To Inspire a Malfoy
*
Part I
*


Unless you have been living in an isolated cave, without a fireplace, on the shores of some deserted island, you’ve heard of the Namesake Chronicles. The novels stand at eight in number and are reputed to be so popular that even Muggles have been spotted with several copies. This column has seen everyone – mermaid, goblin and even a hag or two – with their noses stuck in these books. Renowned author of the saga, Draco Malfoy has carved out quite a niche for himself in the literary sphere, and for the last four years he’s had the critics clamouring like a bunch Bowtruckles with a bowl of wood lice.

For those of you unfamiliar with the stories, we recommend putting down the tea leaves and visiting your nearest bookstore. Namesake is a series of separate yet connected tales about a peculiar group of wizards who are reborn each time they die, with all the knowledge and experience of their former lives. The majority of the narrative concerns the Reincarnate’s search for his other half, while battling their arch-enemies – a Society of Avengers with their own axes to grind. However, the discovery a reincarnate’s other half usually presages death for them both, and the cycle continues.

Malfoy’s Reincarnates have been described as elitist, arrogant chauvinists by many a female critic but the highest demographic of his readership remains housewives and young career witches (who this column believes were questioned under the influence of Veritaserum). Malfoy’s Namesake remains a dirty secret for many of its readers, beloved only under the cover of night.

But where is Malfoy now? With a longstanding trend of a new book on the shelves every summer and fall, Malfoy has missed last fall’s release date with no word from his publishers. He appears to have simply gone. Here at Witch Weekly, we are doing our best to seek out the elusive author and will keep you posted on our efforts.

Meanwhile…

The magazine was crumpled by an annoyed hand. Draco frowned down at it in contempt. Seek out the elusive author, indeed. He wasn’t hiding, for Salazar’s sake, just taking a break. Couldn’t anyone take a sabbatical without the entire public getting worked up?

At the snap of his fingers, a house elf popped into appearance.

“My coat, elf,” he said imperiously.

The house elf bowed and summoned Draco’s travelling cloak before helping his master into the garment. Much as he detested the method of travel, Draco headed for the fireplace to Floo to Pansy’s house. When he stepped out of the fireplace in the drawing room of Pansy’s manor, Pansy was seated with a glass of something no doubt alcoholic.

Draco arched a brow. Pansy wasn’t even dressed and it was nearly one in the afternoon.

“Don’t you have agently duties to attend to?” he quipped, reaching for the glass.

Pansy glared at him while swatting at his hand. “You’ve driven me to drink, Draco. Have you written anything?”

Draco’s glance was dismissing. He waved a hand airily. “No, but I’m sure it’ll happen soon.”

“You can’t even admit you have a problem! Draco, you’ve been blocked for –“

“Don’t,” Draco interrupted harshly, “use that word!” He looked around warily. “I do not have writer’s block,” he hissed, lowering his voice dramatically on the last two words.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Draco, you haven’t written anything in nine months. I think that calls for an intervention.”

“I’m gestating,” Draco deadpanned.

Pansy glared again. “As your agent,” she began firmly, ignoring Draco’s leer, “I have a right to intervene in your affairs as a writer.”

“And what about my other affairs?” Draco asked with a heated look.

“I hardly care about your imagination when we’re in bed, Draco,” Pansy replied dryly.

Draco scoffed. “I must disagree. You care a great deal about everything I do in bed.”

Pansy rolled her eyes again and pushed at his chest. He was leaning into her in an attempt to get at the glass of scotch.

“We should at least try something… or someone. I heard about this company – Daughters of something they’re called. It’s run by that Muggle-loving Lovegood girl, but I think it might be worth a try.”

Draco leaned away from her and crossed his arms. He looked like a petulant little boy. “I am not getting a Muse,” he stated flatly. “The entire system is a complete sham.”

“Draco,” she said in exasperation. “The editor-in-chief is breathing down my neck. One of these days, I may snap and hex the bint – which we both know would be extremely bad for your publicity.”

Draco smirked at the idea of Pansy hexing Hermione Granger, or Granger-Weasley as she was now married to one of the Weasley brood.

“I don’t care how hormonal she is,” Pansy was saying. “If she demands to see what you’re working on one more time, I’ll make her lose that baby.” Pansy was grievously annoyed whenever anyone tried to control her.

“Draco,” she began again, sensing that she had lost his attention. She placed a hand on his chest and began to draw lazy circles with her finger. Her mouth moved closer to his ear as she whispered “I think it’s a good idea – getting a muse.”

Draco smirked. “Are you trying to seduce me into doing what you want?”

Pansy’s laugh was sultry. “Depends,” she said, flicking a tongue across his earlobe. “Is it working?”

“Maybe,” Draco replied noncommittally.

Pansy smirked and continued her ministrations. Draco soon became an active partner in the proceedings.

Hours later as they reclined in Pansy’s enormous Regency era bed, Pansy brought the subject up again. “It’s bound to be fun, Draco, and it couldn’t hurt” she said, her breath fanning his chest. Draco’s hands were playing with Pansy’s short curls, but he remained silent, pensive.

Pansy held her breath, wondering what his decision would be and how she could change his mind. She might have to enlist Blaise’s help next time.

“What exactly would I have to do?” Draco asked at last.

Pansy smiled smugly, her expression hidden from Draco’s eyes. “Nothing much. Just sign a contract and be receptive.”

“How receptive do I have to be?” Draco asked, and Pansy could imagine him narrowing his eyes.

“Just remain open-minded.”

*

Luna Lovegood double-checked the arrangements to ensure that all was in place for her afternoon appointment. At her direction, the throw pillows on the sofa in the centre of the room began to fluff themselves and the paintings hung at their required angles. Several of them were diagonal. She Charmed the fake window to display a tranquil field of sunlight and flowers, before moving to her desk. The room was so small there wasn’t much to do. It was a good thing Luna was just as tiny or her clients would never have fit. With the sofa and armchair, there wasn’t enough room to swing a Kneazle. She could have gotten smaller furniture, but Luna liked her guests to be comfortable. Even if they weren’t inclined to be as such.

Without so much as a knock, Pansy Parkinson arrived first, walking in with a brisk pace. Luna barely had time to invite her to sit before she perched in the edge of the sofa and waited, glancing about the room in obvious distaste. Draco Malfoy followed her more sedately, sauntering over to an armchair in front of her desk, but close to the bogus window. Neither of them said anything but their demeanours spoke volumes. Luna hid a small smile at their discomfort; neither of them wanted very much to be here. And she had gone to so much trouble to sprinkle the room with Essence of Rabbit’s Foot, too. For good luck, of course.

Luna cleared her throat delicately and moved forward. The sooner this meeting got underway, the better.

“Ms. Parkinson, Mr. Malfoy,” she greeted with more warmth than she felt. “Welcome to Daughters of Mnemosyne.”

Draco snorted at the lofty title, but Luna ignored him politely and carried on. “We endeavour to bring out the best in artists by providing them with qualified, compatible Muses. Our services are specific to each client, but the selection process usually begins with a few general questions.”

She fixed her luminous eyes on Draco, ignoring Pansy entirely.

“What kind of Muse do you seek, Mr. Malfoy ?” she asked serenely. “We have nine daughters, each with their own provenance and suited to different works of art.”

Luna deftly spread a row of cards face up on her desk. Each card depicted a different muse, in different stances and attire and each with a different instrument.

“Are these accurate depictions?” Draco asked with a frown. Luna tried not to shake her head. Men could be so predictable at times. Why should it matter if none of the girls were remotely attractive, when they would help a starving imagination find sustenance?

“No,” she assured him anyway. “But you will not see your Muse until the selection is complete.”

Draco glanced at Pansy uneasily and frowned again. He scanned the cards quickly, trying to find a match for the temperament of his story. His final three choices were Erata, the muse of love poetry; Calliope, the muse of epic poetry; and Thalia, the muse of comedy. So really, he had only Calliope and Erata to choose between.

He pointed to the card that showed a woman holding a small lyre. Luna hid another smile as she picked Erata from the deck and placed her squarely in front of Draco.

“Before we can continue,” she said, searching for papers on her desk, “you must sign a contract that releases us of any liability, and which binds you formally to the agreement.” The formal words sounded odd in Luna’s tranquil tones. She produced a stack of papers several inches thick. Draco’s eyebrows raised in a comic expression of surprise.

“We take our business very seriously,” Luna said solemnly, looking Draco firmly in the eye.

“Your agent can look that over, if you’d like,” she continued absently, searching for something else on her desk.

Pansy was already flipping through the tome. Luna made a small sound of triumph when she located a slender gold ring with curious markings all around the band. She proceeded to tap at it with her wand, eliciting gold sparks, and Draco took the moment to study the enormous legal document which Pansy was attempting to keep from his view. Draco was unconcerned; if he had to go along with this charade, then let Pansy handle all the details.

“It’s only a month, Draco,” Pansy reminded him, noticing his sour expression. They had arrived at a compromise of thirty days to try out the silly idea. Draco was still not convinced that it would work, but if it did, a month was suitably long enough for him to get critical work done.

Feeling as though he was about to make an incredibly foolish decision, Draco accepted the quill Luna offered him and signed his name at the bottom of the document. He hesitated expectantly and when nothing happened glanced at Luna. She smiled at him disarmingly before placing the contract in a filing cabinet behind her and returned with the ring lying in her outstretched palm.

Draco reached for the band cautiously. It was warm to the touch, not just a result of residual heat from Luna’s body, but a steady warmth that seemed to increase the longer Draco grasped it. He glanced between the two women, unsure, but reluctant to back down.

“What happens when I put this on?” he asked Luna, more to stall time than out of curiosity.

“That is a ring of Erata – the client’s ring. There are several matching ones for the Daughters of Erata, housed elsewhere in this facility. The ring will select the daughter it feels you are most compatible with and she will be brought up to meet you.” Luna’s explanation was succinct, but it didn’t go a long way to easing Draco’s qualms.

In fact, Draco was rather put off by the idea. After all, it seemed the height of stupidity to purchase something without even laying eyes on it. But what choice did he have, really? The contract was signed, and it stipulated that neither party could break it until the terms were met. On one hand, he could be signing up for a month of misery with an unattractive, nagging harpy. Draco inwardly cringed at the thought. Merlin only knew the sort of riffraff this place employed.

On the other hand, this could all work out and he’d get a month of fabulous entertainment from a willing, and yes, absolutely gorgeous, partner. He smirked and kept that thought firmly in his mind.

Hoping fervently for the latter, Draco slipped the thin ring onto the middle finger of his left hand. It glowed briefly and heated even more. The strange markings, which Draco realized as a language albeit one he couldn’t speak, had been thrown into greater contrast, dark against the burning gold, and the effect was quite beautiful. Draco suspected Lovegood charmed a lot of artists this way.

When the ring had cooled, leaving Draco’s entire hand tingling with the after-effects of ritual magic, Draco tried to remove it. To his surprise and horror, the band wouldn’t budge. He tugged, but it seemed to be plastered to his finger with a Permanent Sticking charm not unlike the ones used on portraits at the Manor. Fuming, he turned to Pansy who lifted her hands in a refined surrender.

“I didn’t know that would happen,” she said defensively.

“Another effect of the contract, I’m afraid, Mr. Malfoy. The ring is not to be removed until the terms of the contract have been fulfilled.”

Draco snarled at her, already frustrated with the entire process. “When am I to meet this Muse?”

“She should be arriving momentarily.” Luna glanced towards the door to confirm her statement but no one came through.

Five minutes later, when they had all but run out of patience, someone burst through the door with a barrage of profanities and a mass of red hair.

Draco’s stomach decided to freefall to his shoes, and he looked at Luna with renewed ire. The blonde had moved to intercept the newcomer.

“Is this a joke?” Draco hissed at Pansy through clenched teeth.

Pansy cut him a swift glance designed to silence any possible outbursts while she attempted to assess the situation. They didn’t know for sure that this girl was Draco’s Muse. Pansy could see no matching ring on the girl’s finger as Lovegood ushered her out of the room. Pansy got up to press her ear to the door when it swung shut behind them.

“Luna, I’m telling you the damn thing nearly scorched my finger and now it’s stuck and – what do you mean you can’t remove it?!” the girl yelled.

Pansy amended her last thought. If a Weasley was to be the Muse, then they would simply have to find a way out of the contract. She was confident that loopholes existed for just this sort of problem.

“What do you mean I’m bound to an artist?! Magically bound? Luna!” The name was said on a wail and Draco winced then covered his ears. Pansy was fairly certain he’d be doing a lot more wincing once the girl noticed who else was in the room.

At that moment, she glanced over Lovegood’s shoulder, locking eyes with Pansy who returned the look with practiced disinterest. Her eyes widened and she immediately dropped her voice. Thank Merlin, Pansy breathed. She wasn’t sure she could have put up with the shrieking much longer.

After a few moments of whispered conversations that nonetheless carried the short distance to Pansy’s seat, Luna returned to her desk, dragging the girl along with her. Pansy studied the hapless Muse again: red hair, freckles and the temper of a cornered hippogriff. She was definitely a Weasley. The urge to bury her head in her hands and call off this entire fiasco was overwhelming, but Pansy was as tenacious as mountain troll.

While Draco attempted to incinerate the Weasley on the spot with the force of his glare, the girl seemed engrossed in ignoring them both.

Luna cleared her throat to begin talking. “It appears there’s been a misunderstanding,” she began.

Pansy immediately began thinking of what they could sue her for while Draco exhaled rather loudly. Ginny, however, remained rigidly cross, her arms folded across her chest in defiance.

“A misunderstanding but, unfortunately, we must continue with the situation as it is.”

Pansy’s senses went on alert as Draco stiffened in his chair. The Weasley girl ignored them studiously. She was becoming quite adept at it.

“Ms. Weasley is not, in fact, a Daughter of Erata – or of Mnemosyne, for that matter.”

“Then how can she be eligible?” Draco demanded.

“She was wearing the ring,” Pansy pointed out wearily. “That’s it, right?” she asked Luna. When she nodded in confirmation, Draco scowled fiercely.

“Why was she wearing a ring?” he asked venomously. “I was assured that only a Daughter would possess one of these.”

“Well, Mr. Malfoy, it seems she asked to try it on,” Luna answered pleasantly. This day was not going at all the way she had planned. She would have to get a refund on the Essence of Rabbit Foot.

“She asked to try it on?” Draco repeated incredulously. “Then was I meant to get the Muse to whom the ring actually belongs? Can we just ignore the Weasley?”

The girl paused in her study of a rabbit hopping outside the charmed window to glare harshly at Draco. Luna made an apologetic face.

“I’m afraid that’s not how it works, Mr. Malfoy. Once the rings have chosen, the decision cannot be undone, or ignored.”

“But how was she chosen?” Pansy pressed.

“The rings are partially psychic,” Luna explained.

“I thought you said the rings chose the most compatible Muse?” Draco asked angrily.

Luna’s blue eyes fixed unblinkingly on Draco for a moment as she thought about her answer. “They do. The ring obviously thought that Ginny was best suited to you and your preferences.”

Both Draco and Ginny scoffed then glared at each other for the accidentally shared moment and then Ginny remembered that she was supposed to be ignoring him.

Pansy watched the pair with all the cheer of someone walking wandless into a cave full of giants. At this rate, Draco would never write again. For now, though, she’d have to make the most of the situation and accept the fact that Jenny Weasley or whatever-her-name-was was clearly supposed to be Draco’s Muse.

“What do we do now?” she asked Luna dully.

“Ginny and Draco will have to work closely together, and since the contract will be up in a month, I suggest maximizing your efforts by having them spend as much time in each other’s company as possible. Perhaps even living together.”

When Luna mentioned working in close proximity, Ginny had taken a step backwards, away from Draco. By the time Luna had finished speaking, Ginny was gaping at her friend in astonishment and dread while Draco seethed, fists clenched at his side.

“Impossible,” he stated harshly.

Luna shrugged delicately and looked at him. “Mr. Malfoy, it’s up to you. The rings stay on for a month, no matter what you do; you’ve already paid for our services and, quite frankly, I see no other options available to you at this time.” Luna clasped her hands and rested on the edge of the desk, the picture of calm.

Draco was outraged. How could they expect him to put up with a Weasley for thirty days? He’d had to endure their presence for seven years at school and they continued to torment him regularly if he bumped into any of them on the street. This was worse than having an ugly cow harping at him all month! Well, almost, but not quite. The Weasley girl was not bad looking if you could see past the garish hair and plebeian freckles. But she was sure to harp at him, Draco thought crossly. And harping was still harping whether the person doing it was attractive or not.

He glanced at Pansy. Surely her devious little mind was already working on a brilliant scheme to counteract this unfortunate bump in their plans. Maybe he would only have to endure the torture for a week or so. He looked at the Weasley again; she’d burn a hole in the tacky flowery wallpaper with that glare. Salazar give him strength.

“I’ll do it,” he said finally.

Luna smiled, Pansy looked apprehensive and Ginny screeched.

“Luna, am I not allowed a choice?! I didn’t sign a contract! I shouldn’t have to do this!”

“I’m sorry, Ginny,” Luna said softly. And everyone could see that she was. “But you were wearing our property at a most inopportune time, and these are the consequences.”

Ginny threw up her hands in despair. “And you,” she said hotly, rounding on Draco. “Why didn’t you say no? You couldn’t possibly want me to be your Muse.”

True, Draco acknowledged, but he wasn’t going to let her know that. “And why wouldn’t I want you, Weasley?” he drawled seductively, raking his gaze over Ginny’s slender frame. She had the build of an athlete – he remembered reading once that she was a Chaser for the Falcons – not an entirely unappealing body. Pansy glanced at him quickly, then looked away.

Weasley blushed crimson in the face of Draco’s smirk and promptly held her tongue, choosing to glare at Draco’s back.

“Of all the arrogant, conceited, chauvinistic pricks,” Ginny muttered just loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“I heard that,” Draco commented.

Ginny shot him a venomous look that said he was meant to.

“Are you even a real author, Malfoy?” she demanded.

Draco stiffened, affronted. “Perhaps not, but you’re not a real Muse either, so I believe we’re fairly matched.”

Ginny shut up for a few moments.

“The public isn’t to know I’ve got a Muse,” Draco ordered the rest of the room. “Are we clear?” He looked at each witch in turn. “Don’t breathe word to anyone. I don’t need to have Witch Weekly sniffing around anymore than usual,” he said in contempt.

Luna nodded; a privacy clause was a normal request from her clients. Pansy was feeling decidedly unsettled and very ready to escape to the confines of her home and liquor cabinet.

“I’m going home now,” Ginny declared.

“Very well,” Draco allowed. “You can Floo to the Manor in the morning. I intend to make good use of my thirty days.” He looked at Pansy when he said this, but her thoughts were elsewhere and he frowned momentarily before continuing.

“Goodbye, Lovegood,” he said in clipped tones. Luna was unfazed by his rudeness as he ushered Pansy out the door leaving behind a thoroughly bewildered and not a little irate Ginny Weasley.

---

My prompt:

Sanctuary-in-dream's Prompt [1]

Basic Outline: Draco, a renowned author, is suffering through a severe writer's block. Pansy, his dedicated agent (and occasional fling) fears that if the writer's block drags on, he will never write again. Pansy coincidentally comes across a wizarding agency that supplies a writer with a Muse, someone who has a degree, and works in the field of creative thinking and is capable of being the always available idea bunny for any paying customer. Pansy calls on the help of a Muse, something writers never like to do, who is no other than Ginny Weasley. Unfortunately for Draco, once you are paired with a Muse, you can't back out, so Draco is stuck with the girl-Weasel he tormented during his school days, and Ginny is stuck with the Boy-Weasel who tormented her constantly in school. Arguments ensue, (harsh) words are exchanged, and sparks fly as the writer and the Muse battle it out.

Must haves:Post-Hogwarts era; Luna is head of the branch that Ginny is under; Draco must be in character; Pansy is a respectable business partner; Hermione is Draco's editor (no real relationship there); Hermione/Fred; other character appearances; lots of Draco/Ginny interaction (snarky banter).

No-nos: Slutty Pansy (at least not a lot - she know her place, and rarely acts out of it); Harry appearance as a romantic interest (can be briefly in the past, but nonein the future); Ron/Hermione; softy!Draco; smut (limes, not lemons); no weird Muse-y outfits for Ginny.

Rating range: T-M

Bonus points: if there is a scene where Ginny supplies a conversation for Draco (preferably during a press conference for the Daily Prophet, but it's up to you) and things go wrong; if Draco doesn't want word getting out that he has a Muse (reason up to you), but Ginny finds a way to do just that; if Draco is forced to eat dinner with the Weasley Clan (reason up to you); if the response to this prompt is chaptered; if Ginny is over-bearing and Mum-ish at times; if there is a scene where Draco is talking out loud to his characters, and Ginny catches him; if Draco and Ginny role-play Draco's characters, and things get a little steamy.

To Inspire a Malfoy
*
Part II
*

Ginny resented being ordered around. She resented being ‘allowed’ to do things even more. The fact that Malfoy of all persons deigned to do both greatly chafed at her rebellious spirit.

She trumped noisily into the kitchen of the Burrow and set about making tea. Her hands went through the motions automatically, the familiar ritual soothing her frazzled nerves. She had just put the kettle on when Hermione stumbled in, tousled and rubbing her swollen abdomen. Ginny smiled warmly at her sister-in-law.

“Why are you up?” she asked softly, not wanting to wake the rest of the house.

“Fred Jr. is kicking again,” Hermione replied, wincing. In a surprising turn of events that had really only surprised Molly and Percy Weasley, Hermione had married a different Weasley only two years after graduating Hogwarts. The couple was expecting their first child – alternately called Fred Jr. and Frederica by its parents. They had a flat in London, but Molly had requested that Hermione stay at the Burrow when it got closer to her due date.

“I feel like I’m about to pop at any second,” Hermione complained now.

Ginny grinned and rubbed her sister’s shoulders while keeping an eye on the kettle.

“I’m sure all expecting mothers feel that way,” she said comfortingly.

Hermione shook her head. “Molly only tells me the good parts – everything excluding the pain. That feels wonderful, Ginny, thanks. I have to read Dr. Spock if I want to actually get the facts.”

At Ginny’s confused expression, Hermione explained that Dr. Spock was a Muggle specialist in babies and had written several books on the subject of pregnancy. Hermione’s bedside table was covered with books on pregnancy, birth and parenting, something Fred managed to find endearing. The culprit entered the kitchen then and grinned when he noticed Ginny.

“Hello, little sister, just looking for my wife. Have you seen her? She’s about five feet six inches tall and big as a house.”

Ginny chuckled.

“You fiend,” Hermione scolded. “You did this to me. Now come over here and pay penance.”

Fred relieved Ginny of her rubbing post, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as he passed. He dropped a kiss to Hermione’s lips before massaging her back tenderly.

“Your son is definitely a Quidditch player, Fred,” Hermione said on a groan as Fred Jr. aimed another shot at her insides.

“Yeah?” Ginny picked up interestedly. “Which position?”

“Beater,” they said in unison. Ginny laughed.

Hermione groaned and buried her face in her hands. A muffled “Oh no” could be heard. Fred and Ginny looked at each other in surprise – this was not a usual response to massages.

“Bee in your bonnet, love?” Fred asked gently.

“I completely forgot,” Hermione replied. “I have a meeting with Parkinson tomorrow, Malfoy’s cow of an agent. I just know she’ll give me the run-round to avoid deadlines.” She groaned again.

Ginny was intrigued, but she kept her expression carefully neutral. As Hermione regaled Fred with stories of Parkinson’s unbearable attitude, Ginny listened keenly for clues about the world she was about to visit.

“Ginny, what’s that?” Fred asked suddenly. He and Hermione had been quiet for some time, but Ginny, lost in her thoughts, hadn’t noticed.

He was pointing to the gold ring on the ring finger of her right hand. Ginny clenched her fist self-consciously, dropping her gaze as a blush stole up her cheeks. “It’s, um, nothing.”

When she dragged her eyes back up to meet theirs, they were both wearing similar expressions of scepticism. Ginny hesitated, wondering if she should tell them about the mess she’d gotten into. They’d be able to help – Fred ran a shop that deal with exactly this sort of thing, for Merlin’s sake. And Hermione was not without her talents. But a privacy clause was a privacy clause and her honourable nature wouldn’t allow her to betray someone. Not even a Malfoy.

“Nothing,” she repeated more firmly. “Luna gave it to me on a loan. Well, actually I sort of took it without asking.” She laughed nervously, which wasn’t hard since Ginny experienced anxiety over even the most banal subterfuge. She hoped they would attribute the blush to her guilt at getting caught and not dig for more answers. But when she met their gazes, it was obvious they still had their doubts.

She gave a rueful grin. “I’ll return it tomorrow, promise.”

At the thought of tomorrow, Ginny’s heart rate increased. She wondered dimly if the rushing sound she heard was in her head.

“Ginny,” Hermione called. “The tea.”

Oh. Of course. The kettle was whistling loudly enough to wake the dead and Ginny hastened to turn it off. Fred and Hermione left the kitchen as she poured and the echo of goodnights cheered her up somewhat.

She sat in the darkness of the kitchen, savouring the strong brew and the calm it lent to her thoughts. Tea fixed everything. In a few hours, she went upstairs to pack. To her family, she left a note explaining that she was going to be helping Luna for the next month, so she’d be away. They could reach her through Luna if they wanted. It was cowardly to leave before anyone was even up, but Ginny wasn’t feeling much steeped in courage at the moment. In fact, she considered herself a very timid, very helpless mouse and while she hated that Malfoy could reduce her to such a pitiful state, she rationalized her trepidation with the knowledge that she was about to enter the enemy’s lair.

She Floo’d to Luna’s first, hoping that would keep her parents satisfied if they decided to check up on her. She could be back here in seconds if they dropped by for an unexpected visit.

She stumbled out of Luna’s fireplace, anxiety making her unusually clumsy. Her luggage was shrunk to fit in the pocket of her robes – not that there was very much of it.

“Lumos,” she whispered, igniting the tip of her wand and peering around the cramped quarters. Luna lived in a flat above the London branch of Daughters of Mnemosyne. Ginny knew so because she had often been over for tea. Like her office, the flat was about as snug as a troll in a broom closet. Ginny wondered if she ever bought men home.

She padded out of the living room into the sole connected bedroom and unceremoniously poked Luna in the side to wake her. She grinned when the blonde yelped, pushing back the covers to regard her friend steadily. “Finally,” she said with some exasperation.

Ginny frowned in confusion and followed the sometimes batty, always brilliant witch when she hopped out of bed and walked back to the living room.

“I got tired of waiting up for you,” Luna told her as she switched on the lights. Muggle technology, Ginny recalled absently. Her father would have been delighted that she was staying here, except she wasn’t and this was all supposed to be a clever ruse. Not quite clever enough, apparently.

“Hang on,” Ginny said a mite indignantly. “How did you know I was coming?”

Luna stared at her as though she wasn’t very bright.

“Well, you wouldn’t have told your family you were going to Malfoy’s , since they’d demand to know the reason. Even if you didn’t tell them the truth, they were bound to find out. Of course you’d come here.”

Ginny released a small sigh at the explanation of her motives.

“Any suggestions?” she asked, throwing herself on the tiny sofa and clutching a cushion.

Luna though carefully before replying. “Stay open-minded,” she suggested finally in an upbeat tone.

Ginny huffed despairingly. “Not bloody likely with that lot,” she grumbled.

She sighed and the clock on the mantle struck seven. Reluctantly, Ginny heaved herself off the couch and took the two steps to the fireplace. Grabbing a handful of Luna’s Floo powder (for some reason, it was blue), she stepped into the flames. Luna smiled encouragingly as Ginny called out “Malfoy Manor” in a strong voice. At least, she hoped it was a strong voice; she was afraid the words came out more as a squeak.

She tumbled through the fireplaces, trying to not fall out of the wrong one and gave a small gasp when she landed with a lurch, almost falling out of an enormous, ornate hearth. She placed a hand on the cool marble to steady herself and nearly jumped out of her skin when a voice cut through the dimness.

“Who are you?” it demanded.

Ginny’s heart leapt to her throat as she reached for her wand, igniting the tip to detect the source of the voice.

“Put that light out, child!” the voice said sharply. “It hurts my eyes.” The person spoke like someone accustomed to have her orders obeyed instantly.

Ginny obligingly murmured “Nox” and let her eyes adjust to the limited light. Though she had only heard it once, that voice sound familiar. As more light penetrated Ginny’s irises, she could just discern the outline of Narcissa Malfoy perched daintily on an armchair.

“Who are you?” the silhouette repeated.

“Ginevra Weasley,’ Ginny answered, trying to be polite.

“A Weasley?” Narcissa echoed in disdain. “What business could you have here? Are you from the Ministry?”

“I have business with Malfoy,” she responded with more backbone, annoyed at the Lady Malfoy’s contempt. She remembered belatedly that there were two Malfoys in residence here, and she wasn’t keen on Narcissa thinking she was here to meet the elder. “Draco Malfoy,” she amended.

By now, enough daylight had penetrated through unseen crevices to illuminate the room and its occupants. Ginny realized she was in a large drawing room, with several armchairs and a sofa, Oriental rugs and a vase or two to decorate the space. It was also easily three times the size of Luna’s flat.

Narcissa Malfoy was sipping delicately from a cup as she regarded the young woman before her with suspicion.

“What business do you have with my son?” she asked presently.

Self-consciously, Ginny’s hand tightened into a fist trying to hide the ring. The movement did not escape Narcissa, whose sharp eyes detected the glint of gold encircling her finger.

Bollocks, Ginny thought desperately. There was no way she could lie to Narcissa Malfoy and get away with it.

To her amazement, a smile spread over the woman’s previously stern face. Ginny blinked in shock; she didn’t know what conclusion Narcissa had drawn but she was sure it wasn’t the right one. Narcissa set her tea down and rose quickly, walking over to Ginny with enviable grace. She was still smiling; it was incredibly bizarre.

“My dear,” Narcissa greeted warmly, taking Ginny’s hands in her own. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Are you two promised? Is it a secret? I won’t breathe word to a soul!” The blue eyes, formerly cold, were dancing with excitement.

“Congratulations, my dear child,” Narcissa was saying. At least that’s what Ginny thought she was saying. At the moment her mind couldn’t quite comprehend how the witch’s mind had moved from disdain to rapture at the mere thought of marriage. Narcissa was still talking.

“Despite your family’s... leanings...” Narcissa cleared her throat delicately and gave Ginny a small smile. “Well, you are a Pureblood, at least.

Ginny stiffened and would have dragged her hands away if Malfoy Jr. had not seen it fit to enter at that moment. He was obviously distracted and, oblivious to Ginny’s presence, addressed his mother.

“Mother, have you seen my raven’s feather quill? The elves seem to have mistaken it for one of yours.” He frowned. “Knobbly is punishing himself in the kitchen – terrible racket –”

“Draco,” his mother interrupted firmly. “Look who’s here.”

Malfoy glanced at his mother distractedly. His jaw slackened when he saw Ginny and his eyes darted from one face to the other, trying to assess the situation.

“Don’t worry, darling,” his mother assured him, beaming. Ginny found it deeply disturbing to see Narcissa Malfoy looking so happy. “I know all about your little secret.” She winked at him while leading Ginny over. His grey eyes flashed a menacing glare at her but she shook her head firmly.

“Don’t blame Ginevra, dear. She didn’t say a word. I figured it all out on my own.” Narcissa was supremely pleased.

Against her better judgment, Ginny latched on to Draco’s arm and smiled weakly. She should be running to the fireplace instead of pretending to be in love with Draco Malfoy.

“She thinks we’re engaged,” she muttered to Draco as soon as Narcissa’s back was turned.

“How in the name of Merlin could she have gotten that idea?” Draco hissed back.

“The rings, you idiot,” Ginny reminded him with irritation. “The bloody things won’t come off.”

Draco did some quick thinking. Perhaps it was for the best that his mother remained ignorant about Weasley’s real purpose here. It would certainly make several things easier. He slipped an arm around Weasley’s waist, pinching her when she would have cringed away.

“You got us into this mess, now you’re going to get us out,” he whispered with an undercurrent of menace in his tone. “I hate to disappoint my mother.”

“It would be easier if you weren’t such a prat all the time,” Ginny argued, still trying to wriggle out of his grip. He tightened his arms painfully around Ginny’s waist.

“Part of my charm, I assure you,” he replied, before calling his mother’s attention.

“We’re sorry you had to find out this way. We had hoped to make a formal announcement soon.”

Narcissa smiled warmly at her son. “There’s no need to apologize, Draco. I’m simply delighted that you’re settling down. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to see to a house elf.”

The moment she was gone, Draco’s hands dropped from her waist and she stepped away from him, rubbing her bruised side. “Now what, O Brilliant One? She thinks we’re engaged!”

Draco ignored this and grabbed her wrist, dragging her forcefully though the halls of the Manor. Despite Ginny’s frequent protests, he didn’t stop until he reached his study. Once there, he released her abruptly and sat behind a beautiful mahogany writing desk. Ginny rubbed her wrist and scowled at him.

“If you leave any more marks on me, people will think you’re abusive to your girlfriends,” she said in annoyance.

“Maybe I am,” he replied distractedly. “You’ll have to sleep in my room,” he added.

“No, I bloody well don’t,” Ginny responded hotly. “I refuse to share a bed with the likes of you.”

“I never said anything about sharing a bed, Weasley; I’d rather not be castrated in my sleep.”

Ginny crossed her arm and looked at him. “You’re sleeping on the floor, then?” she asked with raised eyebrows.

“Merlin, no,” he replied casually, and after a pause went on. “You are.”

Ginny glared at him furiously. Just as she was beginning to think that he possessed a modicum of decency, he would say something so unspeakably conceited that she wanted to smack the smirk right off his face.

“Since you’re here, you may as well begin,” he said next.

“Begin what?” Ginny was confused and not a little exasperated by his non sequiturs.

“Inspire me,” he said for clarification, waving a hand through the air.

Ginny grimaced. What was she going to do? “So soon?” she asked weakly.

Draco looked her up and down. “There’s no time like the present,” he drawled.

“Stop looking at me like that!” Ginny snapped.

“Like what?” Draco asked, leering.

“Like you expect me to perform a striptease for you. Not in your lifetime, Malfoy,” she growled.

Draco smirked at her. “Keep thinking that, Weasley. Can I assume you know what you’re doing?”

“Aside from not stripping?” Ginny said in annoyance. “Every Daughter has a degree in Creative Writing and they’re professionally trained to help writers develop their ideas.” She was parroting the pamphlets Luna had shown her over the years. “I’ve spent enough time with them to pick up a few things,” she added. Some minutes passed in silence before Draco spoke again.

“Does that mean no stripping?”

*

Several days passed by in similar fashion; Ginny attempted to be as inspiring as she could, but short of walking around in a tastefully wrapped sheet and nothing else, she wasn’t sure how to get through to Draco. He was snarky and critical and she couldn’t resist rising to the challenge every time he baited her. Most of their sessions ended with shouting.

One afternoon she heard a voice as she passed by Draco’s study and paused to listen in. “You’re a clever child, aren’t you, Nicholas?” Draco’s voice was admiring. Ginny frowned. Who was Nicholas?

“A veritable genius, I know,” he continued. “Such a pity the idiots you live with can’t see it. Now what do I do with you once you’ve found Gwendolyn?”

Ginny laughed to herself as she pushed open the study door. Draco was at his writing desk and judging from the absence of anyone else, Ginny’s guess was confirmed. He had been talking to one of his characters. She grinned and took a bite of her apple.

“Stuck, Malfoy?” she asked cheekily.

He looked up from his desk and scowled at her. “Yes,” he admitted reluctantly. “You’re a poor excuse for a Muse if you can’t even inspire me to write paragraph,” he accused.

Ginny ignored the barb. She had grown somewhat comfortable in the last week or so that she was here. She was sure most of it was Narcissa’s doing and felt marginally guilty for deceiving the woman. “Maybe you’re just a poor excuse for a writer,” she retorted, making Draco scowl at her again. Draco muttered something about proper inspiration and scantily clad bosomy women before Ginny cleared her throat.

“Well, imagine you’re picking up a book for the first time – your book, this book. The first thing you see is the cover with the title. You do have a title?” she asked Draco. He murmured something she couldn’t quite catch, but she doubted it was a “Yes”.

She pursed her lips, making a tsking sound but continued. “After the cover page, there’s a title page – also blank, I’m assuming...” she gave Draco a reproving look. “Maybe an excerpt, then acknowledgments –”

“I don’t write acknowledgments,” Draco interrupted.

Ginny’s brow knitted. “Don’t you have anyone to thank?” she asked.

“Pansy assured me it was unbecoming to thank myself,” he replied loftily.

Ginny shook her head at his haughtiness. Ah, she thought with some curiosity, the elusive Pansy. She had tried to decipher the witch’s relationship with Draco ever since she had seen them in Luna’s office. There were times when Ginny was sure that they were more than writer and agent, and these times usually involved Draco arriving home in the early morning, reeking of alcohol and Pansy’s expensive perfume. But whenever she was in the same room as them, Pansy was nothing but professional.

“Narcissistic prat,” she said in response to his last statement, but the name lacked any real venom. Ginny wasn’t sure when she had begun to forget that Malfoy was the enemy, but now she regarded him as almost an acquaintance. Their verbal battles were actually fun for her, and though she’d balk at saying she actually liked the git, she was somewhat comfortable in his company.

“Ignoring the acknowledgment,” she continued. “Next we’ve got the contents page – have any idea how many chapters you’ll have? Are you still with me?” At Draco’s nod, she went on. “Good. We’ve come to the first chapter of Nicholas’s story.” Her voice was low and enchanting, penetrating the layers of Draco’s consciousness to stoke a buried creative spark. “The words are appearing in print before your very eyes. Nicholas was an astute child, wasn’t he? I’ve heard you say so. But the people he grew up with never appreciated his brilliance – they just exploited and ignore him, didn’t they?

Come on, Malfoy,” Ginny breathed. “This is your story, your characters. Breathe some life into them... if you can that is.” Ginny threw out the taunt experimentally. She wasn’t sure how he would respond to the challenge.

Draco’s eyes snapped open and found hers. She was sitting on the edge of his desk, leaning towards him in her efforts to reach his imagination. Something in his eyes shifted from frustration to enlightenment and he all but shoved her off the desk as he reached for his quill.

Hmph, Ginny thought, being a muse was a thankless job, really. But she was beyond pleased. She felt the urge to clap her hands and dance around – finally, finally a breakthrough!

An owl tapped insistently at the window, interrupting her rapture. She recognized the bird as belonging to Parkinson, who’d kept up a steady stream of messages between herself and Draco every day for the two weeks she had been there. Sometimes Ginny had been tempted to ask what kind of business necessitated such constant communication, but thought the better of it. Now, however, her curiosity would be sated.

She spared him a glance before opening the letter. He was oblivious to the owl, engrossed in documenting his breakthrough.

Draco,

Reminding you of the press conference two weeks from Thursday. It’s at Prophet Publishing House. Granger’s doing. You should have let me hex her when I had the chance.

It starts at two in the afternoon. Don’t bring the muse.

Pansy

‘Don’t bring the muse,’ Ginny repeated to herself questioningly. She was suddenly grateful she had read the letter first. A press conference was an excellent opportunity to let the public know Draco was writing again, and she was convinced he would need her there. ‘Don’t bring the muse’, indeed. She snorted as she magically erased the first five characters of that sentence and adjusted the following ‘b’, ignoring the fact that it was slightly illegal to tamper with mail.

She resealed the envelope and placed it on Draco’s desk before closing the window after the owl and settling on the window seat she had claimed as her own. This Muse lark was easy, she thought to herself, relaxing in the glow of the sun’s rays.

---

To Inspire a Malfoy
*
Part III
*


Lucius and Narcissa insisted on attending the press conference despite Draco’s continued efforts to dissuade them. The foursome Apparated early to Prophet Publishing and Narcissa kissed them both before accompanying Lucius in his quest for seats. She had become quite fond of Ginny in the past four weeks, even going so far as to loan her something appropriate for the occasion.

Ginny was wearing a white sundress with a scalloped hem and halter neckline. Gold sandals and a shimmery shawl complemented tastefully applied make-up and completed the ensemble. The weather was rather humid, so she had secured her hair in a loose chignon, allowing a few tendrils to frame her face. She looked quite pretty and Draco told her so.

“You clean up nicely,” were his exact words and he smirked when she blushed at the compliment. She thwacked him on the arm, irritated when that only served to amuse him more. That was how Pansy found them and her eyebrows knitted together when she saw Ginny. Draco hovered awkwardly for a moment between the two women before recovering himself. He hadn’t seen Pansy in several days.

“I assume you’ve been busy?” Pansy prompted.

Draco smirked smugly. “I have two-thirds of the ninth instalment written and the rest of the chapters planned out. I even have ideas for the next two books.”

Pansy could see that Draco was delighted and while she was happy for him, she was also a tad bit jealous. Who was this social climbing nobody to waltz in and inspire Draco away from her?

Pansy watched in disbelief as Draco tugged on a lock of Weasley’s hair, eyes dancing with mischief when she turned to retaliate.

“Has she been a good Muse, then?” Pansy asked evenly.

“Invaluable,” Draco agreed.

Pansy hesitated, but Granger appeared.

“Ginny,” she said in surprise. “I didn’t expect you to see you here.”

Ginny faltered, glancing at Draco in concern. “I- I’m a big fan of Malfoy’s,” she covered hastily.

“Well, you’re not allowed back here, if that’s the case. Malfoy, they’re ready for you. Parkinson, you’ve got a front row seat. ”

She took Ginny firmly by the arm and steered her into the conference room. Ginny should have known Hermione would be there; after all she was Malfoy’s editor. That would also mean that Fred was around somewhere. Sitting with family was better than sitting with Parkinson, but Ginny couldn’t prevent a small sigh from escaping.

Draco began a short speech about the Namesake Chronicles, divulging no details about his disappearance, but hinting that a new instalment would be on the shelves very soon. Hermione was watching Draco closely, with all the paranoia of an editor whose writer is known to be unpredictable. Fred kept trying to get her to calm down. It was diverting, but Ginny kept her attention on the man at the podium. After a brief question and answer session where Draco cleverly outwitted most of the reporters seeking sordid details, refreshments were served.

Ginny managed to escape from Hermione and Fred long enough for Draco to accost her.

“You’re doing the reading with me,” he told her.

“What makes you so sure I will?” she asked challengingly. In truth, she was a little exhilarated at reading a scene from Draco’s manuscript. The snatches he had shown her while he was working had been entertaining, to say the least. She thought the novel quite good for something that was obviously popular fiction.

Draco arched an eyebrow at her, daring her to say no.

“Why?” she asked instead.

“It’s partly yours,” he answered and Ginny’s heart warmed until he added. “Well, I put in all of the actual work, but you helped. A little.”

She smacked him on the arm and would have changed her mind, except he tugged at her hair then and something tugged at her heart. What? She blinked, tearing her eyes away from Draco’s face. Did she actually like the git? Unfortunately, it would seem so, she thought, watching as he returned to the podium. Then she was holding her breath as he invited her to read, and Pansy’s venomous looks bounced off her painlessly. There was some scattered applause as Draco handed her a manuscript opened to chapter twenty-three. The section was all dialogue and Ginny wondered what he would have done if she’d refused. He began.

“You would run from me?”

“To the ends of the earth if it meant I never had to die again.”

“Do not attempt such foolishness. I am far more powerful than you could imagine.”

“Ha! What you call power, I call arrogance, conceit –”

“It takes a brave mortal to laugh in the face of such danger.”

“I am no more mortal than you are. Did you think I was easily intimidated?”

“Your desire for me frightens you.”

“I feel no such thing – do not touch me!”

“Liar, I can read the truth in your eyes. Your skin screams for my touch. Relax, Gwendolyn, and trust me.”

“Never!”

“Then you leave me no choice.”

And he kissed her. Yes, it was part of the scene, but Ginny swore that even the cameras stopped flashing for that one perfect moment. The audience held a collective breath as Draco’s lips brushed teasingly over her own. Ginny felt a spark of desire jump between them, then Parkinson exhaled harshly and the trance was broken. Ginny felt a tingling in her right hand. She gasped when she saw the ring disappear and checked to see if Draco’s had done the same.

“You –” she began in a strangled voice, and someone cleared her throat.

She shook her head, cheeks flaming, oblivious to the intense way Draco was watching her. His gaze shifted elsewhere, jaw clenching as he returned to the podium all smiles and charm to give his thanks and wrap up the function. Ginny wanted to disappear; she couldn’t look at Draco, couldn’t look at anyone really, so she did a most un-Gryffindor thing: she ran.

-x-

Two days later, Ginny was sitting in the kitchen at the Burrow, clutching her cup of tea like a lifeline. She’d spent the day before agonizing over the events at the press conference, replaying each embarrassing moment and mentally berating herself for being such an idiot. Of course Malfoy would make good use of the fact that she was his Muse and magically contracted to foster his creative process in whatever way she could. The kiss was nothing more than an extension of that.

The argument sounded weak even to her, but how else could she explain her response to him? Once the rings had vanished, she’d immediately become aware that she had just kissed Draco Malfoy in front of a dozen reporters and her brother, no less. How could she have stayed? A traitorous voice replied that she would have stayed if Draco hadn’t let her go. She shut it up with more tea.

Hermione entered the kitchen then with something tucked under her arm. With an absent ‘Morning, Gin’ she approached the teapot to pour herself a cuppa and Ginny caught sight of the papers or, more accurately, the manuscript the other witch held.

“Can I see that?” she asked Hermione, pleased that her voice came out steadily despite the bundle of nerves she felt on the inside.

Hermione hesitated, looking at Ginny with motherly concern before handing her the first draft of the Namesake Chronicles’ ninth instalment. Ginny ran her fingers unsteadily over the author’s name, and flipped open the front cover. The title page was blank as she’d predicted. Only Draco could write an entire novel and still have trouble coming up with two words for the title. Her fingers froze on the next page, and Ginny sucked in a breath as her eyes registered the words

For Ginevra Weasley.

Something pricked the back of her eyelids and she set her tea down with shaking hands, pressing her palm to the page as if to absorb the printed words. All of a sudden her mind was in a tizzy and she got up hastily from the table to address Hermione.

“I’m leaving,” she spoke quickly. “Tell Mum,” she frowned. “Tell Mum I’ve gone out,” she decided to say.

Hermione gave a large sigh and collected the manuscript as Ginny dashed into the fireplace, throwing down the Floo powder with a loud ‘Malfoy Manor!’.

There was no Narcissa Malfoy to greet her this time as she stumbled out of the gilded fireplace into a brightly lit room. No elves, either. Not that it mattered to her as her feet easily found the path that led to Draco’s study. Only when she stood outside the door did she hesitate, hand raised to knock and heart thudding loudly in her ears. What if she was about to walk in on him and Pansy?

With a scowl, she opened the door and her eyes narrowed as they scanned the room. No undergarments flung wildly about as evidence of a torrid passion . . . not yet anyway. In fact she couldn’t even see Draco.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” a voice asked, cutting through her thoughts.

She started in surprise and moved further into the room, finally spotting Draco where he reclined on her window seat. She moved towards him, regaining some of her old confidence. If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it, simply continued sitting with one leg drawn up and an arm resting casually on his knee. His hair had fallen forward to cover part of his face and as silly as it sounded (in fact, Ginny thought acerbically, it sounded like something Gwendolyn would do) Ginny wanted to brush it away.

She cocked one hand on her hip and looked at him. “I came to thank you for the acknowledgment – in the novel” she clarified, wishing he would look at her.

“Dedication,” he corrected.

“Beg pardon?”

“What I wrote was a dedication; I dedicated the book to you,” Draco explained, finally meeting her eyes.

This time, paradoxically, Ginny glanced away. “Well, thank you.” Part of her was wondering if this was it. What was the point of running here in her pyjamas to confront an indifferent Draco? This isn’t the way it works in novels, she thought with frustration. Bloody hell, he’s the author, let him come up with something.

“Come here,” Draco ordered. At that moment, Ginny couldn’t have not gone.

“What now?” she asked, hoping the hint of irritation in her voice belied her nervousness.

“Well,” Draco began, “I have a proposition for you.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve me wearing a sheet,” Ginny interrupted.

Draco smirked and ran his eyes down the length of her body in a way that made Ginny shiver.

“My mother already thinks we’re engaged, you know,” he mentioned casually, retuning his gaze to the window. Ginny waited; surely he didn’t want her to break the news to Narcissa. She had a feeling the woman wouldn’t take that lightly.

Draco was still talking. “And you know how I hate to disappoint my mother,” - Ginny’s heart jumped - “So why don’t we continue this charade for a while longer and see where it leads.” – and soared. Then plummeted.

“Pansy,” she said deadpan.

Draco scowled and then his expression cleared. “I’m not sleeping with her,” he answered evenly.

“Anymore,” Ginny added under her breath, not even bothering to hide the relief she felt. “I’m not your Muse either,” she told him sternly.

“You were rubbish at it anyway,” Draco shot back. “I’ll just have to show you how to inspire someone properly.”

And he took advantage of the moment to give her a demonstration. With his lips. Any remonstrance Ginny would have had was swept away by the feel of his lips on hers, and she reflected on considerable merits of inspiring a Malfoy.