The way it started, one would have thought –as they did– that it was a doomed affair.

He had been nursing a faint crush on her for years, mainly because she was a Weasley and she had dumped Harry fucking Potter. Not to mention she had been with Harry fucking Potter. His life felt, the few times a day he was not actively doing something, like a competition he was forever losing. He felt branded by what Potter had and was; the exact same things he was not and would not have. He knew himself to be pathetic.

She had figured out, when Malfoy accosted her that night in the darkened club, that he was the perfect one-night stand. He was single, tantalizingly handsome and bastard enough to make her knees go weak. Villains –just what Malfoy promised to be –held a shameful appeal to her, a kind of deviated hero-worship. But the hero hadn't worked out, and she still felt lonely, and lost. She knew she shouldn't, and so she did it.

He hit on her (a smirk and slightly insulting hello-how-are-you) and she hit back (locked gazes in meaningful silence, she took his hand and said let's go) and ten minutes later the alley was dark and cold and secret and he was coming and she was slapping him in frustration, thinking bad boys were overrated, but he grabbed her again, pressed her face against the brick wall and touched until she bit her own knuckles in an effort to stay silent.

It was not enough. He couldn't get the smell out of his head, and she dreamed about those hands, both forceful and gentle. They both felt somehow reassured in their stupidity. After all, Weaselette herself was quite alluring, and feeeling attracted to her was very understandable and ordinary, you know. After all, bastards did make good, if quick, shags, and that was all there was to it, because she really wasn't that kind of girl, was she.

They came across each other at the Ministry one week later, in the lift. She could feel his heat on her back but forced herself to keep talking to Abbot ("-but we should really get it done before Friday at the very least"). He stared down at the tips of her long hair and forced himself not to pinch her ass. But he listened in very attentively, and sneered at her when, six floors later, their eyes met.

Then they bumped into each other in a Falcons vs. Harpies match. He owned one of the teams and she was on a date with Oliver Wood. Neither of them paid much attention to the game –he stared at her from his presidential seat and she couldn't bring herself to look at him for fear of making comparisons. So she didn't look, but couldn't stop herself from thinking.

He went to her office first thing the very next morning, just to see if she looked sated. She didn't. She blushed a bright red that went down past her modest neckline. He blushed too, if only slightly, yet still kept both a cool voice and a cool head under her bewildered scrutiny.

"What are you doing tonight?"

She understood; her knees felt watery under the desk. "Yes," she said, to the unspoken question, and then: "I'm making dinner for two. Ask the girl outside, she'll give you the address." There was a tremor in her voice that tied Draco's guts into sailing knots.

Ten hours later, as she opened the door for him, he felt as if someone had pulled the right piece of string at last. She felt at disadvantage, even in her own domain. He offered her the expensive wine he had bought -ridiculously so, since he was sure she couldn't appreciate it. She took it.

Still at the door, she looked curiously at the golden wine label; he looked at her bare feet. When their gazes locked, they could barely make it to the bedroom.

Afterwards, both naked and sprawled on the sheets with a plate of Ginny's shepherd's pie between them, they let the silence fill all the awkward gaps. It was Draco who spoke at last, licking his spoon.

"It feels like Hogwarts," he mused. It was a praise. He could practically taste being eleven.

"What kind of life of debauchery did you live at Hogwarts?" she asked, laughing and smacking his butt. She stretched and rolled on her back, looking contented.

He contemplated her in all her glory and swallowed. He suddenly felt ill.

"I've only fucked you because you were Potter's," he blurted out.

Her lazy small faded, and she opened her eyes to look at the ceiling.

"Really."

"Yes," he said, although he knew he was probably wrong.

She sighed and closed her eyes again.

"I don't care much," she finally answered, in a strained little voice, just when Draco was beginning to get up. And then, strength coming back by the second: "Do you need to know how you rate next to him, or something like that?"

"No! No." No, he did not want to know. He could imagine.

Ginny rolled on her stomach again, just to look at him in the eye, and he raised one eyebrow, because he didn't know what to say. This silence he didn't like. It felt like a break-up silence and he hadn't even thought about dating her yet. He pulled on his grey silk shirt, and started buttoning it carefully.

"I agreed because I thought you were a bastard anyway," she flung to him at last. He had been buttoning his cuffs, but his head shot up to look at her disbelievingly.

"I see. That would explain why you aren't currently hexing the living daylights out of me," he drawled, after a pause. He looked bored all of sudden, and Ginny watched him with both dread and absorption.

"Yes." She felt dizzy with the need to hit him, and at the same time she relished watching him move around the room and get dressed. "We're both pathetic."

"Why? We both got what he wanted," he said, in the same uninterested tone. He wouldn't look at her, and Ginny sat up, interested.

"I didn't."

He stopped halfway tying his belt and turned his head to look at her.

"I didn't mean sexually," she hastened to say, reddening at the word. Oh, this wasn't a good idea, but she was not one to give up so soon, no matter how stupid she felt afterward. He didn't say anything -he didn't even trust his voice –so she plodded on. "I mean I, I know what an evil bastard is, and you are not one. Thank God. I don't know what I was thinking. So, hm, is there any other spiteful remark you need to add?"

Draco shook his head, mute, and retrieved one sock from the back of the chair where it had landed. He crouched, looking for the other one, and then replied, his eyes on the floor:

"I had a crush on you back in my sixth year."

"Oh. I never knew."

He didn't answer, but stepped around the bed and looked under the covers strewn on the floor.

She bent over, looking under the bed. Draco slid his eyes from the raised ass to her hair, suddenly pooling by his feet. His eyes itched. He rubbed them and Ginny was once again looking at him, the sock in her hand. Her hair was a mess, and he wanted to- he sat on the chair and put his socks on.

She got up and gathered the sheet around her. Then she put the spoons and the glasses of wine inside the empty plate they had shared, balancing it all on her hip. Then she watched him again while he laced his shoes. Then, as he looked up, she wondered what would she do now.

"Should I see you to the door? I don't usually entertain, so. You can have a shower too, if you want, though you, er, look all tidy now."

He started towards the door, picking up his shoes, his watch, and his cloak as they got nearer. He took in everything he could about her and her home. It looked warm, and cozy, and rather messy, and he still had that weird longing inside like he couldn't talk if he tried. So he didn't.

She followed him, stopping when he did and trying to make the most of those last two minutes. When he was set, she opened the door and tried to beam up at him. He touched his thumb to the corners of her mouth, smudging her smile. She wanted to hug him and drag him inside again, but didn't.

And so he went.

They ran into each other before a week had passed, in the Ministry hall. She grinned at him quite unexpectedly, just as he was passing him, and he grabbed her arm before she could walk away.

"My place tonight?" he asked, his voice low, and she had to ask him to repeat.

"Will you cook?" She answered, obviously delighted at the prospect.

"Who do you take me for?"

She only laughed and touched his chin with the tip of one finger. "You know, Harry can only make decent fried bacon." Then leaned in and whispered what else Harry didn't do well, blushing a rather indecent shade of scarlet.

Draco stared at her, eyes narrowed, as she walked away; then went away himself, whistling.

***

A/N: ¡Cumpleaños feliz, Rowan Greenleaf!

You asked for Lucius/Ginny for your birthday, but no matter how hard I tried and how many carrots I waved in the air, no plot bunny came forward. But all the thinking on Malfoy/Ginny paid off, I'm back home in D/G land! :D Thanks to you, nena.

And thanks to VickyVicarous, whose D/G fics made me want to write one myself, too. Not to mention she beta-ed this!

Anyway, I do hope you like it, and... long live to Draco&Ginny!

Reviews are my only reward, because I don't get paid for this.