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TITLE: Ice Cream Sunday
AUTHORS: Jade and Sarea Okelani
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORIES: SRH
SPOILERS: You're safe if you know who Draco and Ginny are. If you don't, then we can't help you.
KEYWORDS: Draco/Ginny
DISTRIBUTION: Please do not archive -- the full text of this story will be archived by the authors at their site or elsewhere at their sole discretion (mostly for version control issues). If you'd like to link to this story from your Web site, we'd be honored -- but drop us a line first, please.
DISCLAIMER: Screw it. We own Draco and Ginny. JKR can keep everyone else, but you know they're always going to get the short end of the stick in canon. Look how nice we are to them! Honestly, they'd choose to go with us if anyone bothered asking them.
FEEDBACK: We love it like Draco loves ice cream.
AUTHORS' NOTES: Written for our dear friend Rainpuddle. We > @>> @>>
Sundays were Draco's favorite day of the week; in the summertime, at least. During the rest of the year, it was Wednesdays, because that's when Slytherin Quidditch practice was. Or maybe Fridays, because that was the day his parents sent money for him to enjoy himself in Hogsmeade. Saturdays were also in contention, because Pansy or one of the other Slytherin girls was sure to get completely pissed and beg him to let her give him a blow job. (This was entertaining, and if they pleaded enough, he usually capitulated, though he was notoriously disagreeable with regard to most other requests.) Come to think of it, most days were good days to be Draco Malfoy.
In the summer, however, much of the week was taken up by his father, who often insisted that Draco learn to properly Crucio this woodland creature or that servant (who tended to run away, and Draco would then have to tire himself out by running after her or him), or he might be stuck in the dungeons all day brewing deadly poisons, or he might be forced to sit in on meetings with his father's cohorts (they all smelled like bad eggs, and after the business agenda was out of the way, would lapse into a conversation about things like arthritis and golf). Or, if Lucius was feeling particularly cruel, Draco was forced to visit one of the families that his father thought the Malfoys would benefit from merging with: the Parkinsons, the Greengrasses, and the Notts (supposedly they had a daughter, but Draco had yet to see proof of such a person, unless that large boy from last time was actually Vanessa Nott, in which case he would have to politely run screaming away).
And from time to time, he was obligated to spend the day with his mother and her friends, who, after fawning all over him and pressing slobbery, lipsticked kisses to his cheeks and -- Merlin forbid -- his lips, would lapse into conversation about their children in a crescendoing volley of boasts until one woman declared her child to be the next Voldemort and everyone was summarily shepherded out the door. Or if her friends weren't about, his mother wept over how big he had gotten and how much she would miss him when he was away at school again and how he was sure to forget all about her as soon as he was married and had a child and would never buy her that condo in Maui that he'd always promised. All of these tasks were simply exhausting.
But Sundays were his. And every single Sunday, without fail, he went to Diagon Alley to a small little ice cream parlor called Joshua's Creamery that no one had yet found. It was in Nocturne Alley, so chances were slim that three fourths of the Hogwarts population would ever find it and overrun it the way they had Fortescue's. As for the Slytherins, they were far more likely to visit shops like Borgin & Burkes, and if they did want ice cream, they would go to Fortescue's regardless of its inferior fare, as part of the Slytherin psyche was the desire to see and be seen, even if it was by sniveling idiots. There was less chance of Draco being troubled by the bourgeois at Joshua's, and it also had the added bonus of producing the best desserts he'd ever tasted.
So he was quite disgruntled one Sunday to find her sitting there, proud as anything, as if she didn't have those awful freckles scattered all over her face, which complemented the equally horrific red hair that seemed to grow like weeds out of her head. The only thing that was remotely acceptable about it was that it was long. Very, very long, reaching past her waist. Draco liked long hair on girls. Even ones that barely fit that description, like this one. She seemed completely unconcerned with the fact that she was a Weasley, and therefore should be ashamed to be seen in public.
Draco glared at her. He was trying to eat here, for the love of all that was decent and Malfoy.
He had ordered his favorite, double chocolate fudge brownie surprise (the surprise being chocolate chips), topped with chocolate whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and fudge-covered, well, fudge. Usually his mother wouldn't let him have chocolate frogs on the side, but she wasn't here, so he was free to indulge. Yet now here was that Weasel girl, ruining it.
She didn't seem to notice him glowering at her. There was no hope for it, then -- he would have to talk at her.
"Did you have to sit there? Some of us are trying to eat, you know," he said snidely.
She turned at the sound of his voice, but merely looked at him curiously and didn't say anything. She took a sip of water and looked out to the street.
Now Draco was irritated. Didn't she know that she couldn't be properly insulted if she wasn't paying attention? He tried again. "Though perhaps you aren't familiar with eating, as I don't imagine you do it very often," he said, watching eagerly for some sign of perturbation. By now her brother would have been a nice cherry red, like the one that had sat on top of his sundae. "Or is it that day of the week already?"
The Weasel girl maintained her tranquil expression, and at her non-reaction, Draco fought to maintain his own serenity. "For someone who can't possibly eat very much, you sure don't look deprived..." he insinuated. And she didn't, if those curves were real. Possibly they weren't. Slytherin girls knew all sorts of charms to enhance their assets, and where charms didn't do the trick, tissue paper and silk scarves worked just as well.
She now looked at him angrily, those dark eyes of hers Avada Kedavra-ing him on the spot. Draco was delighted that he'd gotten a reaction out of her. Barbs about weight worked with girls every time. He enjoyed the way she was looking at him, as if she wanted to tear his head off and attach it to a string to use as a balloon. He wanted to make her eyes flash again. It was odd that he'd noticed those eyes of hers. They were just a simple, plain brown ... only perhaps not so plain. Not when she was angry.
Draco relaxed now that he was in more familiar territory and adopted a more casual position in his seat. Having gotten a reaction out of her, he supposed he was content to simply enjoy his ice cream and bask in the knowledge that she wouldn't be returning after this.
The Weasel girl, it seemed, felt she had to disturb him just a little big longer before disappearing.
Her chair made the most awful scraping sound as she pushed away from the table, metal against stone, and it made Draco wince. It was ten times worse than nails on a chalkboard. He decided to stare down at his sundae and just be grateful she was leaving, however unimaginably grating her departure might be.
Then, there was the sound of metal on stone again, and she was sitting. At. His. Table.
"What," he bit out, actually shocked, "are you doing?"
"May I?" she asked, and before he could formulate a thought, much less a response, she plucked one of the chocolate frogs off his plate and popped it into her mouth. "Yum," she said after she'd swallowed.
"Hey -- that was mine." The words left his mouth before he could stop them. He immediately regretted them. Just because she didn't have any breeding didn't mean he had to stoop to her level. "I didn't invite you to sit here." There, that was much better. And eugh, she was licking her fingers like some kind of barbarian. Only he wasn't sure barbarians had little pink tongues like she did...
"There's a draft over there," the girl said, waving a careless arm toward the table she'd so recently vacated.
"So?" he said.
"I don't want to catch a cold. Your table is out of the way of the draft." She made it sound like a perfectly reasonable thing for her to say. Draco found himself in a rare and annoying situation: he had absolutely no idea how to deal with the Weasley in front of him.
They lapsed into silence, and Draco watched as she stole another frog. For the life of him, he didn't know why he didn't stop her, or at the very least, rebuke her. Eyes narrowed, he waited for her to go in for another, and slapped her hand away when she got close. She glared at him but didn't say anything, just continued to sit there. After awhile, she rested her elbow on the table, her cheek pillowed on her hand, and seemed to get comfortable while she stared at him as if he were a particularly fascinating exhibit on ... whatever it was Weasleys were interested in seeing exhibits about.
With his ice cream melting rapidly even despite the mild freezing charms the proprietor put on all the bowls, Draco finally had enough.
"What are you doing here?" he snapped.
"It's an ice cream shop," she said as though it were obvious.
"I know that, I'm not stupid," Draco said, wanting to hit her. No, not hit her. Something else.
"My mistake," she said with a shrug, flicking her long hair off her shoulder.
"Look," he said through clenched teeth, "just -- it's Sunday!"
"Yes, it is," she responded, as though he were very slow. "I don't know how anyone could call you stupid, Malfoy. You have keen powers of observation."
"What. Do. You. Want," he drew out slowly, imbuing each word with menacing undertone.
"Probably. Ice. Cream," she answered just as slowly.
"Then go and get some!" he spat, banging a fist on the table.
"I don't know what flavor I want yet. What have you got?"
"It's double chocolate fudg-- oh, bloody hell, it doesn't matter! Just go away!"
"Well," she said. "I believe we're at an impasse. I suppose there's nothing to do now but to have ourselves a little wager to solve this." Was it Draco's imagination or was there a maniacal gleam in her eye?
He blinked. "A wager?"
"Sure. You want me to leave, and I want some ice cream. A bet will decide which of us gets our way."
"Why can't you just go and buy ice cream, which will mean you've left, and have both of us win?" Draco suggested. It was appalling she'd brought him so low that he was actually considering a situation where both parties came out winners appealing.
"As you've been so kind to point out ad nauseum all these years, I can't really afford ice cream," she said. There also wasn't a hint of shame in her voice, and it annoyed Draco that this made it nearly impossible to think up something cutting to say.
He settled for, "Yes, the state of your dress robes would indicate that."
"Look, do you want to bet or don't you?"
God, she was infuriating. "I don't," he spluttered, exasperated. "I just want you to go away." She smiled brightly and stared at him without blinking, without moving, as if she would be quite content like that for some time. Like any good leader, Draco knew when to retreat so as to recuperate for another skirmish, and he heaved a sigh. "Fine, fine, get on with it."
The Weasel girl actually clapped in delight. "All right. If I win, you have to buy me an ice cream. If you win, I'll leave."
"Immediately," he clarified. "I win, you stand, you go."
"Yes, yes." She waved a dismissive hand at him.
"Good." He nodded, satisfied. "What's the bet?"
"I bet..." she drew out, clearly trying to inject some drama into the moment.
Draco gestured impatiently with a hand for her to get on with it.
"... that I can kiss you on the mouth without touching your lips," she finished triumphantly.
Draco furrowed his brow. He'd expected it to be asinine, but clearly he'd overestimated her. But she was a Weasley. They were tricky people, these lower classes. The horrific idea of kissing a Weasley aside, Draco began to mull over the bet in his head. Obviously, what she suggested was completely impossible. No matter which way he tried to manipulate it, there was simply no way that she could do it. Unless...
"No charms?" he asked. "No spells, no tricks?"
"Promise," she said with utter sincerity.
"And you'll really leave," he said somewhat desperately.
"I'll really leave," she said, nodding.
He eyed her again. There was something wholly attractive about a sure thing, and he was positive there was no way she could win. He had a devious mind, too, and he was coming up blank on any way this could be a trick. Kissing him on the mouth would require touching his lips; there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. "Very well," he capitulated, "let's get on with it." He sighed again and leaned back in his chair. She looked amused again, and he didn't like it. She should be intimidated by him, or irritated by him, even hate him, but amused by him? It was not right.
He expected her to back out, truth be told. There was no conceivable way she could win the bet. Instead, she leaned toward him, practically bent over him given his position in his chair, and kissed him. Her lips were warm and dry against his, and he was reminded of the sharp bite of the wind earlier. Perhaps there really had been a draft at the other table after all. Draco had expected the kiss to be a brief peck, something to fulfill the parameters of their bet and go no further.
The Weasel girl, it seemed, was determined to go further.
Her hand fisted in the fabric at the front of his robes, bringing him closer to her and holding him still all at once. She needn't have bothered; he was shocked into total paralysis when he felt her tongue against his mouth. Against his better judgement (rational thought had, in fact, actually fled the moment their lips touched) he opened his mouth and let the feel and taste of her invade his senses. There was the hot fudge he'd been eating and chocolate frogs she'd stolen (two distinct flavors) and something he'd never had before, something he wanted more of, something he'd never expected a Weasley to taste like. Her hair fell like a curtain around them, shutting out the rest of the world.
Then, the moment passed; she pulled away from him, and he was galled to realize he had trouble catching his breath. Her mouth looked a little swollen, and whatever gloss she'd been wearing was completely gone. Without thinking, he licked his lips and tasted strawberries.
Strawberries and chocolate and pale, freckled flesh; visions assaulted him quickly and he just as quickly pushed them away; irresistible taste or not, she was still a Weasley.
Even that thin rationalization didn't quiet the erratic beat of his heart, or still the slight tremors running through his hands from the effort he made to not reach for her.
"You touched my lips," he said dully, because whatever else he might be feeling, he had just proven her wrong.
There it was again, that quirk of her lips that said she was amused with him. "Then I lost," she said brightly.
Draco narrowed his eyes. Before he could speak, she pushed her chair back. He realized she was leaving.
"You're not having any ice cream," he said, though he wasn't sure why. He knew she couldn't very well afford ice cream, and he wasn't about to buy her ice cream, but he was utterly unwilling to part with her company. The idea practically gave him hives, but he had always adjusted quickly to new situations; Malfoys were notoriously adaptable.
"I'm not allowed," she reminded him.
"No, you have to leave; you're allowed to have ice cream," he said.
"I can't very well have ice cream if I have to leave immediately, can I?" She sounded so reasonable about it.
"You could have some of mine," he offered, again without knowing why.
"But I have to leave," she said. "I'm sorry, when I've lost a bet, I have to keep to my end of the bargain."
"Right." Draco wanted to argue with her, but he knew her annoying and impractical Gryffindor tendencies wouldn't allow her to go back on her word. Honestly. "Bye, then." This was good. It was for the best she was leaving. Whatever charm she put on her lip gloss that made her taste good was obviously at work on him, and it would wear off if she just went far, far away. He was happy about her leaving.
"Wait," he said, standing up when she was almost at the street.
"What?" she called back.
"I could leave with you," he said.
"What?" Now she was laughing. She sounded absolutely delighted and more than a little baffled. He knew the feeling.
"Our wager said you had to leave," he continued, unmindful of the stupid words pouring out of him. "It didn't say I couldn't leave as well."
The very spirit of the bet did, in fact, imply just that, but following the letter rather than the spirit of an agreement was something Slytherins often did to their advantage. Draco had never let something as silly as the integrity of a bargain stop him from getting what he wanted in the past, and he wasn't about to start now. Even if it was absolute madness to count Ginny Weasley amongst things he wanted.
Which he didn't, he assured himself. He did not want her. He was just ... intrigued. Interested to see what had brought her to Nocturne Alley, what had made her eat some of his chocolate, what had possibly compelled her to kiss him like she meant it, all under the guise of a bet she'd obviously never had any intention of winning. If she left, he reasoned, he would never have the opportunity to appease his curiosity.
"Well," she said, and her tone was far too presumptuous for his liking, "are you coming, then?"
"You'll have to help me carry the frogs," he said, lifting his paper cup full of sundae, and it quite possibly may have been the stupidest sentence to ever come out of his mouth. Oddly, she didn't seem to mind; she walked back to the table, scooped the frogs onto a paper napkin, and waited for him to take the lead. She started taking spoonfuls of his ice cream almost immediately as they began walking. She offered him one, and he was ashamed to admit that he let a Weasley feed him ice cream.
They were almost at the end of Nocturne Alley when she spoke. "I love sundaes," she said, and her mouth came together in a little 'mmm' shape, and he wondered if it would still taste like strawberries without the gloss.
"Me too," he said without thinking. "It's my favorite day."
"I meant the ice cream," she said, but then she smiled. "But the day's growing on me a bit."
Draco didn't know what to say to that; wasn't even positive what she meant by it. He still didn't know why he'd admitted something so personal to her in the first place. The only thing he did know was that he absolutely had to taste her again.
"Weasley," he said as they found a stoop to sit on and eat their ice cream. "Bet I can kiss you for sixty seconds straight without breathing."
There she was. Amused with him again.
It didn't bother him nearly as much when he was kissing her.
finis
End note: Ginny's wager came from here: http://www.topjokes4u.com/12.php. It's supposed to be a joke, but we didn't find it very funny. As part of a story, well, that was another matter.
Our Yahoo Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/magical_mayhem/
Hearing from you would be a cherry on top of our sundae!
AUTHORS: Jade and Sarea Okelani
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORIES: SRH
SPOILERS: You're safe if you know who Draco and Ginny are. If you don't, then we can't help you.
KEYWORDS: Draco/Ginny
DISTRIBUTION: Please do not archive -- the full text of this story will be archived by the authors at their site or elsewhere at their sole discretion (mostly for version control issues). If you'd like to link to this story from your Web site, we'd be honored -- but drop us a line first, please.
DISCLAIMER: Screw it. We own Draco and Ginny. JKR can keep everyone else, but you know they're always going to get the short end of the stick in canon. Look how nice we are to them! Honestly, they'd choose to go with us if anyone bothered asking them.
FEEDBACK: We love it like Draco loves ice cream.
AUTHORS' NOTES: Written for our dear friend Rainpuddle. We > @>> @>>
Sundays were Draco's favorite day of the week; in the summertime, at least. During the rest of the year, it was Wednesdays, because that's when Slytherin Quidditch practice was. Or maybe Fridays, because that was the day his parents sent money for him to enjoy himself in Hogsmeade. Saturdays were also in contention, because Pansy or one of the other Slytherin girls was sure to get completely pissed and beg him to let her give him a blow job. (This was entertaining, and if they pleaded enough, he usually capitulated, though he was notoriously disagreeable with regard to most other requests.) Come to think of it, most days were good days to be Draco Malfoy.
In the summer, however, much of the week was taken up by his father, who often insisted that Draco learn to properly Crucio this woodland creature or that servant (who tended to run away, and Draco would then have to tire himself out by running after her or him), or he might be stuck in the dungeons all day brewing deadly poisons, or he might be forced to sit in on meetings with his father's cohorts (they all smelled like bad eggs, and after the business agenda was out of the way, would lapse into a conversation about things like arthritis and golf). Or, if Lucius was feeling particularly cruel, Draco was forced to visit one of the families that his father thought the Malfoys would benefit from merging with: the Parkinsons, the Greengrasses, and the Notts (supposedly they had a daughter, but Draco had yet to see proof of such a person, unless that large boy from last time was actually Vanessa Nott, in which case he would have to politely run screaming away).
And from time to time, he was obligated to spend the day with his mother and her friends, who, after fawning all over him and pressing slobbery, lipsticked kisses to his cheeks and -- Merlin forbid -- his lips, would lapse into conversation about their children in a crescendoing volley of boasts until one woman declared her child to be the next Voldemort and everyone was summarily shepherded out the door. Or if her friends weren't about, his mother wept over how big he had gotten and how much she would miss him when he was away at school again and how he was sure to forget all about her as soon as he was married and had a child and would never buy her that condo in Maui that he'd always promised. All of these tasks were simply exhausting.
But Sundays were his. And every single Sunday, without fail, he went to Diagon Alley to a small little ice cream parlor called Joshua's Creamery that no one had yet found. It was in Nocturne Alley, so chances were slim that three fourths of the Hogwarts population would ever find it and overrun it the way they had Fortescue's. As for the Slytherins, they were far more likely to visit shops like Borgin & Burkes, and if they did want ice cream, they would go to Fortescue's regardless of its inferior fare, as part of the Slytherin psyche was the desire to see and be seen, even if it was by sniveling idiots. There was less chance of Draco being troubled by the bourgeois at Joshua's, and it also had the added bonus of producing the best desserts he'd ever tasted.
So he was quite disgruntled one Sunday to find her sitting there, proud as anything, as if she didn't have those awful freckles scattered all over her face, which complemented the equally horrific red hair that seemed to grow like weeds out of her head. The only thing that was remotely acceptable about it was that it was long. Very, very long, reaching past her waist. Draco liked long hair on girls. Even ones that barely fit that description, like this one. She seemed completely unconcerned with the fact that she was a Weasley, and therefore should be ashamed to be seen in public.
Draco glared at her. He was trying to eat here, for the love of all that was decent and Malfoy.
He had ordered his favorite, double chocolate fudge brownie surprise (the surprise being chocolate chips), topped with chocolate whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and fudge-covered, well, fudge. Usually his mother wouldn't let him have chocolate frogs on the side, but she wasn't here, so he was free to indulge. Yet now here was that Weasel girl, ruining it.
She didn't seem to notice him glowering at her. There was no hope for it, then -- he would have to talk at her.
"Did you have to sit there? Some of us are trying to eat, you know," he said snidely.
She turned at the sound of his voice, but merely looked at him curiously and didn't say anything. She took a sip of water and looked out to the street.
Now Draco was irritated. Didn't she know that she couldn't be properly insulted if she wasn't paying attention? He tried again. "Though perhaps you aren't familiar with eating, as I don't imagine you do it very often," he said, watching eagerly for some sign of perturbation. By now her brother would have been a nice cherry red, like the one that had sat on top of his sundae. "Or is it that day of the week already?"
The Weasel girl maintained her tranquil expression, and at her non-reaction, Draco fought to maintain his own serenity. "For someone who can't possibly eat very much, you sure don't look deprived..." he insinuated. And she didn't, if those curves were real. Possibly they weren't. Slytherin girls knew all sorts of charms to enhance their assets, and where charms didn't do the trick, tissue paper and silk scarves worked just as well.
She now looked at him angrily, those dark eyes of hers Avada Kedavra-ing him on the spot. Draco was delighted that he'd gotten a reaction out of her. Barbs about weight worked with girls every time. He enjoyed the way she was looking at him, as if she wanted to tear his head off and attach it to a string to use as a balloon. He wanted to make her eyes flash again. It was odd that he'd noticed those eyes of hers. They were just a simple, plain brown ... only perhaps not so plain. Not when she was angry.
Draco relaxed now that he was in more familiar territory and adopted a more casual position in his seat. Having gotten a reaction out of her, he supposed he was content to simply enjoy his ice cream and bask in the knowledge that she wouldn't be returning after this.
The Weasel girl, it seemed, felt she had to disturb him just a little big longer before disappearing.
Her chair made the most awful scraping sound as she pushed away from the table, metal against stone, and it made Draco wince. It was ten times worse than nails on a chalkboard. He decided to stare down at his sundae and just be grateful she was leaving, however unimaginably grating her departure might be.
Then, there was the sound of metal on stone again, and she was sitting. At. His. Table.
"What," he bit out, actually shocked, "are you doing?"
"May I?" she asked, and before he could formulate a thought, much less a response, she plucked one of the chocolate frogs off his plate and popped it into her mouth. "Yum," she said after she'd swallowed.
"Hey -- that was mine." The words left his mouth before he could stop them. He immediately regretted them. Just because she didn't have any breeding didn't mean he had to stoop to her level. "I didn't invite you to sit here." There, that was much better. And eugh, she was licking her fingers like some kind of barbarian. Only he wasn't sure barbarians had little pink tongues like she did...
"There's a draft over there," the girl said, waving a careless arm toward the table she'd so recently vacated.
"So?" he said.
"I don't want to catch a cold. Your table is out of the way of the draft." She made it sound like a perfectly reasonable thing for her to say. Draco found himself in a rare and annoying situation: he had absolutely no idea how to deal with the Weasley in front of him.
They lapsed into silence, and Draco watched as she stole another frog. For the life of him, he didn't know why he didn't stop her, or at the very least, rebuke her. Eyes narrowed, he waited for her to go in for another, and slapped her hand away when she got close. She glared at him but didn't say anything, just continued to sit there. After awhile, she rested her elbow on the table, her cheek pillowed on her hand, and seemed to get comfortable while she stared at him as if he were a particularly fascinating exhibit on ... whatever it was Weasleys were interested in seeing exhibits about.
With his ice cream melting rapidly even despite the mild freezing charms the proprietor put on all the bowls, Draco finally had enough.
"What are you doing here?" he snapped.
"It's an ice cream shop," she said as though it were obvious.
"I know that, I'm not stupid," Draco said, wanting to hit her. No, not hit her. Something else.
"My mistake," she said with a shrug, flicking her long hair off her shoulder.
"Look," he said through clenched teeth, "just -- it's Sunday!"
"Yes, it is," she responded, as though he were very slow. "I don't know how anyone could call you stupid, Malfoy. You have keen powers of observation."
"What. Do. You. Want," he drew out slowly, imbuing each word with menacing undertone.
"Probably. Ice. Cream," she answered just as slowly.
"Then go and get some!" he spat, banging a fist on the table.
"I don't know what flavor I want yet. What have you got?"
"It's double chocolate fudg-- oh, bloody hell, it doesn't matter! Just go away!"
"Well," she said. "I believe we're at an impasse. I suppose there's nothing to do now but to have ourselves a little wager to solve this." Was it Draco's imagination or was there a maniacal gleam in her eye?
He blinked. "A wager?"
"Sure. You want me to leave, and I want some ice cream. A bet will decide which of us gets our way."
"Why can't you just go and buy ice cream, which will mean you've left, and have both of us win?" Draco suggested. It was appalling she'd brought him so low that he was actually considering a situation where both parties came out winners appealing.
"As you've been so kind to point out ad nauseum all these years, I can't really afford ice cream," she said. There also wasn't a hint of shame in her voice, and it annoyed Draco that this made it nearly impossible to think up something cutting to say.
He settled for, "Yes, the state of your dress robes would indicate that."
"Look, do you want to bet or don't you?"
God, she was infuriating. "I don't," he spluttered, exasperated. "I just want you to go away." She smiled brightly and stared at him without blinking, without moving, as if she would be quite content like that for some time. Like any good leader, Draco knew when to retreat so as to recuperate for another skirmish, and he heaved a sigh. "Fine, fine, get on with it."
The Weasel girl actually clapped in delight. "All right. If I win, you have to buy me an ice cream. If you win, I'll leave."
"Immediately," he clarified. "I win, you stand, you go."
"Yes, yes." She waved a dismissive hand at him.
"Good." He nodded, satisfied. "What's the bet?"
"I bet..." she drew out, clearly trying to inject some drama into the moment.
Draco gestured impatiently with a hand for her to get on with it.
"... that I can kiss you on the mouth without touching your lips," she finished triumphantly.
Draco furrowed his brow. He'd expected it to be asinine, but clearly he'd overestimated her. But she was a Weasley. They were tricky people, these lower classes. The horrific idea of kissing a Weasley aside, Draco began to mull over the bet in his head. Obviously, what she suggested was completely impossible. No matter which way he tried to manipulate it, there was simply no way that she could do it. Unless...
"No charms?" he asked. "No spells, no tricks?"
"Promise," she said with utter sincerity.
"And you'll really leave," he said somewhat desperately.
"I'll really leave," she said, nodding.
He eyed her again. There was something wholly attractive about a sure thing, and he was positive there was no way she could win. He had a devious mind, too, and he was coming up blank on any way this could be a trick. Kissing him on the mouth would require touching his lips; there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. "Very well," he capitulated, "let's get on with it." He sighed again and leaned back in his chair. She looked amused again, and he didn't like it. She should be intimidated by him, or irritated by him, even hate him, but amused by him? It was not right.
He expected her to back out, truth be told. There was no conceivable way she could win the bet. Instead, she leaned toward him, practically bent over him given his position in his chair, and kissed him. Her lips were warm and dry against his, and he was reminded of the sharp bite of the wind earlier. Perhaps there really had been a draft at the other table after all. Draco had expected the kiss to be a brief peck, something to fulfill the parameters of their bet and go no further.
The Weasel girl, it seemed, was determined to go further.
Her hand fisted in the fabric at the front of his robes, bringing him closer to her and holding him still all at once. She needn't have bothered; he was shocked into total paralysis when he felt her tongue against his mouth. Against his better judgement (rational thought had, in fact, actually fled the moment their lips touched) he opened his mouth and let the feel and taste of her invade his senses. There was the hot fudge he'd been eating and chocolate frogs she'd stolen (two distinct flavors) and something he'd never had before, something he wanted more of, something he'd never expected a Weasley to taste like. Her hair fell like a curtain around them, shutting out the rest of the world.
Then, the moment passed; she pulled away from him, and he was galled to realize he had trouble catching his breath. Her mouth looked a little swollen, and whatever gloss she'd been wearing was completely gone. Without thinking, he licked his lips and tasted strawberries.
Strawberries and chocolate and pale, freckled flesh; visions assaulted him quickly and he just as quickly pushed them away; irresistible taste or not, she was still a Weasley.
Even that thin rationalization didn't quiet the erratic beat of his heart, or still the slight tremors running through his hands from the effort he made to not reach for her.
"You touched my lips," he said dully, because whatever else he might be feeling, he had just proven her wrong.
There it was again, that quirk of her lips that said she was amused with him. "Then I lost," she said brightly.
Draco narrowed his eyes. Before he could speak, she pushed her chair back. He realized she was leaving.
"You're not having any ice cream," he said, though he wasn't sure why. He knew she couldn't very well afford ice cream, and he wasn't about to buy her ice cream, but he was utterly unwilling to part with her company. The idea practically gave him hives, but he had always adjusted quickly to new situations; Malfoys were notoriously adaptable.
"I'm not allowed," she reminded him.
"No, you have to leave; you're allowed to have ice cream," he said.
"I can't very well have ice cream if I have to leave immediately, can I?" She sounded so reasonable about it.
"You could have some of mine," he offered, again without knowing why.
"But I have to leave," she said. "I'm sorry, when I've lost a bet, I have to keep to my end of the bargain."
"Right." Draco wanted to argue with her, but he knew her annoying and impractical Gryffindor tendencies wouldn't allow her to go back on her word. Honestly. "Bye, then." This was good. It was for the best she was leaving. Whatever charm she put on her lip gloss that made her taste good was obviously at work on him, and it would wear off if she just went far, far away. He was happy about her leaving.
"Wait," he said, standing up when she was almost at the street.
"What?" she called back.
"I could leave with you," he said.
"What?" Now she was laughing. She sounded absolutely delighted and more than a little baffled. He knew the feeling.
"Our wager said you had to leave," he continued, unmindful of the stupid words pouring out of him. "It didn't say I couldn't leave as well."
The very spirit of the bet did, in fact, imply just that, but following the letter rather than the spirit of an agreement was something Slytherins often did to their advantage. Draco had never let something as silly as the integrity of a bargain stop him from getting what he wanted in the past, and he wasn't about to start now. Even if it was absolute madness to count Ginny Weasley amongst things he wanted.
Which he didn't, he assured himself. He did not want her. He was just ... intrigued. Interested to see what had brought her to Nocturne Alley, what had made her eat some of his chocolate, what had possibly compelled her to kiss him like she meant it, all under the guise of a bet she'd obviously never had any intention of winning. If she left, he reasoned, he would never have the opportunity to appease his curiosity.
"Well," she said, and her tone was far too presumptuous for his liking, "are you coming, then?"
"You'll have to help me carry the frogs," he said, lifting his paper cup full of sundae, and it quite possibly may have been the stupidest sentence to ever come out of his mouth. Oddly, she didn't seem to mind; she walked back to the table, scooped the frogs onto a paper napkin, and waited for him to take the lead. She started taking spoonfuls of his ice cream almost immediately as they began walking. She offered him one, and he was ashamed to admit that he let a Weasley feed him ice cream.
They were almost at the end of Nocturne Alley when she spoke. "I love sundaes," she said, and her mouth came together in a little 'mmm' shape, and he wondered if it would still taste like strawberries without the gloss.
"Me too," he said without thinking. "It's my favorite day."
"I meant the ice cream," she said, but then she smiled. "But the day's growing on me a bit."
Draco didn't know what to say to that; wasn't even positive what she meant by it. He still didn't know why he'd admitted something so personal to her in the first place. The only thing he did know was that he absolutely had to taste her again.
"Weasley," he said as they found a stoop to sit on and eat their ice cream. "Bet I can kiss you for sixty seconds straight without breathing."
There she was. Amused with him again.
It didn't bother him nearly as much when he was kissing her.
finis
End note: Ginny's wager came from here: http://www.topjokes4u.com/12.php. It's supposed to be a joke, but we didn't find it very funny. As part of a story, well, that was another matter.
Our Yahoo Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/magical_mayhem/
Hearing from you would be a cherry on top of our sundae!
To Be Continued.
Sarea Okelani is the author of 8 other stories.
Jade Okelani is the author of 1 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 27 members. Members who liked Ice Cream Sunday also liked 1342 other stories.
Jade Okelani is the author of 1 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 27 members. Members who liked Ice Cream Sunday also liked 1342 other stories.
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