Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, the world he lives in, and anything or anyone else belonging to that universe. All are property of JK Rowling. I'm just borrowing them for a little while.

Author's Note: This is a story I wrote a while back and never was able to post or otherwise put out there. I hope you enjoy it. It was set around the events of HBP, and is safely AU. I eventually plan to have this as part of a one-shot series (all stand alones).

Ginny Weasley stomped her way through the Hogwarts dungeons in a horribly foul temper. Her stupid brother, her stupid boyfriend, and her stupid green-eyed hero had all rubbed her wrong today, being, the lot of them, ridiculously over-protective in the most ineffective way and completely inept at understanding her at all. They were going to drive her around a bend, one day soon, and she would do something that she might one day regret.

Not that she'd regret it very much at the moment. Some days men – no, boys – just weren't worth the effort.

"Dungeons are no place for good little Gryffs." A lazy drawl drifted to her from the shadows, and Ginny felt her body coil with the certain satisfaction of a good fight.

"A bit overdone Malfoy," she drawled back, as she whirled to face the shadow where she could barely see the gleam of pale skin and white-blond hair.

"Aren't I supposed to say things like that?" He countered. "I brood, and sneer, and skulk about up to no good. That's what Slytherins do."

The bitterness in his voice both surprised and annoyed her. And the rather unsympathetic thought struck her that he was no good to her if he was just going to indulge in self-pity.

"Don't you?" And here she tried to affect as much fake bewilderment into her voice as was sarcastically possible.

He rocked back on his heels a bit, pondering her, and the thought struck her that he was surprised by her lack of interest in his discontent. She watched a debate flit across his eyes before he parried, "Not going to try recruit me from the dark, or anything else suitably noble?"

"Why bother?" she bit out. "Maybe you should put some effort into being subtle because there's no point in converting someone whose skulking is as obvious as a hippogriff in heat."

Amusement flashed across his features, even as she felt him close himself off from her. The blatant insult had changed the tone of the confrontation, and for a moment Ginny felt a sharp pang at his withdrawal. She tamped it down; she needed this.

He observed her with hooded eyes, gauging her mood much as she had been gauging his.

"Problems with the Weasel King and Perfect Potty?" He sneered, and she noted distractedly that he was able to do so with his entire face. Then he smirked, "And precious little Dean, too?"

"Shove off." Her voice sounded as frustrated as she felt, and something ruthlessly predatory filled his face.

"I'm not going to just indulge your need for a good fight just because you seem to need to seek me out." Something lazy and arrogant flavored his voice. "At least, not without something in return."

He let his eyes run down her form, in a nearly tangible parody of a lustful caress. And Ginny tamped down the urge to laugh, wondering how the confrontation had suddenly become playful.

He seemed to notice too, because his eyes shuttered and the mercurial grey darkened at the unintentional friendly familiarity that had colored his words.

For the first time, Ginny was at a loss for words – not sure of what to say and how to say it to move the conversation the direction she wanted it to go. Not entirely sure anymore how she wanted this confrontation to end.

A long moment passed where neither of them did anything but breathe.

"You're off your game Weaslette." His words broke the trance she seemed to have drifted into like a whip crack.

"Worn out." She smirked, "You're going to need to carry your own weight Draco."

"Draco?" She'd surprised them both again, and he responded with a callousness that had previously been missing. "What right does a filthy little blood traitor like you have to use my name?"

It wasn't the wittiest smear of her character, but it kindled something of the fury that had brought her to the dungeons.

"Blood traitor? Is that what your lot call intelligent people now?"

"Hardly. That's what we call scum that taint magic with their idiocy and so-called open minds."

"So-called?" She was sputtering.

"You've noticed, of course, that you're a pureblood? Not even you could be that oblivious."

And suddenly, she realized that he had her. That somehow he had backed her into a corner that she hadn't even seen.

He was looming over her, suddenly closer than she could remember him being before. "Because what a blood traitor really is… it's a hypocrite that preaches equal opportunity for all of a magical inclination without ever actually sullying themselves with any sort of intimate association with the mudbloods."

She flushed red. "We are not hypocrites. We…"

"Are purebloods – you and your entire mangy horde."

"Circumstantial." She hated that she was struggling to regroup, hated the disadvantage she was at. "My parents could hardly help that the other was a pureblood. Couldn't help that they fell in love with each other. Couldn't…"

"It's very convenient though, isn't it? That they fell in love with a fellow pureblood. That Weasleys for generations have fallen in love with other purebloods."

"Ron and Hermione…"

"Are best friends. They aren't dating."

"Everyone knows that they love each other."

"But Weasel King certainly hasn't done anything to engender a lasting relationship with the Mudblood."

"Don't call Hermione that!" And she was thrown off balance, again, as he seemed to acquiesce the point.

"Try again."

"I don't have to prove myself to you."

"Coward."

"Hardly." And she felt herself nearly choke, as she tried again. "Bill's marrying a Veela."

"Veelas are inherently magical…"

He broke off at her growl. Smirking at her obvious discomposure, he started up again. "And let's not forget about you."

"Me!" She was sputtering in truth now, her wits having obviously deserted her.

"You've never been intimately involved with anyone of lesser blood standing."

"That's just ridiculous. Dean…"

"Won't last. You're already thinking about how to break it off with him." She wondered how he knew that. "And then there's Potter – scion of an ancient pureblood line."

"He's not a pureblood himself." And she wondered why she was defending her romantic interest in Harry.

"But he's the hero of the wizarding world. And that combats his lesser blood just a bit, don't you think?"

Her blood was boiling. The ludicrous argument – that she was somehow a pureblood bigot – and the things he was saying about her friends and family – people she cared for… it was all entirely too much. And he wasn't done yet, she realized faintly. She knew him well enough to know that he had another point to drive home.

"And then there's me. I'm obviously a pureblood. And you constantly seek me out."

"I don't seek you out." But she did, and he knew that. "At least no more than you seek me out…"

They both found the trap he had made for himself, and Ginny wondered if she was brave enough to push the point.

She wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing.

"So unless you're saying," And she moved closer to push the point home. "That you have some romantic interest in me, then that is hardly relevant."

And suddenly reality came crashing in. She had been so absorbed by the argument that she had forgotten how close they were standing. And there she was – looking up into his eyes, with inches between them, breathing the same air and taking in the clean spicy smell of him, feeling the heat of him through her robes.

Neither of them said a word. Just looked at each other with her words between them, and Ginny wished rather inanely that she could get a read on him because she had no idea what he was thinking.

And then his lips were on hers, and it didn't matter anymore.

His lips were warm and unyielding, and the kiss was hard and demanding. Somehow her tongue caressed its way into his mouth – he tasted wonderful – and her hands found purchase in the front of his robes, and they were moving until her back was pressed against the wall.

They were kissing feverishly. It consumed both of them – it certainly consumed her – and it wasn't until he let out something of a moan that she realized her legs were around his waist. It wasn't until the cold air of the dungeons hit her skin in an erotic contrast that she realized he was undressing her. It wasn't until he shuddered against her that she realized she had been undressing him, and that her fingers were caressing skin.

Then his mouth was sucking at the junction of her shoulder and her neck, and trailing kisses to her breasts, and she stopped caring about what they were doing and that he was getting further in minutes than any of her boyfriends had gotten in months.

She was completely lost in sensation, in kissing, touching, and exploring him – lost in him and the pleasure he gave her that she hardly noticed the twinge of pain.

It wasn't until they were pressed together gasping and panting, covered in a sheen of sweat, lips brushing in a gentle whisper of a kiss, that Ginny had presence of mind to realize that she had lost her virginity, against a wall in the dungeons to Draco Malfoy.

She must have stiffened, because then he was drawing away from her and staring as if he'd never seen her before.

They disengaged themselves and gathered their clothes in silence, didn't even acknowledge one another as they went their separate ways.

Later, Ginny wouldn't be able to say which was worse - his apathy or his shock.

All she could really say for certain was that the feud between them had come to a rather inescapable and inexplicable culmination.

One that she couldn't find it in her to regret.