This is a story about Ginny Weasley's insatiable lust for one Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy, stop editing my story. Besides, that's not what this is about. And that sure as hell isn't the title.

Oh, really? Please enlighten me. I thought this all came about because you couldn't stop yourself from shoving your hand down my trousers.

No, this came about because you are a smug, overbearing, conceited arse.

I love it when you don't hold back. I've got the scars on my back to prove it.

You're such a...

Amazing lover? Handsome fellow? Ladies' man, man's man, man about town?

Jerk.

For a writer, you really need to break out the thesaurus more often.

I'm sorry, who makes their living off their trust fund?

It really is hard living a life of leisure. I don't know how I do it -- or why you do it. But then again, I suppose I wasn't born with the desire to promote my own self-worth? Things are much simpler when you're a hated bastard.

I don't know why I'm bothering to write this all down. I also don't know why I bother with you. You really are a Grade A wanker, you know that, right?

Why would I wank off when I've got you?

I think your hairline is receding.

Ha. Knew that would have him running off to the loo. Now, I have no idea why I'm writing this all down. Maybe so one day, I can look back and remind myself what tends to happen when I give my own cleverness too much credit. Also, because I certainly don't want you, my future spawn, to make the same mistakes as your Mum. You know that saying about pride and falls? Yeah. Welcome to my current life. So, without further ado, I give you...

An Ode to Hubris (Or How Your Mother Got Stuck with a Pointy Bastard for a Partner)

It all started because I got drunk.

Sorry. That's the way the world works. Besides, by the time you read this, I imagine you'll probably have done things I'd rather not think about at the moment (because that'll mean my unborn child is already old enough to do adult things, and really, my hormones can't take that right now). You know how things are. You drink too much firewhiskey, you do stupid things.

So yeah. I drank too much firewhiskey. And I wound up snogging a person I'd hated most of my life. Opposites attract? Yes, yes they do.

While your Grandmum might tell you that babies come from storks or cabbage patches, again, you're old enough to know that's not the case. They come from sex, which is what this wound up evolving into (Sorry. But how do you think you got here? Via owl?). I won't elaborate too much on that, but let's just say that before your father and I started properly dating, we were having a lot of it.

Of course, this was all in private. Merlin forbid your snotty Daddy Dearest admit to others he was engaged in intimate relations with me. We kept it a secret for about eight months -- and that, sweet child of mine, is when everything went to Hell in a handbasket.

You see, your father -- well, you know him -- has a tendency to say things without thinking of anyone else. I really hope this isn't a trait you inherit, but if you do, it's all his fault. And I don't even remember what we were arguing about, but we had a spectacular row. He insulted me, I hexed him, we shouted some more, and my landlord threatened to evict me if we didn't remember to use a bloody Silencing Charm. I don't know, I think I saw him out with Pansy Parkinson (I really hope that cow has gained seven stone by the time you read this), and even though I knew he didn't like her as more than a sister, I got bloody pissed.

(Sidenote: if you have a temper, that's my family's fault. Especially if you come out a ginger -- which I really hope you do. Your father doesn't think I know, but I know about his bet with Blaise about your hair color).

I was upset. I wanted revenge. So... I broke into his flat (he had not yet deigned to give me a key of my own yet, and his wards weren't that hard to dissemble) and charmed every single piece of clothing he owned (even his pants) into a shade of bright pink.

Now, let's turn the story to your father. You'd think a sensible person would just magic it right back, wouldn't you? But when has Draco ever been sensible, really? Between you and me. Noooo. He actually -- and this is where my mouth dropped in shock -- actually left his house wearing entire outfits in bright pink.

And you know what was worse? It became the biggest fashion trend that summer. Suddenly, everyone and their bloody house elves were wearing bright pink. And I'm not talking a pretty, feminine pink. No, this was a neon, retina-searing shade of that awful color.

So then I switched out all his Falmouth gear for Chudley. (No, I didn't like Chudley then, and I don't like them now, and I imagine I'll never like them. This was just for sheer annoyance value). What did the wanker do? Wore it to the next Quidditch match -- and the Cannons won.

That also explains how your father become Honorary Life Captain of that awful club.

You get the idea. Whatever I did to get at him, he turned the tables back on me. I was so sure I'd be able to gain the upper hand -- I'm a Weasley! We're tricksy like that! -- I didn't truly gauge my opponent.

Until the day I came home to find all my clothes emblazoned with "PROPERTY OF DRACO MALFOY" in bright turquoise. I tried every single spell I knew, plus all the ones in the books I borrowed from Auntie Hermione, and nothing could get it off. The harder I tried, the brighter the words got.

What I didn't know at the time? This was your father's idea of an apology.

It worked, didn't it?

Wasn't your property then, am not your property now. Took you long enough in the loo, by the way.

The mirror was particularly chatty today. It wouldn't stop fawning over my good looks, and then it had advice for me to pass on to you since apparently, you never listen. No idea where it would get that impression.

Do feel free to toss yourself in front of the Knight Bus.

And leave you alone and penniless in the world? I'd never be so heartless.

You knocked me up. I'm pretty sure that entitles me to your money if you die.

You heartless wench, you. Is that why you wrote all this down? So our child will recognize that when they feel slightly insane and have ideas that are better suited to a twelve year-old, they'll realize they're in love?

Close enough. Now stop writing in my notebook. This is my story.

No no, it's ours. And I'd say you came out on top -- you did wind up with a handsome, rich husband who loves you. Admit it, a little bruised ego is good for you.

Fine. I love you, Ferret. What do you have to say about that?

Mischief managed.