe she had put on and said, "You know, it is good manners to ask permission before you use other people's things."
"It is also good manners to make sure your guests feel at home," She shot back, "Especially the ones who give you an orgasm."
"And get one in return," He pointed out.
"Touché," She admitted as she stretched out her legs, resting her feet in his lap.
Draco stared. Did she truly think that one orgasm, albeit a rather mind-blowing one, gave her the right to not only treat his belongings as her own but to actually treat him as her footrest? The audacity!
"I needed that, though," She went on, unaware of his line of thought. "With our first match only a week away, Gwenog is running the team into the ground. I had an eleven-hour practice session today. Can you believe that?"
As a matter of fact, he could. He remembered how long the Quidditch practice used to last when he played for Slytherin, and though he had never been able to beat Potter, his performance against the other teams had been quite remarkable. And that had only been the House Cup at Hogwarts, this was the British and Irish Quidditch League. "I don't see why you are even bothering," He couldn't help but say, "There is no way the Harpies will win against Puddlemere United."
Ginevra kicked his thigh lightly, almost causing him to jump. "Must you act like an insufferable git all the time?" she asked. "Be nice and support me."
"Absolutely not." He responded instantly. The idea of him supporting the Holyhead Harpies was unfathomable. "Wood is an exceptional captain and he will play to Puddlemere's strength, which is their defence. I highly doubt even an aggressive chaser like yourself would be able to get the Quaffle anywhere near the goal posts."
"You're a Puddlemere United fan," Her voice was filled with wonder, as if someone had told her the meaning of life. "I thought you'd support the Magpies."
"And why would I do that?"
"You seem like the kind of bloke who would support whoever's on top," She said with a shrug.
"I resent that statement, Ginevra," Draco sniffed in disdain, wondering if he really came across as that. He probably did, his mind supplied, and he realised that he could not fault her for thinking that he would blindly choose the winning side. He had done so several times in the past, hadn't he? His left forearm, burned with the Dark Mark, twitched unceremoniously at that, and he hastily shoved those tendrils of thoughts away. The last thing he wanted was for that suffocating, morbid darkness to descend on his mind. "I will have you know that I have been an avid Puddlemere United fan since I was six years of age, and I had everything about them memorized by the time I was ten."
"Everything?" She raised an eyebrow in challenge.
"Everything." he repeated confidently.
And so, as they dug into the tea and sandwiches Yugo had brought, Ginevra quizzed him on his favourite team. It was basic facts at first – what year they were founded in, their logo, their song – but soon she was questioning him on team statistics. Halfway through the interrogation, he realised that she did not know the answers to the questions she was asking, but he excitedly continued to spew out details of old victories and player histories.
Draco felt like a little boy once again, whose biggest concern in life was to babble enough Puddlemere United facts so that his father would be convinced to arrange a meet-and-greet with his favourite players post-match. He'd collect their autographs and then spend days bouncing around in joy. He used to think that one day, after he started playing Quidditch professionally, children would collect his signatures too. Needless to say, that hadn't happened and it never would.
His autograph journal must be somewhere in the Manor, he mused. Up until the age of fifteen, he had kept it securely in his bedside drawer, giving no one the permission to touch it. But then he had turned sixteen and the Dark Lord had asked for a private meeting with him… And Quidditch no longer remained his top priority in life.
Ginevra appeared to be quite impressed by the vast pools of Puddlemere United knowledge he had stored in his head, and that pleased him. For better or for worse, attention-seeking had always been a trait of his; he loved the idea of being placed on a pedestal and praised. It was ironic how his life had turned out. He had ended up on a pedestal, alright, first at a few of the Death Eater meetings and then in the middle of the Wizengamot Courtroom, only it would be quite a bit of stretch to classify the things spoken about him as 'praise'.
"Are you going to the stadium?" Ginevra asked, mercifully breaking his train of thought, "To watch the match on Sunday?"
"No," Draco replied, trying his best to not look too disappointed. He had been abroad for business when the tickets had gone on sale and were sold out by the time he returned. "Unfortunately, I was unable to secure seats."
She plopped the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth and settled back, causing him to realise that somehow her feet had remained in his lap throughout the entire meal. He was contemplating shoving them aside when she spoke up. "I can get you tickets if you're still interested to come."
Draco stilled, eyes snapping to hers in surprise. Still interested to come?! Merlin, the woman was as dumb as a post at times. "Did you not understand how big of a fan I am of Puddlemere United?" he asked incredulously.
"I'll take that as a yes," A brief smile touched her lips, only to be replaced with a thoughtful frown. "The seats will be in the same box as my family. If that's a problem–"
"It's not." It was, and they both knew it. He would sooner share a box with an enraged Blast-Ended Skrewt than the Weasleys. But if sitting in the vicinity of that ginger family presented him with an opportunity to watch Puddlemere's opening match, then he was willing to make the sacrifice. "It won't be," he assured her.
She eyed him dubiously for a few short moments, and he blinked innocently at her. He mustn't have done a good job at it, for she looked amused, as if she could see right through his charade.
"Will it be possible for you to arrange two tickets?" He asked. Zabini was as much of a Puddlemere fan as he was and would definitely want to come, even though the git had failed entirely to secure seats for the match, despite being in the country at the time. Blaise had claimed to be swamped at the hospital, treating a man who had unknowingly come into contact with a cursed object, but Draco didn't think that that was reason enough to skip ticket sales.
"Sure." Ginevra shrugged lightly.
Just like that.
For a moment Draco wondered if she was yanking his wand, but he could tell that she was entirely serious – glad, even, of getting him a place at the match. He reckoned it wouldn't be that difficult for her to invite a few guests of her own, seeing that she was playing the game. A thought occurred to him. "I hope you do not expect me to support the Harpies now, Ginevra," he said, deciding it was better to make it clear that his loyalties lay with her opponent team.
"I think that out of the two of us, you're the one more likely to lord favours over others as a demand for their support," she stated. "Not me."
"You are not wrong," He admitted. It was a very Slytherin thing to do and she was Gryffindor to the bone, no doubt offering him match seats out of the goodness of her heart. He supposed he should thank her, but his ego wouldn't allow him to express gratitude, especially to a Weasley. Which was silly really, seeing that he was actually romantically involved with her. And yet, the words were stuck in his throat, completely unwilling to come out.
Reaching out, he grabbed her ankle and pushed it down the settee, causing her legs to part and her robe to flip open. She let out a startled gasp, chocolate eyes boring into his, and he lowered his lips to her exposed knee, leaving behind a trail of butterfly kisses as he slowly made his way up her leg.
He could tell by the way her body stiffened that she was caught off-guard. While their sexual escapades had been nothing short of glorious, neither of them had used their mouths for exploring 'southern territories' in the duration of their brief affair.
That was about to change, he decided, as he tightened his grip on her thighs. He heard her take in a sharp breath, no doubt torn between disbelief and anticipation. Perhaps one day, if she was willing, he would get to feel her beautiful lips around him. The thought caused his blood to gush down to his groin, and he pushed aside those dirty desires. This moment was about her, not him.
He had had trouble finding the words to thank her, but as he buried his face between her legs, Draco made sure that Ginevra Weasley knew that he was indeed grateful.
xx
"Here you go," Ginevra handed him an envelope as she slid into the bench across from him.
Draco wordlessly pocketed the item that contained the tickets for the match, which was scheduled to take place the next day, and eyed the woman before him. She was garbed in a pair of jeans and a worn-out jumper twice her size – not a choice of clothing that he would ever truly approve of – but she somehow managed to carry it with feminine grace. Her long hair was tied into an unruly ponytail, flaming red locks making their way out of the knot and falling about her slightly freckled face. Many boys had fancied her back at Hogwarts, and though he himself had never glanced at her twice back then, now he could appreciate that she was indeed quite beautiful.
She appeared to be thrumming with energy, a pre-match feeling he could recall from his Quidditch playing days, where one was filled with a mixture of nerves and exhilaration, stomach tied in countless knots, ready for battle and dreading it at the same time. It was an intense feeling, but not an uncomfortable one.
"I can't stay long," She said, her brown eyes needlessly apologetic.
"Understandable," He said.
It was lunch time and she had asked him to meet her at the Leaky Cauldron for a quick bite before she returned to practice. He rather wished she had picked some other venue; the pub was bustling with countless witches and wizards, the noise of conversations much too loud for Draco's tastes. He preferred having his meals, even the rushed ones, in appropriately peaceful spaces.
"I'm going to be busy tomorrow, so your second ticket will probably go to waste," Her lips quirked teasingly. "Unless you plan on bringing some other lady as your date."
"Is this your way of asking if we are mutually exclusive, Ginevra?" he asked, an eyebrow raised, then continued before she could respond. "We are."
"Shit," She smacked her hand on the table top with remorse. "Now I will have to break up with all the other men I have been seeing behind your back."
Draco shot her a look, not finding her joke funny at all, though he had been reliably informed by various sources that his own sense of humour had been somewhat lacking over the last few years, not without good reason. "Besides, I wouldn't have taken you even if you had been available," he said, deciding to move the conversation on. "The idea of having to engage with your family in an unnecessary duel does not appeal to me."
"Coward," Ginevra snorted.
"I call it self-preservation," He corrected, wondering whether the idea of worrying about one's own safety was so alien to these noble Gryffindors. "I'd be vastly outnumbered against your brothers. How many of those do you have, again?" The question was unnecessary; he knew the answer but could not resist this perfect opportunity to mock her family's large numbers.
"Five."
"That many?" He stated with a hint of bewilderment. "How did you all fit into that hovel you call a home?"
The smile that touched her lips was sweet, which was never a good sign, and a moment later Draco felt her foot come into contact with his shin. Hard. He flinched and glared ferociously at her, while she pretended to look around the pub with mock casualness. Wench. He was beginning to realise that she was perfectly alright with taking physical liberties – not the good kind, mind – whenever and wherever she deemed fit. It was a dangerous trait.
Draco reached down and rubbed at the sore spot as subtly as he could; uncivil cretin that she was, she had come to lunch wearing Quidditch boots. "I will have you know," He said, summoning as much of his dignity as he could to make it seem like he was unaffected by her insolence, "that if you expect me to fight your family for the sake of our peculiar relationship, you are going to be sorely disappointed."
"I don't know you," she said sharply.
What in the name of Salazar's holy blood was that supposed to mean? He had been answering her questions with exceptional patience ever since they had met at Château d'Orchidée, and though he had quite a few secrets that he was adamant of keeping hidden, he had put up no pretences before her as to what kind of a man he was.
He looked up at her in exasperation, a taunt about her much-too-late qualms on the tip of his tongue, only to realise that the seat across from him was empty. It took him a moment to realise that she had actually left. Bitch. Merlin knew he had said far worse things to her in the last couple of weeks, and she had taken it all in good humour, even throwing a few impressive comebacks his way. Why, then, would she get so offended over something so little was beyond him.
Muttering something particularly nasty in French, he sat back and folded his arms over his chest stubbornly. If she wanted to act like a drama queen then she was welcome to do so, but he would have no part in it. He was going to get a sandwich and then head back to his office, where a huge pile of documents awaited him. Besides, Draco Malfoy did not chase after girls.
Or he could chase after her, give her a piece of his mind and then return to work. It seemed like a petty thing to do, but there were countless insults flying in his mind and it would be such a shame to waste them. Resolve made, he slipped out of the corner booth that they had been occupying. He was halfway across the pub when he spotted her auburn hair, and he stopped in his tracks.
'I don't know you,' she had said. All of a sudden, he realised that Ginevra's words had not been a complaint on her part but rather a heads-up.
For standing next to her was Harry Potter.
The hero of the Wizarding World had grown a short beard, but his poorly hidden lightning scar and the round-rimmed glasses were as recognisable as ever, which is probably what the git had intended; it had been his habit since school days to at least make the first pages, if not the cover, of the Daily Prophet whenever he visited Diagon Alley. Sure enough, heads were turning all over the place, people whispering in hushed tones about the 'Boy who Lived Twice', who happened to be chatting happily with his ex-girlfriend.
Draco inched forward so he could hear what they were saying. He had a very different moral compass compared to most people, so eavesdropping to satiate his curiosity was perfectly acceptable behaviour in his books.
"…thought I'd grab a quick bite here, but it seems like a bad idea." Ginevra was vaguely gesturing at the crowd.
"If you're in a hurry, I can ask Tom to serve you first," Potter offered graciously. It was pathetic, really, that the man never tired of playing the noble hero. Or perhaps he was simply showing off his friendship with Tom the landlord, which wasn't that much of a feat, to be honest.
"Oh, no. It's fine." Ginevra shook her head. "Are you coming tomorrow, by the way?"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Gin," Potter smiled at her.
It was obvious that there was a lot of history between them; their soppy love story had been featured in the newspapers over the years and the announcement of their break-up had caused much stir – Draco's own personal assistant had spent half a day bemoaning the tragedy and had only shut up when he had threatened to fire her.
But Draco noted with mild interest that Potter's gaze lingered on the red-haired woman. Did the great hero still hold a candle for his ex? Or perhaps this was simply how a sentimental fool such as Potter would look at someone he had once shared such a close bond with.
For Merlin's sake, whenever they had had the rare misfortune of running into each other over the past six years, the noble hero had addressed him as 'Draco' rather than spitting out his last name with contempt like he used to, and he had absolutely no idea what had caused this drastic change. Considering that, Potter's tender gaze directed towards the woman he had no doubt once loved dearly did not seem odd at all.
"Then you better stop Ron from betting against the Harpies like he did last time," Ginevra said, "Or you both are getting owl droppings for Christmas."
Potter laughed. "I make no promises but I…" He trailed off as his green eyes landed on Draco, who expertly put up a nonchalant persona, as if he just happened to be walking by. "Draco," he greeted tersely.
Next to him, Ginevra very subtly nodded towards the street out the window, her message clear as the fact that Trelawney's crystal balls were utterly useless. Draco initially felt outraged that she was bossing him around, but then he realised sheepishly that he would have waited outside for her, regardless of whether she asked or not. He did, however, made a mental note to have a word with her about what sort of behaviour was acceptable in their relationship. It would not be a pretty conversation but, what with her using his possessions, hitting him and giving him wordless commands, it felt like a necessary one.
"Potter," he sneered – Merlin! It felt good to sneer at this arsehole – and sauntered past them and out onto the street, welcoming the fresh, autumn air that hit him when he stepped out.
As he waited for Ginevra, his mind wandered back to the interaction he had witnessed inside. He could not tell if she still held any romantic feelings for Potter. She had only mentioned him once in passing, and that too when they had been discussing the appointment of Rita Skeeter as one of the correspondents at the upcoming Quidditch league; Ginevra had complained about how that red-lipped cow tended to focus on writing ridiculous stories about Potter rather than reporting on the games she was supposed to cover. Beyond that, she had never spoken about her previous relationship or the break-up, and he had never asked.
Nor did he want to. Truth was, he couldn't care less.
He tended to stay as far away from Potter as he could, mainly because his own feelings towards the hero were quite complicated – the two of them had been enemies at school, and yet they had somehow ended up aiding each other during the war, which was something he could not allow himself to think of, lest his mind be taken over by memories that made his blood run cold. Rubbing at his left forearm absently, Draco thought back to his trial, where Potter had spoken in his defence. It had been an impressive speech and had resulted in a much lenient verdict. While he was grateful to not be in Azkaban, he did so loathe the fact that he owed Scarhead a debt.
"Sorry," Draco snapped out of his thoughts and turned to Ginevra, who was standing before him, glancing back towards the Leaky Cauldron. "I should have asked you to wait for me at Diagon Alley instead of this muggle street," she said.
"You could have," He conceded. "But coming up with an idea like that would have required use of a functioning brain, which I do believe you do not happen to possess."
She shot him a scathing look. "I am short-tempered when I am hungry. If you keep on acting like a git, you will get hexed, Malfoy."
His lips twitched with amusement, and he found her blazing eyes and her flushed cheeks incredibly sexy. "More short-tempered than usual?" he asked, and upon noticing her venomous expression, hastened to add: "I wish to know for purely educational purposes."
"Yes," Ginevra replied shortly. "Now, can we find some restaura– oh, shit!" Ginevra exclaimed and ducked into a narrow alleyway, yanking him along with her. She shoved him flat against the wall and pressed herself to him. For a bizarre moment he thought she was looking for a quick shag, but then he noticed her trying to peek back into the main street. "Harry told me he was meeting Ron here," her voice was barely a whisper, and he was only able to hear her because they were standing so close, "I should have known."
Wait, what?
Draco glanced over his shoulder and sure enough, the useless git was making his way towards the Leaky Cauldron. To think that he was hiding in a filthy alleyway from bloody Weaselbee, of all people. It was humiliating. Ginevra was acting horrendously and if he let her make any more decisions about their afternoon, he would probably end up in the sewers, scraping food off the soggy ground while he hid from some other Gryffindor twat.
No, it was time for him to take control. Which he did instantly by wrapping his arm around her waist and apparating them both away from that wretched place.
Since they had wasted quite a bit of time playing unnecessary hide-and-seek, they had no choice but to skip out on a proper, civilised meal and grab something from a street vendor in Holyhead. Draco flat-out refused to buy anything from the little van with questionable hygiene that was selling burgers filled with so much sauce that it would be nigh on impossible to eat them whilst walking to the Harpies headquarters, which was what they had intended to do. Ginevra, on the other hand, had absolutely no qualms about getting a steak burger that practically dripped onto her hands.
As he eyed her with disgust, he had to fight off the urge to snatch the so-called food item from her hands and toss it into a bin before proceeding to wipe her fingers clean with a napkin. Conversation, it seemed, was the easiest way to resist and he initiated it by calling her a coward. "You refused to acknowledge me in front of Potter and literally hid from Weaselbee," he pointed out. "You no longer have any right to judge my sense of self-preservation, seeing that you are horribly frightened at the prospect of your family discovering our relationship."
"I am not," she said defensively.
"Please," He scoffed. "When you saw Potter at the Leaky Cauldron, you jumped out of your seat to get away from me so fast that one would think that someone had placed Sprout's spiky bushes beneath your lovely bottom."
Ginevra was beginning to blush, her cheeks getting redder by the second, a sight that he found himself enjoying immensely. "I may have been caught off-guard temporarily by their presence," she admitted slowly, "But that does not mean that I am afraid of being seen with you. We have been going out, haven't we?"
"To places your family and friends would never frequent."
Her mouth worked for a second or two as she tried to come up with a response to that. "I am not afraid," she repeated stubbornly. "Just you watch."
"Watch what? You jumping into a trash can just so you can hide from your brothers?" He asked with a mocking laugh, "I'm not going to lie to you, Ginevra, I do think that scenario might actually occur in our near future."
"It won't."
"Coward," Draco almost sang. Now that he had found out not only her weakness but also this glorious opportunity to annoy her, he was going to milk it dry for its worth. "I take it that that infamous courage that you Gryffindors were supposed to possess was simply a myth. Or perhaps, it is you who was simply not blessed with it. Such a shame, rea–"
"You are such an insufferable arsehole, Malfoy," She snapped, practically fuming with anger.
They had reached the headquarters of the Holyhead Harpies, the pitch looming tall ahead of them. He stopped and placed his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes earnestly. "It's alright," he said, adopting a tone people usually used when expressing condolences. "You mustn't be ashamed, Ginevra. You are what you are, and I promise not to judge you for your cowardice."
"I am not a coward. Just you watch." Ginevra challenged as she placed a hard kiss on his lips and stormed away, leaving him smirking at her reaction.
xx
"You are shagging Ginny Weasley?" Blaise Zabini asked, dumbfounded.
It was rare to see the dark-skinned man so flabbergasted, and Draco would have been more amused had this not been the third time he was hearing this question, or if they had not been ascending the staircases of the Ellis Moor Quidditch Stadium.
"Yes," Draco replied with forced patience as he cast a quick glance around to make sure that none of the people around them were listening to their conversation, not that he would have been able to do much if they had. There was always 'obliviate', but performing memory charms to keep his relationship hidden felt like unnecessary hard work. "I thought I made that fairly clear. Now, shut your mouth before you accidentally swallow an insect, Zabini."
Normally, Blaise would have responded with a rather colourful description of forbidden areas that insects would be welcome to enter Draco's system with, however, for now he continued to linger on the topic at hand. "Ginny Weasley?" he repeated, this time with incredulity rather than shock. "Are you out of your bloody mind?"
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. He shouldn't be complaining, seeing that he had himself dug into this hole; not only had he invited his best friend to the match but, upon being inquired as to how he managed to acquire the tickets, provided him with a brief but honest explanation. "I understand that it is a shocking turn of events–"
"I hope you realise that she has a dozen brothers who loathe you with a burning passion and will not hesitate to break every single bone in your body when they find out that you've defiled their only sister," Blaise cut in, clearly in no mood to deal with his diplomatic farce. "It will be entertaining to watch, no doubt, but seeing that I'll be the one stuck with healing you, I'd much prefer cutting my workload in advance by telling you that this is a horrible, horrible idea."
"Perhaps," He conceded, "But none of that is important right now. Shall we just enjoy the match?"
They had reached their box, which was large enough to seat sixteen people. A quick glance around told him that there were some other spectators present as well, meaning that he and Blaise wouldn't be stuck with just the Weasleys. Fate did shower its little mercies upon him now and then, he mused happily, but was quick to discard the thought when he realised that the only vacant seats were in the front row, right next to Potter, Weaselbee and Granger.
As he and Blaise made their way over to the seats, Draco noticed that the Weasley clan did shoot him suspicious, indignant glares but then went back to chatting happily amongst themselves. There weren't as many redheads present as he had imagined, only Ginevra's parents, the twin who had survived (George, was it?), Angelina Johnson-Weasley and a little boy bubbling with excitement who had to be their son.
"Merlin's hairy armpit!" Blaise exclaimed in his ear. "Tell me you're not seriously dating one of those."
"Not one of those, no," He whispered back and shot his friend a warning glare, making it clear that it would be extremely unwise to continue that particular conversation.
Blaise met his glare coolly. "This is not going to end well for you, Drake, and you know it." He said wisely, then raised his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug, a gesture that was his equivalent of 'it's your funeral'.
Like almost everyone in their generation, Blaise had not remained unimpacted by the war. He had grown a conscience, which led him to becoming a healer even though he had expressed disregard for the line of profession back at school, and he had grown a common sense – or at least, his own twisted version of it – that he was always willing to shower upon Draco. It was infuriating, and the blonde often found himself feeling nostalgic for the time when Blaise had been nothing but a haughty bastard who deemed himself to be above everyone else.
There was a loud boom, and then Lee Jordan's voice echoed all around the stadium. "Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the second match of this year's British and Irish Quidditch League!" he paused to let the cheers die down. The man had become one of the leading sports commentators, now that he had given up his horrid habit of taking sides. Draco remembered how ridiculously biased he had been during Gryffindor and Slytherin matches back at Hogwarts. "For those of you who missed out, the Ballycastle Bats defeated Pride of Portree by sixty points in the opening match of the season three days ago. And today we find out who will claim the second victory of the season. Will it be Puddlemere United?"
Half of the stadium that was predominantly dressed in dark blue burst into a loud chorus of Puddlemere's team anthem, 'Beat Back Those Bludgers, Boys, and Chuck That Quaffle Here'. Draco found himself clapping so hard that his hands were almost numb.
"Or will it be the Holyhead Harpies?" Jordan asked, and cheers erupted from the other half of the stadium. In their box, the Weasley clan was shouting at the top of their lungs. "Well, let's bring our teams out. Give it up for Puddlemere United!"
Draco had been five-years-old when his father had taken him to watch his first Quidditch match. He remembered how his heart had nearly stopped when he had seen Puddlemere United make its entrance into the stadium: seven members of the team flying around the pitch in a perfect V-formation to the tune of their anthem, their navy robes flapping wildly in the wind and their right fists held up as a sign of strength. It hadn't been anything excessively extravagant or dazzling, but it was breath-taking nonetheless.
He found it to be a relief that, even after all the darkness that had touched his life, he could still feel the same exhilaration watching his favourite team enter the field that he had felt all those years ago.
He had his mother to thank for that, and a lot more. After the war, he had found it hard to reinvest in any of his previous hobbies, finding it easy to bar himself from anything that could potentially give him joy, simply because he had become so accustomed to feeling empty inside. And then one day, while they were having their afternoon tea, his mother had turned on the radio commentary for a Quidditch match between some minor teams, and he found himself gripped once again in the claws of the sport he had loved so dearly.
"And now," Jordan's voice boomed, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Let's give a warm welcome to the lovely ladies of Holyhead Harpies!"
Draco felt that he should show some form of appreciation, seeing that he was covertly involved with Ginevra and that she had gotten him these rather wonderful seats at the match, so he clapped politely as the all-women team made its entrance. Unlike Puddlemere United, who always came out and stayed together like a team, the Harpies flew onto the pitch in a single line and then diverged from there, each player circuiting different parts of the stadium, waving at their fans as they did so.
"Traitor," Blaise hissed.
Draco did not fault his friend for saying that, it was indeed unusual of him to acknowledge anyone from an opponent team, let alone clap for them.
It was quite easy to spot Ginevra; her flaming red hair stood out, contrasting perfectly with the emerald robes of the Harpies uniform. She was zooming straight towards the box he was in, which was not surprising. She had mentioned a silly little ritual she did on every first match of the Quidditch season, which involved her flying to her family and closest friends and greeting them personally.
"Go, Ginny!" Weaselbee cheered as he patted his sister's back.
"Break a leg," The twin shouted. "Or rather, break Wood's leg. Git used to drag us from our beds so early in the morning for practices. Remember that, Harry?"
"I do," Potter said with a laugh as he high-fived his ex. "Good luck, Gin."
Ginevra was beaming as she clapped hands with as many family members as she could, spending an extra second to ruffle her nephew's hair lovingly.
Draco felt Blaise's gaze burning into him. No doubt the arsehole was studying his face closely to determine just how invested he was in this particular relationship. He turned to his friend and shot him an exasperated look. Honestly, the man was going to let the pixie out of the cage with his judgmental expressions alone. It wasn't that hard to hold off the lecture until they went for dinner after the match.
A fist bunched into the lapel of his jacket, causing him to turn in alarm. It was Ginevra, hovering before him, her eyes flashing with some emotion that he could not quite read. Wariness began to creep into his heart and he opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing when her lips crashed onto his.
Galloping gargoyles!
Not in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that she would choose to make their relationship public in this way. She was kissing him in front of the entire stadium and her bloody family. He raised his hands and gripped her forearms, intending to push her away but his traitorous lips were already responding to the kiss. And by Salazar's sweet snake, was it a good kiss; he couldn't have pulled away even if someone had compelled him under the Imperius Curse to do so.
Her Firebolt slowly started to inch away and Draco was practically leaning over the rail by the time their lips parted. She flashed him a quick grin before flying away, leaving him utterly dumbfounded.
It was then that his situation registered to him.
The crowd in the stadium had erupted into cheers, as they always did whenever any player exhibited any sort of public display of affection. Blaise had an extremely annoying 'I-knew-this-was-going-to-be-a-disaster' expression on his face.
Lee Jordan was proving that he was as unbiased as flobberworms were dangerous. "But why would Weasley kiss Draco Malfoy, of all people?" he was asking, his bewildered voice loud and clear even over the applause. "Maybe someone had dared her to snog the biggest, slimiest git she could find. Yes, that explains i–" His voice was cut off abruptly, and he returned a moment later with a nervous laugh. "This is all good-natured humour, of course. Please don't sue me or the British and Irish Quidditch League, Mr. Malfoy."
Draco's attention, however, was fixed on the occupants in his box, which had gone as silent as a graveyard. The Weasleys, along with Potter and Granger, had been staring at him incredulously, but he could tell that their disbelief was slowly giving way to blind rage.
Fuck.
xx
Draco Malfoy was in a predicament, and he had only himself to blame for it.
In fact, if he hadn't been the one in danger of being murdered by a bunch of rabid redheads, he would have thought this was just desserts. He had been the one to call Ginevra a coward, after all. If he somehow managed to come out on the other end alive, this would make a good life lesson: if you shove your hand in a lioness' mouth, the lioness will bite.
Still, the fault was not entirely his.
Ginevra would have to shoulder most of the blame for the fiasco. Of all the things she could have done at the match, she had to plant a mind-shattering kiss on his lips. And then, she flew away to play Quidditch, leaving him to deal with her ferocious family.
That ginger bitch.
There you go, the first chapter from Draco's POV. It was a tricky one to write and I struggled a bit to capture his personality. I hope I did an okay job of it.
Please do review and let me know your thoughts on the chapter.
Cheers x