Author's Note: I wrote this story for Sarah (imadoodlenoodle) in The DG Forum Fic Exchange - Winter 2015 but never got around to publishing under my own account until now. This won Most Fangirly and Best Fluff Scene. Reviews are welcome!

In Rainbows

Chapter One: "Raindrop" or "15 Step"

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You used to be alright, what happened?

Did the cat get your tongue?

Did the string come undone?

15 Step - Radiohead

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It's five minutes to nine on a gray and gloomy Saturday morning. I walk despondently along the corridor, my eyes fixed on my well worn shoes, eyebrows furrowed into a preoccupied frown. With nimble fingers I quickly gather my hair into a messy plait, tossing it carelessly over my shoulder.

I ate too much at breakfast, uncertain of whether or not I will be permitted lunch later, and just now am seriously regretting that decision. My stomach too, seems to rumble as if in protest.

"Uhhhh. Can this day get any worse?" I demand of no one in particular; everyone else is still enjoying their leisurely weekend breakfast. My scowl deepens.

When at last I reach my destination, I hesitate only for a moment. This is unfair (and damn Zacharias Smith to hell and back for it), and it's stupid, and I have absolutely no idea what to expect—but there is no point in being a baby about it.

There's a first time for everything, Weasley.

Taking a deep breath, I place my hand on the cold brass of the door handle and twist.

I open the door to the room cautiously, only to find Draco Malfoy—of all people—standing there, palms spread against the walls, almost as if feeling for something.

Of course, because anything less would have made the day salvageable.

He has his wand tucked into the back pocket of his well fitting trousers, and the sleeves of his oxford shirt are rolled up to the elbows. The tips of his whitish blond hair come down to just below the collar of his shirt. He's taller than I'd realized.

The Slytherin looks up at me as I walk into the room, and my eyes collide with clear gray ones. I immediately try to look away, but my eyes seem glued to his. He holds my gaze for a moment longer, and his face remains expressionless as he seems to scrutinize every detail of my appearance.

I am surprised to feel the hint of a blush heating my cheeks; he's looking at me quite intently, almost as if he were trying to guess my weight. Fortunately he seems to have lost interest, for just as suddenly he turns back to his task without uttering a single word. Well, then.

Still shaken up by the surprisingly intense stare off just now, I look around the room and make note of a writing board, several rows of desks, and two largely empty bookshelves. Broad windows let in a pale, depressing light; it's cloudy outside, and the flicker of distant lightning can be seen in the horizon. So this is the Detention Chamber.

A few books and a school bag are resting on a desk in the back, presumably belonging to the room's only other occupant. I am uncomfortable with the idea of sitting with my back to any Slytherin, let alone a Malfoy. I also want to avoid sitting too close to him, having gotten the hint that my presence is of no interest to him. I opt for sitting level with Malfoy's desk, but on the opposite end of the room, by the windows.

My chair makes a scraping sound as I draw it and plop down, and I check a wince. Malfoy remains absorbed in his task, running his hands over the wood panels that line the walls.

I'm unsure of what to expect out of today, and I'm pretty sure the blond has been around the block when it comes to detention. Part of me wishes I could ask what's going to happen—and to be honest, I'm also curious about what he's doing. The silence in the room feels dense, almost weighty.

Malfoy and I have exchanged glances on the pitch now and then, but we've never talked and I'll be damned if I speak to him first. Even after everything, I've witnessed girls—yes, even Gryffindor ones—falling over themselves to catch the Slytherin's attentions, and I'm anxious to make clear that I'm in no way part of his fan club.

The clock on the wall strikes nine o'clock. Draco Malfoy turns on his heel and walks over to his desk, drawing his chair noiselessly and sinking into it with an almost absentminded grace. He sits with his arms folded, staring straight ahead—the picture of a model student.

A second later the door to the room bursts open, and Professor McGonagall sweeps inside in a rustle of skirts, casting both of us a stern glance.

"Wands," she demands curtly by way of greeting. It's Saturday, and she is dressed in exactly the same way as every other day of the week.

I stand, making my chair scrape again, and walk up to the teacher's desk. I see the Slytherin out of the corner of my eye and try to time my steps, but somehow end up standing before McGonagall in the same instant as Malfoy. We give each other sidelong glances and I'm weirdly reminded of a couple waiting to take their wedding vows.

As if.

I hesitate but Malfoy gives me a short, no doubt mocking bow, indicating that I should go first.

I snort, earning myself a warning glance from my Head of House.

"Return to your seats," the Transfiguration mistress commands once she has procured our wands. "You are not to leave this room without permission, and you are not permitted visitors."

McGonagall hands us each a piece of parchment, along with an ink pot and quill.

"Mr. Malfoy, six inches on the importance of decorum. Ms. Weasley, you're to write six inches on the importance of proper sportsmanship. Once you've completed your essays, you would be well served to attend to your unfinished class assignments."

And with that, she's gone as suddenly as she appeared, shutting the door in her wake.

An involuntary sigh escapes my lips. I try to get started on the dumb essay, but somehow end up discussing all the reasons why Zacharias Smith is a worthless tool with a face like a constipated bat, who incidentally should have been sorted into Slytherin, and who definitely deserved to be hexed. I think it's well written as far as essays go, but I suspect Minerva McGonagall would be less appreciative.

This is going to be a long-ass day. And if part of me thought Malfoy would deign to acknowledge me now, I have another thing coming; the Slytherin continues to ignore me as he rises and saunters back to the wall once more, spreading his palms against the wall and feeling around as before. It strikes me then that his forearms are kind of beautiful, pale with golden little hairs that remind me of peach fuzz. He has his back to me, and my eyes are sliding down the length of his frame of their own accord.

OK, so the boy is fit. Broad shoulders taper down to narrow hips, a tight looking boy booty, and strong calves. I'm not particularly into bums—I'm more into eyes and smiles, like any other good girl who hasn't yet been properly snogged, I suppose—but for some reason my gaze seems to be magnetically drawn to Draco Malfoy's perfectly shaped buttocks, to the point that when he turns and looks directly at me I still haven't torn my eyes away.

Following the line of my gaze, he raises his eyebrows in obvious surprise, and I quickly direct my attention to my parchment, refusing to look up until the burning in the sides of my face has completely subsided. He's turned away by then, sparing me further humiliation.

Gods.

Time passes slowly. I can feel Malfoy more than see him; as indifferent as he seems to be to my presence, I am painfully aware of his. I debate shooting a quick glance at him, but decide against it after what transpired earlier. Again I wonder what he was doing with the wall; after feeling around for a bit longer he seemed to give up and went back to his seat again. He's been sitting there without saying a word. What was he looking for?

I turn to the window, watching the first thick drops of rain splatter against the glass, and the gold and brown leaves of the trees swaying gently in the wind.

At noon the door to our prison is opened, and a stone faced Professor McGonagall announces that we may eat.

"You have thirty minutes to take your lunch," she informs us coldly. "You may do so in the Great Hall, but be mindful of the time lest you earn yourselves another detention."

Malfoy gets up and leaves the room. After a few minutes, I follow.

I'm still full from my over-the-top breakfast, and more importantly, I don't feel like facing up to my brother and his courageous friends, nor do I look forward to hearing mindless chatter from the girls in my own year in the precious twenty-five minutes I have left. I opt for sneaking a shiny red apple from the Gryffindor table and scurrying out to the Owlery to visit my brother's owl, Pig. It's raining in earnest by now, and by the time I return to the Detention Chamber I'm soaking wet.

Malfoy is already there, and he glances at the way my wet top clings to my chest area with interest. I cross my arms and curse myself for going out in the rain without a wand. I hope he doesn't mistake this for some sort of elaborate seduction on my part. He's still looking at me, and I fight with every last bit of my being not to color under his gaze after that butt-staring incident.

Get a grip, girlfriend, I berate myself. So he caught me checking him out. So what?

In any case, Malfoy's still not talking. I can feel his gaze on me every now and then, which is a change, but he still won't say a word. The silence is unnatural, and I'm annoyed by it.

I turn to glare at him, and he gazes back serenely. I see a pale eyebrow lift a fraction of an inch, but otherwise he seems unperturbed, and he still won't speak.

I'm not sure I mentioned how annoying Malfoy's face is. It's all...chiseled. He looks like the rich villain type in a teen high school drama. His entire face with all its symmetry is one big cliche, and all he's missing is the hair gel and cleft chin.

Git.

Those last four hours seem to drag on forever. I succeed in completing my ridiculous essay, and as I finish measuring the last inch of text I promise myself that Zacharias Smith will pay for this somehow, and that I will never serve detention again. Perhaps those statements are mutually exclusive, but by Merlin I will find a way to make it work.

At last Professor McGonagall returns to collect our essays, and to give a little speech on the expectations Hogwarts places on each of its students.

True to form, Malfoy leaves without a word but I could have sworn that he gave me a quick glance before walking out.

"I expect more from you, Ms. Weasley," Professor McGonagall comments as I pass by.

Well great.

OOO

The moon is pale and round, floating heavily amongst the dark clouds in the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall. The rain has dwindled to a fine mist. I sit at the Gryffindor table, wolfing down a plate of bangers and mash. That little apple really didn't do much in the way of lunch, and I'd been practically starving as I sat to dinner.

When I look up from my food I notice Michael Corner gazing at me fixedly from the Ravenclaw table. I give a half-hearted little wave, but he pretends not to notice. I scowl and drop my hand. So glad we're being mature. Pssh.

"Hello? Earth to Ginny," my brother Ron is saying beside me, and he gives me a nudge right in between the ribs with his elbow.

"Ow! What is it?" I snap.

"I asked how it went," my brother replies, spearing through a piece of carrot with his fork. "Today? Detention?"

My eyes instinctively seek Malfoy, but he is nowhere to be found at the Slytherin table. "It was fine. We wrote an essay."

"An essay's not half bad," Ron muses, "I had to clean bedpans last time. Pass the mash?"

What a lovely visual. I pause mid-bite and shoot my brother a disgusted look. It's lost on him - his blue eyes have latched onto the approaching form of Hermione Granger, his expression unmistakably abashed.

"You missed a good practice, Ginny," Harry offers, plopping down on the other side of my brother, and perhaps I'm only imagining the note of reproof in his voice.

So sorry, but I really, really wanted to have detention for eight hours instead of going to Quidditch practice.

I open my mouth to reply with something slightly less sarcastic, but Harry's attention is already on his own plate of mash.

Hermione chooses to sit directly across from Ron at the table, but is not really looking at him, I notice. "What about the Snape essay you were worried about, Ginny?" she inquires, reaching for a salad bowl. "Did you get to finish it?"

"Gah! I forgot all about that stupid essay!" I cry, my slight interest in the weird dynamic between Ron and Hermione instantly forgotten. "I was so distracted with ignoring Malfoy that I totally—"

"—Malfoy?" both Harry and Ron demand, with the same note of incredulity.

Hermione and I both turn to look at them.

"Malfoy!" gushes Susan Thomas, a fellow fifth year sitting across from me. "He's so hot! You're so lucky you got detention with him for the whole day!"

I stare at her in bafflement, but she goes on, oblivious.

"He's probably there because of that party at the start of term."

"Yeah, the orgy thing," chimes in Sam Johnson, another fifth year. "He's got detention for the rest of term, but he's lucky he didn't get expelled."

Wait—what?

"What orgy thing?" I demand, before instinctively deciding to check my display of interest.

I guess I've been living under a rock this entire time, because this is the first I hear of orgies. I try to reconcile the boy I saw during detention earlier with my idea of orgies—for whatever reason I feel they involve forest clearings, animal masks and a bonfire.

"I heard it was more of a gangbang," Susan is whispering.

"I wouldn't put it past him to be so disgusting," Ron mutters, stuffing his mouth with a bread roll. "The amazing frog-puking ferret."

I turn to look at my brother—I mean, seriously, that's weird, even for him. "Well that was oddly specific…" I comment.

"He literally puked frogs in the corridor before lunch today," Susan offers beside me. "Every time he opened his mouth, frogs would come out. He had to go to the infirmary."

I shake my head, holding up a hand. "You know, what? I don't wanna know. I don't want to know about frogs, puking, orgies, or... or anything else Malfoy related."

"I concur," Hermione says primly, with a dash of prefect gravitas. "There's no use in repeating mindless Slytherin gossip without much credibility."

"But Pansy Parkinson said—" Susan tries again.

"—Exactly," Hermione chides, in a manner that seems to convey the topic is closed.

It really is, as far as I'm concerned. The entire thing is ridiculous.

The novelty of my first detention having worn off, the Golden Trio leave me to eat the rest of my meal in relative silence. I glance at Malfoy's table thoughtfully, but the enigmatic Slytherin is nowhere to be found.

Whatever. It's not like I'm planning on sharing the Detention Chamber with him again anytime soon.

OOO

Wednesday morning, Snape's dungeon. I'm walking into Potions as Ron's year is walking out. My brother and I exchange raised eyebrows and a moment later I'm walking into the toned chest of one tall platinum blond.

Our eyes connect like magnets and I feel a surge of nervous energy rise from my feet and creep up to my face. I hope that I'm not blushing, but I know that I am. Gods, he smells great.

"Watch where you're going, Weasley," sneers Pansy Parkinson from beside Malfoy, tugging him away by the arm. His eyes never leave mine, and he curls his lips into a smirk as he lets her drag him away.

I turn to look after him in spite of my best efforts, and then proceed to take my seat in Snape's classroom. The hour goes by slowly, and I can't get the blond out of my head.

What was that about, anyway? He ignored me during eight hours of being alone in a room together, and then he gives me little looks in the corridor. What a strange boy. Gangbangs my arse.

"Weasley," Snape enunciates, and I look up to find him looming over my shoulder, dark eyes dangerously narrowed. His black hair looks so slick it's almost shiny. "Forgive me for interrupting your fascinating musings, but there are things more important than even lipstick and forehead scars."

Like shampoo? I think darkly, my lip curling in derision before I can help it.

Snape glares down at me, almost as if he can read my thoughts. But he can't.

Can he?

"Ten points from Gryffindor," he drawls softly. "And detention this evening, I think."

Detention?

"But-but-but!" I can barely get words out, my mouth has gone dry, as if it were full of cotton balls.

"Professor! We have Quidditch practice tonight and I already—"

"Detention this evening, and detention on Saturday," Snape says patiently, and more than anything I hate the smugness splattered across his sallow face. "Is there anything else you would care to add?"

I shut my mouth and cross my arms, my face burning with fury and shame. I can hear the clock hands move; even the Slytherins are silent.

"Let us continue." Snape finally creeps away, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his dark robes. "Page sixty-nine in your textbooks."

I'm feeling so demoralized that I don't even think to snort at Snape's unintentionally silky mention of the number sixty-nine.

OOO

The corridor is dark and silent save for the soft echo of our footsteps as we approach the Detention Chamber.

"You may use the remainder of your time here to complete your coursework," Snape condescends, giving me a brief glare as he holds my wand out to me. He had confiscated it while I was working in the lab earlier tonight, to ensure all the brain pickling was done manually. Bastard.

"Filch's office is just down the corridor," he continues. "Don't even dream of undertaking any absurd Gryffindor shenanigans."

An eye roll would be baiting him for more detention—and more lovely toad brain pickling in the laboratory. I hold my own, but I'm simmering with anger as I walk into the now familiar room.

Draco Malfoy is there, I note out of the corner of my eye as I stomp to a seat level with his. I notice there's a cloak draped on another desk. Is there someone else serving detention tonight?

Snape offers me no parting shots for once, instead directing his attention to the room's other occupant.

"Draco. Where is Theodore Nott?"

Malfoy replies with a glance around the room, an elegant shrug. "I'm afraid I don't know, Professor," he says in a surprisingly deep voice.

I realize then that I've been hearing more about Malfoy during the past years than I've seen for myself. He really isn't rat-faced anymore, and his voice is no longer squeaky or whiny as it was when he was twelve. Time hasn't passed in vain, and I can't pretend to not know why my friends find him attractive. Except that he's a tool.

Snape glares at Malfoy. "Kindly inform Mr. Nott that he can join you and Weasley for detention on Saturday." With that he exits, shutting the door behind him.

Part of me is intrigued by the fact that Malfoy really does have detention every Saturday, making the gangbang scenario plausible. But honestly, right now I couldn't care less. Snape has reminded me of my continued predicament, and I feel as if the finger of injustice were bearing down on me.

I've done nothing wrong, yet here I am in detention with the most debauched representative Slytherin has to offer. How is this fair?

Malfoy directs his attention back to the parchment on his desk, and I look away, crossing my arms. I'm expecting more of his weird silence, but to my surprise he actually speaks.

"So what does a good little Gryffindor do to earn herself detention twice in one week?" he inquires, not bothering to look up from his parchment.

I frown, but hold my tongue. Does he really think I'll speak on command just because he feels like it?

"What's the matter, Girl Weasley?" he drawls. "Cat got your tongue?"

I turn to glare at him, further irked by the smug little smirk on his conceited face. He's writing something, and hasn't bothered to return my look.

"You're speaking to me why?" I fire back.

Damn, there goes my silent treatment. Sneaky ferret.

"For my own amusement," he replies, pausing to dip his quill in ink. When he looks up, he is met by a decisive flick of my middle finger.

"Oh." Pale eyebrows are slightly raised. "Obscene finger gestures from such a pristine girl."

I'm not that pristine, I think, recalling my recent heavy petting broom closet sessions with Michael Corner. But then I guess that to a gangbanger, a girl who hasn't even shagged is exactly that: pristine.

With this in mind, I opt for a more simple riposte. "Bite me, Malfoy."

"Only if you say please," he returns silkily, and this time his eyes meet mine.

I glower at him, and it irks me to no end that he's as handsome as he obviously believes himself to be. "Don't be gross," I manage.

Draco Malfoy laughs, fixing me with those metallic gray eyes that I seem to have a hard time meeting. "Don't be a hypocrite."

Burn, baby, burn.

I realize that my mouth is hanging open, and promptly snap it shut.

Author's Note:

1. There will be quotes from the Muggle film The Breakfast Club sprinkled here and there. Can you spot them all?

2. To my beta and RL bestie P: You had the patience of a saint with my last minute first-tense-switcharoo. Thanks so much!

3. This is a blanket disclaimer for this and all subsequent chapters: Harry Potter, Radiohead lyrics, and quotes from The Breakfast Club belong to their respective owners (J.K. Rowling, Radiohead, John Hughes and anyone else).

Sarah's Prompt (2)

Basic premise: Ginny keeps getting detention every week for various different reasons (go crazy), Draco's done something that's landed him in detention for the rest of the semester.

Must haves: Appearances from other detention-ers, thaw in relations, some humour.

No-no's: None.

Rating range: Any.

Bonus points: Quotes from The Breakfast Club!, if most of the story is set in the detention room, and indignant!Ginny.