[ Printer Friendly Version ] [ Report Abuse ]
Chapter 7 : Ginny Weasley
| ||Rating: 15+||Chapter Reviews: 12|
Background: Font color:
A/N: Okay, not sure what happened here. I kinda got a little out of control, I sold out a little, but I don’t care. I wanted a happy ending. Plus, Draco just has a mind of his own.
Thank you to everyone who reviewed or read this story. This is it. The End. But, I’m starting a new story about Ginny. Her boyfriends are going to end up dead…again each chapter will be a new boy and a new mystery. It’ll be a lot like this story, new running bits and new jokes though and dead people and Ginny as lead character, so, not all that like this story. Anyway, yeah, um…well here it is…
The Last Chapter of The Bachelor
Chapter 7: Ginny Weasley
Draco Malfoy and his goons or minions or whatever you prefer swaggered into the Great Hall. Draco decided at the Quiddich match that he didn’t really need to torture; he needed to lift a wife before the Dark Lord disowned him. The previous weeks had been tedious and complicated and implausible and completely unsuccessful. Draco considered his situation: “Perhaps,” he considered, “I am not cut out to be a Death Eater. I’ve always liked cooking. Maybe, I should have been a chef--“
Just then, Ginny Weasley strutted past directly in front of Draco. She brushed against his leg causing Draco to lose any Death Eater menace left in his debonair, dashingly handsome body.
“Weasley,” Draco called before he could stop himself. Ginny turned around and stared, “What, Malfoy?”
“I was,” Draco paused and looked around. He turned to Goyle and commanded, “Lift her.” Goyle threw Ginny over his shoulder, Crabbe lifted her wand, and they both followed Draco into one of many conveniently placed abandon classrooms. Ginny squealed and cursed.
“I was,” Draco continued, “wondering…will you shut up a minute?”
“No, why should I? Put me down,” Ginny kicked Goyle as she screamed.
A fleeting thought fluttered through Draco’s mind. Ginny was certainly struggling. Perhaps, he could prove his worth to the Dark Lord, still get to torture, and maybe, be bitten, but then, he wouldn’t be able to be a chef, and secretly, he hoped to go to Paris and ride in a convertible and stay on the Champs Elysees and visit Jim Morrison’s grave.
“Weasel, um…do you want to go to Paris?” Draco fidgeted and looked at the back of Ginny’s head.
“What?” Ginny quietly responded while continuing her struggle.
“Put her down, Goyle,” Goyle did as he was asked, but turned to Draco with his fist raised. “The Dark Lord—“ Goyle began.
“Oh, hang the Dark Lord,” Draco responded. “Why don’t you two push off, huh? You know, Malfoy’s minions are no more. Go get yourself some, some, some….Goyle’s goons or Crabbe’s cronies and fulfill the Dark Lord’s request yourselves,” Draco ended in a sigh. Goyle and Crabbe waddled out of the room.
In truth, his green dragon skin trousers had started to itch in strange places and he’d had enough. The Death Eater life was not turning out to be glamorous at all. He didn’t get to torture anyone, he snatched all-to-willing air-heads, he was outsmarted by Loony Lovegood, he tried to kidnap a mudblood, he hit on the Dark Lord and he was on the receiving end of a feminist rant and liked it. To add insult to well, no real injury unfortunately, he couldn’t even get bitten. The short of it is: he was in a mess.
“Paris?” Ginny interrupted his inner monologue, soliloquy, diatribe or whatever you prefer.
“Yeah, Paris. I was thinking of going to that big pen shop in Montmartre or maybe, visiting Pere Lachaise and seeing Jim Morrison’s grave,” Draco gazed into her eyes as he said it. She was very pretty, and he could see her beautiful hair swaying in the warm wind. Who really cared that she is a Weasley? He could get out of the Dark Lord’s legions; he could be a chef, and they could live in Paris.
“Malfoy, have you completely jumped ship…I mean really do you have some bloody horrific head injury?” Ginny spoke calmly and without any consideration for the dashingly handsome Death Eater’s feelings.
“Right…um…that’s a no, then?” Draco mumbled more to himself than to Ginny. She just stared at him. Draco held his wand toward her lips and moved toward the door.
“Minions, minions are you out there? Come in here,” Draco yelled as he cracked the door open. Goyle and Crabbe walked inside. “Lift her,” Draco commanded to Crabbe.
Ginny turned to Draco, “What are you doing?” she asked.
Draco sighed. He’d been through this so many times. “I’m going to force you to marry me and you’re going to…to…to…whatever. You’re going to pop out, I guess, the next generation of Death Eaters. I know, it’s silly, but I’ve been commanded by the Dark Lord.” Draco ended in another sigh. He was a Death Eater broken. He couldn’t even secure a wife; he was an unbitten failure in green dragon skin trousers.
“Oh,” Ginny whispered. She obviously noticed the tone of his voice and the quiet resolve with which he spoke. “What if I don’t want to go?” she asked the question with already knowing the answer. She just thought he could use a healthy bit of chitchat.
“You have to go. I’ll make you,” Draco stated dully. Ginny began to struggle, really struggle. She kicked Crabbe in a certain place ensuring that no Crabbe Jr.s would populate the wizarding world. Crabbe dropped her and doubled over in pain. Ginny grabbed her wand from his sweaty palm and aimed it at Goyle. “Stupefy,” she yelled just before Draco calmly sighed, “Expelliarmus.” Goyle hit the ground with a thud, and Ginny’s wand went flying.
“It’s just you and me now, Malfoy,” Ginny proclaimed. Draco had an epiphany; dawn dawned on Draco. This was what he had been waiting for. He tried as best he could to regain his menace. He growled just under his breath; yes, he was still a Death Eater. He was going to torture. She was going to struggle. This was the moment of truth, the moment he’d been waiting for.
“Yes, but I’m the one with the wand, tart,” Draco drawled while adding a Death Eater growl at the end. He liked the word “tart,” and if anyone was a “tart,” it was definitely the Weasley girl.
“But you aren’t going to use it, trollop,” Ginny responded taking two steps towards him. Draco reflected on the fact that he had been called a trollop again. He still liked it; in fact, he liked it even more from Weasley’s pouty pink lips.
Draco reached out and grabbed Ginny. He turned her around so her back was against his chest. He locked his arms across her and picked her up. She began to squirm, but, oddly enough, she didn’t kick.
“I’ve got you, tart,” Draco drawled.
“Bloody hell, Malfoy. I don’t think you can handle me,” Ginny whispered. Draco smiled and placed his hand over her mouth. Ginny opened her mouth slightly and…
Although it wasn’t hard, just a nip really, no teeth marks even, it was still a bite. Draco removed his hand from her mouth and loosened his grip on Ginny. He stared down at his hand. It had finally happened. He had been bitten, and he liked it. No, he loved it.
“Bite me again, tart,” Draco drawled as he turned Ginny to face him. Ginny tilted her head up and lightly bit his lower lip. Draco smiled.
“Malfoy,” Ginny moaned seductively, “I wont be your Death Eater wife, no matter how dashingly handsome you are.” Draco tightened his grip on her and turned her around to face away from him again. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Will you come to Paris with me?”
“Depends,” she whispered, “Did you ever kill anyone, Malfoy, to get that mark, I mean,” Ginny nodded to his left forearm.
“No,” Draco lied; he was a Death Eater after all.
“Right, then. Yes, I’ll go to Paris with you,” Ginny sighed.
Draco and Ginny left Hogwarts immediately. They traveled to Paris and escaped the wrath of the Dark Lord, who, in actuality, was rather relieved to lose Draco from his legions. The Dark Lord thought that the boy had a bit of an unhealthy affection for him, and he was rubbish as a Death Eater.
They visited the pen shop, stayed on the Champs Elysees and visited Jim Morrison’s grave. Draco became a potions master and a chef on the weekends. They bought a convertible and Draco drove through Paris with his biting English lover and the warm wind in his hair.
Other Similar Stories
Our Last Year
It's Not Tha...