2Ginny isn't sure exactly how they came to be friends. Their fathers hate each other - Draco's being a snobbish higher-up who doesn't do shit all day and Ginny's being a grunt worker who doesn't get any credit for his sixty hour weeks. They see each other a lot growing up at the company's family lunch-ins and dinners and parties, but they're never friends. They don't call each other on the phone or email each other or like each other's Facebook status (she's not even sure he has a Facebook, to be honest). But during the many company parties their fathers drag them to, they always come together, allies against the parents who don't have time for them.
And somehow that leads to Ginny on the black leather of the company's lobby couch, long pale legs stretched out over Draco's black trousers while their parents schmooze and drink cocktails on one of the many floors above them. Draco complains that he's not a footrest, but one of his palms settles warm and comforting over her knee anyway. He doesn't look at her. He's looking at stocks on his tablet and there's a frown line growing between his eyebrows. Ginny wants to poke him in his side, where she knows he's ticklish, but she doesn't. She likes having his hand on her knee, and she wishes it would slip higher, under the short black skirt of her dress. She hates how pretty he is, sometimes. Probably more than she hates that she doesn't hate him. She should hate him. He's the typical snobbish prick who never gets a happy ending in the fairytales. But his hand is on her knee and even the frown line between his eyes is beautiful.
"How can squiggly lines be that interesting?" She asks, just to annoy him.
He still doesn't look at her, but his hand tightens, thumb tracing absently over a few of her freckles. She remembers when he used to draw constellations on her arms in pen. Now she wishes he would do it across the hills her chest, down the plane of her pale stomach, farther down. She would become the sky if he asked.
"Those squiggly lines hold a lot of money," he says flatly. She looks over his shoulder and sees one of the lines angling into a downward slope.
"You're seventeen," she says, resting her chin on his shoulder. She's almost completely curled around him, now. Close enough that the smell of his cologne makes her eyes flutter shut. He barely even notices. "You're too young to be this fussed over stocks and trade."
He hums, an amused smirk tilting on the edge of his lips. "If I'm too young for stocks, then you're too young to know all the past and present players for Arsenal and how many goals they've made in their career."
Ginny jolts, and she feels the burn on her cheeks before it appears. "It's a hobby," she mumbles.
Draco's smirk grows wide, and he finally looks away from the tablet and into her eyes, a gloating michief settling all over him. "Exactly, Weasel. You're not the only person who gets one."
Weasel . He's always called her that, teasing. But it's not the same as when her brothers tease (she has six of them; she should know). Draco always drawls out the name with precise care, like a secret, like a precious thing he can't believe he has. To anyone else he might sound malicious, but Ginny knows, and it sends shivers down her spine of both contempt and want. She's never sure if she wants him to take it back.
She buries her pout into his neck and says rebelliously, "At least mine doesn't have a Diddles."
"A Diddles?"
"You know, the Dowl thing."
"The Dow, Ginny. Christ."
And suddenly he's laughing, in the only way that Draco can. His body shakes and there's a smile wide on his face and his eyes sparkle, but there's no sound. Never any sound from the boy whose laughter could be seen as a nuisance to his parents. And Ginny knows she should feel bad about it, piteous maybe, but sitting as she is, she can feel his laughter in her whole body. It shakes with mirth up from her feet to her head, and she smiles wide with it. She wishes she could press a kiss to his lips so she could taste it as well, but she doesn't.
Still, when he's done, he ends up close. He lifts his head and his nose brushes hers and he almost looks surprised. She thinks he might lean in, maybe, if she says the right thing.
"You know what the Dow is, Ginny," he says, and he's right. He taught her that a long time ago.
"Yeah," she answers. She traces the spot between his eyes where the worry line has disappeared. "But you can't be that serious yet. It's not fair to the rest of us irresponsible youths. You make us look bad."
He's still smiling at her, still smug. She likes it when he's smug because he likes it. She doesn't know what that means, exactly, but it settles something warm and pleasant in her chest.
"It's not that hard to make you look bad," he says gently. She knows he means it, to some extent.
She smiles innocently. "I could say the same for you on the football field."
He chuckles, a low, shy sound, and his hand travels up to her thigh. "I'll take you up on it."
She knows he will. He's done it before. She always beats him, and he hates it. She's thinking of his obnoxious losing sneer and smiling in humour when he finally leans in to kiss her.
His lips are dry and soft and perfect.