Why had his parents taken him to dinner?

Idly he toyed with his wineglass. They’d said nothing so far, save for small talk about the estates and the god-forsaken begonias. His mother and father sat across the table from him with expressions fixed on their face, making them look vaguely constipated.

"And then Leyden had the nerve- the gall, even! to say that perhaps I shouldn’t be using that particular growing potion on them! And then I said, 'Leyden, these are my flowers, and you can be replaced within the day!'" Narcissa huffed a bit.

How much longer could she talk about those things? Draco sipped his wine and caught his father's gaze. "Could we cut the bullshit, here? What's the occasion?"

They appeared startled, like they hadn't expected him to suspect anything. "Your birthday is next week," his mother said, darting a nervous glance at her husband.

"And we've got the party planned as always," he said irritably. "So why the separate dinner?"

"You're going to be six-and-twenty, boy," Lucius said. "It's high time you got married."

He'd heard it before. Mildly, he said, "The hell it is. I'm in no rush."

"You know you have to be married to inherit."

He'd heard that before, too. "I'm not concerned about that right now."

"You ought to be," his father snapped.

His mother fidgeted with her napkin. "Pansy Parkinson is really a suitable girl. We've talked to her parents and we can have the wedding arranged within a month."

Anger flared in the pit of his stomach, but he refused to let it show. "I think I can arrange my own life, thank you kindly." He pushed himself to a standing position. "I don't need you to do it for me."

"It's the way it's done, Draco," came his father's stony reply.

"I'm not going to just submit to your whims," he tossed over his shoulder as he stormed out of the restaurant.

"Draco!" his mother called desperately.

"Let him go," said Lucius quietly.

His control over his temper deteriorated with each step. He weaved through the tables, shoving a waiter and possibly maiming him. Pansy, for chrissakes. With that inane giggle that betrayed her even emptier brain. He'd spent enough time with her at Hogwarts- and had grown bored with her with after a few years.

He couldn't imagined a lifetime with her.

Not that he was expecting love for his marriage. Malfoys didn't believe in love. Mal foi- bad faith, you bet. As far as they were concerned, it didn't exist if it couldn't somehow be achieved with money. Pride, respectability, passion- sure. With enough galleons, those could be obtained. But love? Love was some intangible nonsense for those without money, or without enough sense to be satisfied. No, he certainly entertained no hopes of love.

But was actually liking the girl too much to ask?

He burst out of the restaurant, feeling the rain stinging his cheeks within seconds. He should have known that this sort of stuff would happen soon. What was it about being the heir to several million galleons that made people want to manage your existence? They couldn't force him to marry her- or anyone else.

I'm in charge of my own destiny, he thought, even though he didn't believe in destiny.

His clothes clung to his skin, damp and getting damper by the minute.

And then he saw her.

She stood on the street corner, carrying a yellow brolly.

She was pale, with freckles dusting her nose and red hair glossy from the precipitation.

Her family and his hated each other. For good reasons. His was rich, hers was poor. Slytherins and Gryffindors. In terms of 'suitability,' she ranked somewhere above a house elf.

He crossed the road and headed toward her. "Hey," he called.

Those huge brown eyes widened in alarm and she began to move away.

"Hey," he repeated, increasing his speed. When he caught up to her, he snatched her umbrella.

"Get your own," she flared, hand flying out to grasp the handle.

He closed his hand over hers in a deadly grip, then brought the other one to her chin. Her cheeks had reddened considerably in her anger.

"You're cute, Weasley," he said.

"Go to hell," she suggested.

He yanked her mouth to his, muscling his other arm around her, letting his palm rest in the small of her back.

She was surprised enough to have her mouth open- which he immediately took advantage of. After a few quick strokes of his tongue- just to see how she tasted- he retreated, nibbling on her lower lip. But it wasn't enough. Why wasn't it enough? He slid his tongue back in, tangling with her own. One of her arms rose slowly and tucked behind his neck.

Heat. Pure heat. It radiated through him- dispelled the cold and damp of the night. They were close, bodies pressing together so fierce that he could almost feel the gooseflesh rise on her forearm. The only thing between them was that umbrella.

I have to stop, he told himself, but his hand betrayed him, inching upwards along her side. She was...warm. Passionate. Addictive, like a drug. I have to stop, he thought as lightning flashed.

From some far reach of his brain- not his soul, mind you; didn't believe in them- he found the strength to push her away. He stumbled, breathing heavily as if she had deprived him of all oxygen.

Her brown eyes fluttered open and she stared at him, utterly baffled.

They stared at each other. He couldn't quite believe he'd done that, or that she responded, and damn, were those eyes brown. Like... well, not really like anything. It was a brown all of its own. It was as if the world had frozen for an instant.

And it quickly began moving again as he recalled the flash of light.

Lightning?

He frowned, looking up at the sky. Rain was ridiculously commonplace in Britain, but electrical storms were rare.

And then he noticed a crew of shabbily dressed gentlemen.

With cameras.

And the evening just got more interesting.

But considering her writing was her magic, the idea wasn't so strange.

It had taken her longer than usual. She was shaken- badly- by that bizarre occurrence on the streets. Four hours of poor Mr. Laurens' time. But how on earth was she supposed to think when her blood pulsed that intense in her veins?

She slid her hand over the doorknob at the Burrow and slipped inside. She had her own place, but even after three years it still didn't feel like home. Sometimes she felt awkward about staying at her parent's home so much, but it kept her mother happy.

"Little late, eh, Gin?"

The voice came from the kitchen. She jolted briefly, but relaxed as she recognized its owner.

"I got tied up. Then I had to beg my supplier to abandon his evening plans so that I could test out the materials." She set her purchases and her umbrella down on the kitchen table, muttered a quick "Lumos," and pressed her lips absently to her companion's cheek. "Here for your birthday?"

Harry scratched his hair. "Is it that close to it?"

"No. But given the infrequency of your visits, I figured you'd want to get it out of the way."

"Didn't even cross my mind. Just got here a few minutes ago. I'm in between assignments and thought I'd see how the family was doing."

Her family was his family, for all intents and purposes. The Burrow was where he spent his holidays, her mum was the one who nagged him on the dangers of his job, and her brothers treated him as one of their own.

"We're doing alright." She moved to the counter. "The joke shop is selling well. Ron and Hermione just got back visiting Bill. Percy's been promoted. Charlie- did you want some tea? I was just going to put a pot on."

"Sure."

"Charlie's just getting over third-degree burns, so all of his letters sound really antsy. He can't wait to get back to work."

"And you?"

She shot him an amused glance. "Nothing happens to me." She cleared the disturbing image of her and Malfoy in the rain from her mind. It wasn't relevant- he must have been drinking or something. No one needed to know, least of all Harry. "I write. Sometimes I get rejected and sometimes I get published. I survive." She poured the tea and handed him a cup.

"Are you still..." He waved his hand, clearly uncomfortable.

"Available?"

"Yeah."

Available as in, does our previous arrangement still stand? So that he could fool around with her for a while, and then leave again. Go off to kill some Death Eater, or hunt down a dark wizard, or some other damn nonsense that he did. It would be another six or ten months before he would show up again.

How long had they been playing this game? She'd gone along with it, because she'd been in love with him. But how many more times could she let her heart break as he walked out the door?

"No," she replied finally. "I'm not."

"Oh."

He left it at that, thank god, and drank his tea.

"I'm going up to bed," she said in a way that implied that he was not invited to join her. "Will I see you tomorrow morning?"

"Will you make me breakfast?"

"I suppose."

"Then I suppose you'll see me."

She shook her head, drained her tea, and headed up the stairs.

Ginny rubbed her eyes and looked at the clock. Seven o'clock. In the bloody morning.

She rolled over, threw a pillow over her ears, and pretended not to hear her mum.

"GINNY!"

After the pounding on the wall outside her room began, she groaned and got dressed. "I'm coming. Jesus."

Scarcely after the door had been opened, Molly shoved a newspaper in Ginny's face. Her face was livid. "What is this?"

"I don't know, I can't see it when you've got it jammed up my nose," came her muffled reply.

Her mum pulled away slightly, snatching back the paper, and reading the headlines in a high-pitched, distraught voice. "'Torrid affair between writer and heir!'"

"What?" Ginny exclaimed. "Let me see that!"

"'Draco Malfoy, the next in line for the multimillions of the Malfoy family, was seen last night in a passionate embrace with a one Ginny Weasley, a freelance writer for the Prophet. A close friend indicates that they've been seeing each other for months, and that marriage could very well be in their future?'" Her voice went up hysterically.

"That's absolute, total bullshit!"

"Ginny!"

"Well, it's is! I don't even like him. I don't even know him!" she said desperately. Her mother did not look convinced. "Come on, Mum. Who are you going to believe? Your daughter or some silly paper?"

"I'd be inclined to believe you, if there wasn't a half page picture of your tongues entwined!"

Her eyes widened. "There's a picture?"

Molly turned the copy of the Prophet around, revealing a very large, very damning image. To be fair, it was only about three sevenths of the page- but it was still far too big. You can almost see my pores, she thought in horror.

Ginny moaned and steadied herself against the doorframe. "There's a perfectly reasonable explanation-"

"There had better be."

"He tried to steal my umbrella, and then he kissed me. That's it."

Molly let out a short laugh and headed down the stairs. "That has to be the lamest excuse I've ever heard."

Ginny clutched the paper in shock. The one weird night she'd had in the past ten years, and someone caught it on film. God, did her life suck. She slumped on her bed and tossed the paper on her floor. "Oh, God," she moaned again.

Harry materialized suddenly, throwing his invisibility cloak to the floor. "Dammit, Gin, when you said your were unavailable, you could have had the decency to tell me you were seeing one of my sworn enemies!"

After her heart started beating again, she snapped, "I didn't tell you because I'm not seeing him!"

"Not seeing, just snogging," he said sardonically.

"You of all people should know that the Daily Prophet is hardly reliable." She glared at him through her bangs, which were falling unflatteringly in her eyes. She had just awoken after all. A person was understandably unkempt at seven in the morning. "I haven't been seeing him. We're not getting married. End of story."

"But you did snog him."

"No." She rolled up to a sitting position, clearly exasperated. "He kissed me. I was an unwilling participant."

"I suppose your arms around his neck signal your protest."

She jabbed a finger in his chest. "You. Are. Impossible."

Harry folded his arms.

"That's it. I'm getting out of here." She split out of the room, grabbing her purse, quills, and brolly on the way.

"Go see your boyfriend," he called acidly.

"Go to hell," she retorted, and apparated.

Complimentary? Hah! Every single one of them made her out to be some sort of immoral, conniving tramp. She stormed about a bit more.

The hell with storms, she was a squall. Or a hurricane. Yeah- that was more like it. Hurricane Virginia- except those damn meteorologists had to do thing alphabetically, and they'd only ever gotten to S.

Hurricane Ginny didn't sound as ominous.

Nevertheless, she was certainly going about like some threatening force of nature.

There had been scads of reporters hanging outside her flat. At least fifty letters, begging for interviews. And then, seeing that blasted picture on the front page of nearly every wizarding paper- that, that was the last straw.

One article mentioned that Malfoy still spent most of his time at Malfoy Manor, and the future was settled. Surely he had enough money and influence to get everyone to shut up.

She apparated within five miles of his damn mansion. Probably really about three and a half miles, because she could see the Gothic monstrosity looming nearby. She begged a ride off an elderly man with a cart and a mule, because a), her apparating skills were shaky when she was this mad; b), she was too lazy to walk; and c), she felt bad about stealing a broom. Ethics were ethics, after all.

She was dropped off the gate. She shut her eyes, trying not to be intimidated by the fencing and the probability of attack animals, and rang the bell.

"Ginny Weasley," she said firmly. "Mr. Malfoy should be expecting me."

He was contemplating ringing for someone to give him a massage when he heard his mother's thin, nasally voice.

"Draco, dear?"

"Yes?" He didn't even crack open an eye, just tipped back a bit more.

"Has your father been by this morning?"

"No. I've not seen hide nor hair of him, thank god."

"He rushed off somewhere last night and hasn't been home since." He could almost hear her wringing her hands. "I'm dreadfully worried."

"I'm certain he's sulking in an inn somewhere. There's nothing to fret about." Especially since it had happened dozens of times before.

"You're probably right," she said with a rather fake-sounding laugh, and the door faintly clicked as she excited.

He shifted a bit in his chair. The escape of sleep was not coming as easily as he would have liked. I'll have to attend to his business today, he thought wearily. Lucius was no doubt pissed off due to that hellish dinner scene, and would punish him with the extra responsibilities for a few days.

He'll be back by the party at least. One must keep up with appearances, after all.

Nervous footsteps in the hallway preceded a rap at his door. "Sir?"

"Yes, Howard?" he bit back.

"There's a, er, young lady out here. The one from the papers?"

"I haven't read the papers yet, Howard."

"Well, you're going to read them now," came a very angry, very female voice.

His eyes snapped open, and a pair of brown eyes glared back.

It was her.

Ginny Weasley marched into his office and slammed the Prophet on his desk. Her tiny body was quivering with fury, and she looked as if she was going to deck him any second.

At least this is interesting, a little voice in the back of his mind said.

"Good morning," he said, turning on the charm with ease. "Very nice of you to drop by."

"I'm not here for chitchat." She pushed the paper towards him. "Could you please just tell me you can make this go away?"

He stared at the picture, a small corner of his mouth creeping up. The Draco in the picture didn't look bored in the least. That Draco had passion. Maybe...

All his girlfriends lately had been carbon copies of each other. He could hardly remember their names- they were interchangeable, bland. Like fish sticks. You couldn't feel passion for fish.

Maybe he just needed a change. Something new, different.

"Malfoy!"

He looked up. "Hmm?"

"Can you fix this or not?" she demanded.

Ginny was about as different as he could get.

"I'm rather busy today," he said blithely, "and probably will be for most of the week. But I could be persuaded to see to the matter sooner."

She blinked and cleared her throat. "Are you- are you flirting with me?"

He leaned forward and put on his best grin. "Dinner?"

"Only if I have your word that this will be cleaned up before the week is out," she said after a moment's hesitation.

"You've got it." He scribbled down an address on one of his cards, and handed it to her. "I'll meet you at seven?"

She looked over the card and frowned. Her face seemed more than a little perplexed. "Alright."

He watched her backside admiringly as she left. Yes, he thought with a satisfied sigh, this was just what he needed.