Ginny’s hand had begun to hurt. She was still crushing the note from Seamus with her fist; glancing down, she thought of Tom, Tom crushing her hand until tears of pain stood in her eyes… “What do you really want, Draco?” she said. “Just to gloat over Seamus’ departure?”
“It does seem to have presented us with an interesting conundrum,” he said. “I, now, have no date for the reception, and even someone of my ample and spectacular charms might have some difficulty finding a willing and attractive female to escort to the festivities in under three hours, not to mention the fact that really, we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m sure there are some single female house-elves who’d be happy to oblige you.”
“And get my knees bitten? No thanks.” He leaned forward a little, and said softly, “You do know what I’m asking you, don’t you?”
She raised her eyes to his. She could see herself reflected inside his pupils, surrounded by the stormy gray of his irises. “Spell it out,” she said.
“Go to the reception with me.”
She felt her mouth curl up at the corners. “Say ‘please’,” she said.
For a moment, he said nothing, and she wondered if he were honestly offended, or really too proud to ask — and then he reached out and touched her hair, very gently, with his scarred left hand, letting his knuckles brush her cheekbones, stroking his hand down the length of her hair to touch her throat, her shoulder, the curve of her collarbone. She felt the pulse jump in her throat, hoped he hadn’t felt it.
“Please,” he said.
It took all her self-control to pull away. “All right,” she said. “Now go away so I can get dressed.”
Ginny sat on the end of the bed, looking at herself in the mirror that hung on the opposite wall. Her stomach felt as if it were alive with fluttering butterflies — the same sort of butterflies that adorned her pale gray dress in a delicate pattern. She’d thought the material was so pretty when she picked it out in the shop, but now she could see that it was dull and washed her out, made her red hair look like dingy copper. Her freckles stood out like ink splotches across her nose.
There was a knock on the door. Steeling herself, Ginny rose to open it. She only hoped that Draco didn’t notice how awful the dress looked. Then again, who was she kidding? Of course he would notice, and he’d probably say something about it too, something cutting and offhand. Maybe it had been stupid to agree to go to this reception with him anyway. He’d only asked her because there was literally no one else he could have asked.
MaybeThe door swung open. It was Blaise, chic and sophisticated in a tailored black dress and stiletto heels, her lips painted rose pink, her eyes encirled with kohl. She was carrying something in her arms, something blood- red and satiny and heavy, and…
“Is that your dress?” Ginny asked, perplexed. “The one Draco bought you?”
Blaise held it out to her. “No,” she said. “It’s your dress.”
Ginny blinked. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Blaise smiled crookedly. “Draco might have said this dress was for me,” she said, “but it was always for you. It doesn’t even fit me, Ginny. Entirely the wrong measurements. Even the wrong shade of red, really. It’s meant to go with more coppery hair than mine. It’s obvious that Draco was thinking of a particular girl when he bought it, and that girl wasn’t me. It was you.”
Ginny just stared. “I don’t…”
“Yes, you do,” said Blaise. “Take it.” And she offered it to Ginny again, and the light struck the dress just so, making it glow gold and red like the heart of a ruby. Almost without volition, Ginny reached out and took the dress, feeling its weight, its smooth, cold softness. It felt almost alive in her hands. “And go put it on,” Blaise added, flopping down on the bed. “I want to see if I was right.”
Ginny made a face at her, then disappeared into the bathroom to change.
She could feel just by touching the red dress, by sliding it over her head and letting it shimmy down to her feet, how expensively made it was, despite its simple cut. When she walked out into the bedroom, Blaise sat upright on the bed and whistled. “Look at you,” she said.
With a feeling half of dread, Ginny turned and looked at herself in the mirror. Looked — and then stared. The dress clung to her body, molded itself to her chest, made her legs look impossibly long and her waist impossibly slender. She had pinned up some of her hair with gold clips in the shapes of butterflies, and the curls that hung loose cascaded down her back. Far from clashing, the dress made them look a darker red-gold than they were. She bit her lip.
Blaise jumped up. “Malfoy won’t know what hit him,” she said cheerfully.
“Unless you slap him silly for leering at you — then he will, obviously.”
She cocked her head. “I hear someone banging on my door. Must be your brother.” She strode out into the hallway, leaving the door open behind her.
Ginny pulled her shoes out from under the bed. They were the same shoes she’d worn last year at the Manor, the ones that had started their lives as socks printed all over with a cheerful pattern of ducks. She slipped them on and went out into the corridor, where Ron was standing with Blaise, their heads very close. She cleared her throat before they started up with anything really disgusting, like kissing.
Ron broke away from Blaise and glanced over at her. “Oi there, Ginny—“ he began, and broke off, looking thunderous. “What are you wearing?” he demanded. “Or rather, not wearing. If Mum sees you in that, she’ll do her nut!”
“Don’t be such a troll, Ron,” said Blaise. “She looks beautiful.”
Ron made a choking noise. “Beautiful? She looks — well, I’d say how she looks, but one doesn’t use those sorts of words around one’s little sister.”
“I think I look nice,” Ginny replied, smoothing down her skirt. “Really, Ron.”
“I’m just glad you’re not going with Malfoy,” Ron said. “At least I can trust Seamus not to paw all over you.”
