Ginny and Draco Do America, or, Dude, Where's My Eye?

All I wanna do is have some fun

And I've got the feeling I'm not the only one

All I wanna do is have some fun

Till the sun comes up over Santa Monica Boulevard

--All I Wanna Do, Sheryl Crow

A/N: Kevyn Aucoin is the makeup artist who wrote all those books (like "Face Forward") and recently died; Todd isn't over it yet. The "Needles" David refers to is Needles, California, in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Helmut Lang is a designer. Manalos is an insanely expensive brand of shoe. I'm not sure if they make mens' shoes, but let's assume they do, shall we? "Plus fours" are pants that are an extra four inches long in the cuff because of... I forget exactly why, some upper-class golf thing, I think. LAX is the L.A. airport.

A great big thank you goes out to all my reviewers! Especially Queen of the Rogue, Katja, Agujitayuppi, Kayla Snape, Joyce, Peeler, Lavinia, Daydreamer1585, Ali Marie, Fortune Cookie, VampyRockster, Adaren, Chocagirl23, Gin the Gemini, Arca, Whitney Malfoy, Taricorim, Nebula Queen, Magickfan47, Kuroneko Kashikoi, and KitLee. I'm sorry it took so long to get this chapter out! But I've been making films and writing my angsty epic, "Jewel of the Harem." I would never say that's easy to write, but it's easier in a way than something long and funny. It's like they say-- dying is easy, comedy is hard.

"The thing is," sighed Ron, "that I always felt responsible for Ginny. You know what my first memory is? That incident with the escaped Hungarian Horntail in our backyard when she was five. When you start out slaying dragons for your sister, well, you do tend to get a bit overprotective--" He chewed the last few bites of his Big Mac. "God, this is bloody awful, but I can't seem to stop eating it-- are you going to finish those?" Butch shrugged and shoved over the remainder of his SuperSize fries. "What is this place, anyway? Does Ronald McDonald run some sort of American School of Witchcraft and Wizardry? I saw a sign for McDonald's University on the way in--"

"Not exactly, lemme see if I can explain." Butch drummed his fingers on the tabletop, thinking. They were sitting in a secluded back room of the McDonald's on Santa Monica Boulevard. "It's the California division of the American decompression chambers," the American wizard finally said. "Visiting wizards and witches from Europe usually come out here, y'know? Every state has one. Started in 1978. What led to it was an incident where a Nigel Faargefruham from Flummery St. Oddment's was met by Est wizards at LAX, taken on an encounter weekend, and encouraged to get in touch with his feelings in a redwood hot tub. He flipped out-- couldn't handle it. He was last seen during the Carter administration in a polyester leisure suit with seventy-eight gold chains around his neck, doing the Hustle and yelling 'I will survive! I will survive! As long as I know how to live, I know I'll stay alive!'"

"Wow. That's awful," said Ron faintly. He finished the fries and started on the paper box without noticing the slightest difference in taste.

"Oh, that was cool. He ended up opening a gay bed and breakfast in West L.A. in the end-- The point is, we get the wizards here, sit them down in a nice bright room, explain things like SUV's, five-hour traffic jams, twelve-lane highways, Tony Robbins seminars, thinking outside the box, cold beer, Starbucks, the lack of a metric system, cable modems, the Mall of America, the deep sociological reasons why everyone was doing that irritating "Wassup?" thing for awhile there, the inexplicable appeal of the Backstreet Boys---American culture in general, knowhutImsayin?" He stopped at the blank look on Ron's face.

"I never left the picturesque village of Ottery St. Catchpole until I was eleven years old," the redhead said in a pitiful tone of voice.

"You'll catch on," said Butch kindly, patting Ron's arm in a reassuring manner. "You shouldn't eat the tray, though."

"Oh." Ron started spitting chunks of plastic out of his mouth. "I didn't even realize I was doing it."

"There's a Gluttony charm over everything in every McDonald's, you just don't have any resistance to it yet. Ronald McDonald's a dark wizard, ya know? He was brought up on charges of chicken torture last year, but he pled corporate immunity." Butch shrugged. "He was sentenced to thirty seconds of community service along with the bookkeeper of Enron. I think they picked up a paper cup together in a parking lot in Beverley Hills."

"I'm glad Voldemort isn't here," Ron said faintly. Somehow, for some reason, saying the name of the Dark Lord didn't seem nearly so frightening with bright sunlight spilling through the windows and Britney Spears blaring from the speakers of a 1964 Mustang in the parking lot.

Butch nodded. "Yeah, he'd probably write a bestseller, make an exercise video, and guest on Howard Stern."

"It's good to talk to someone who understands." Ron looked at Butch approvingly. The American wizard was tall, dark, and bulging with muscles, wearing an L.A. Lakers jersey and basketball shoes, his kinky hair cropped into a flattop. A manly looking sort of man, he mused. Now that's what I like to see. Not like all these poofters. I'll bet they were looking at me and plotting how they'd like to get me alone and do all sorts of unspeakable things to me and--

He jumped as Butch snapped his fingers an inch from his nose. "Hey! Earth to Ron!"

"What?"

"You were drooling."

"Oh. Sorry," Ron mumbled.

"What were you thinking about?"

"Wonder how much further we have to go?" asked Ron, moved by a sudden desire to change the subject.

"Couldn't tell you, but five people in a Honda Civic--" Butch shook his head. "I'd rather have season tickets to the Cubs."

"It wouldn't be so bad," said Ron, "except that one of them is the embodiment of evil. And he won't stay on his side of the seat." He shivered. "Thank God I got rid of him for an afternoon anyway."

"Ohh, I get it. The blond," Butch said.

"Yeah, Draco Malfoy-- say, d'you reckon I should steal the silverware wherever we eat dinner and sleep with a butter knife? I need some sort of protection. I'm sure he's going to stand over me while I'm asleep and start breathing in my ear until I wake up and then he's going to jump on me and--"

"Doubt it," said Butch with a funny smile.

"You're right, too many witnesses, maybe he'll lock Ginny and Hermione out of the room and then throw off his robes to reveal a leather bondage outfit and start twirling the fur-lined handcuffs around his forefinger and come strolling towards me where I'm backed up against the king-sized vibrating bed and--" Ron began to get a rather crazed look in his eyes.

"Ron!" Butch brought his hand down on the table with a sharp slap. "I think you oughta be a lot more worried about-- what was his name, Drac?-- being in the same building as your sister. They're both over at Sister Innocenza's House of Style getting makeovers right now."

"Why would I worry about Malfoy and my sister?" asked Ron.

Butch rolled his eyes. "Didn't they have any Sex Ed classes at that school of yours?"

"Yes," said Ron defensively. "Of course, the fact that Snape taught them put a lot of students off sex for life, but we did have it. I know that when a house elf and a grindylow love each other very, very much-- well, never mind that now--"

"So why aren't you worried about Sis and Drac-boy?" Butch asked patiently.

"Because Malfoy is obviously a flaming queen as bent as a used paper clip! If he was any more gay, he'd be forced to star in the Covent Garden revival of 'Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.' He couldn't have less interest in Ginny. Well, apart from the pathological-hatred-for-all-Weasleys thing. No, I'm the one in danger. I know what I'll do! I'll keep a can of petrol and a book of matches by my bedside tonight! That's what I'll do! And if he moves so much as one long, slender, perfect white finger in my direction, I'll--"

""Ron," interrupted Butch, "there's something you need to know. I've won the West L.A.'s Best Gaydar Award three years in a row now, against some pretty stiff competition. And when I met that boy, I didn't feel so much as a twinge."

"How would you know?" Ron asked suspiciously. "You're obviously not gay."

Butch sighed. "Kid, I'm as queer as a three-dollar bill."

"You can't be," Ron said in horror, backing away from the table and nearly stumbling over his chair. "You don't swish! You don't have a limp wrist! You know all about American football teams!"

"Those are gay stereotypes, sometimes true, sometimes not. They have nothing to do with sexual preference."

"But--" Ron grasped at a straw. "But you're nothing like those other wizards at the beach!"

"It's part of our contract," said Butch. "At any given time, a certain number of gay wizards and witches in L.A. have to be either over-the-top queers or stone butch lesbians. It's pretty fucking tedious, to tell you the truth. If there's anything I can't stand, it's having to wear a pushup bra--"

But it was too late. Ron had fled. Butch shook his head, sighing. He'd just been about to give Ron the pamphlet entitled So Your Unnecessarily Extreme Homophobia is Starting to Make You Think That You May Be a Gay Teenage Wizard.

Todd stared at Hermione's hair as she sat in a chair in the mirrored salon. At the best of times, it was bushy, but it now resembled caramel-colored kudzu. Half of it had coiled up like rusted wire and was springing out in all directions, and the other half had frizzed up into alarmingly cotton-candy like bunches. "Honey, are you having a bad hair day?" he finally asked in kindly tones.

"I think I'm having a bad hair life," said Hermione in a muffled voice. The hair was threatening to take over most of her face, and only a vague outline of her lips could be seen. Todd shook his head at the sight.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. But it's not beyond hope, baby, not beyond hope." He picked through a shelf of jars and bottles. "Mmmm... let's see here... there's the old standbys, nothing like 'Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific!' shampoo, too bad they don't make it anymore, but it's a good thing they never made a feminine hygiene product-- I think we'll try the Voodoo line." Todd approached her with an armload of haircare products piled so high that he couldn't be seen behind it, and she sighed, leaned her head back over the sink, and gave herself up for lost.

"Got a new CD in," said Todd chattily, shampooing Hermione. "All duets by Kylie Minogue and Madonna, made especially for the wizarding market. Listen to the new single, it's called 'I Can't Get You Out Of My Pants.'"

"Look at this hair!" chirped a hairdresser on the other side of the room, fingering Ginny's long strawberry blonde locks. "To die for. Why did you have it all screwed up into an awful bun like that?"

"I usually try to squish it into the smallest space possible," said Ginny in a tiny voice.

"And those eyes!" He gently pulled the horn-rimmed glasses from her face. "You need contacts, honey."

"Oh, I don't need them. I just wear them so that people don't look at me," she whispered.

"And look at her face, Kevyn Aucoin would just die-- oops, sorry, baby!" The assistant hairdresser patted Todd on the shoulder.

"I'm still wearing black, Clique," he said dolefully.

Hermione turned her head to look at Ginny. "I never really noticed," she said. "Ginny stares at her shoes most of the time."

"And those--" Clique took up a handful of Ginny's patched black robes in one perfectly manicured hand, and words apparently failed him. "Things. Oh dear."

Ginny sniffed miserably.

"Cheer up," Clique said kindly. "You're like a beautiful butterfly ready to come out of her cocoon and spread her wings for the world!" He assumed a dramatic pose, then studied Ginny thoughtfully. "So what do look do you think, Todd? Moulin Rouge Retro or parachute silk skirts?"

"You're such a drama queen, Clique-- Out, foul demon!" A whole section of Hermione's hair reared up and snarled, and Todd slapped it down with a generous application of styling lotion. "Out out out!" The hair whimpered, expired, and lay obediently flat.

"My head feels so much lighter," said Hermione wonderingly.

Todd shrugged. "It's been possessed by an Malus Capillus demon for years. That's been your problem all along. They congregate in bathrooms that don't have enough conditioner and straightening balm."

"At Hogwarts, we all had to use pieces cut off from a big bar of lye soap."

"Well, that's your problem then, baby. And now for a new 'do!"

Hermione groaned and surrendered herself to the hair dryer, seeing Ginny's white, frightened face out of the corner of her eye as Clique approached her friend with a pair of trimming shears, cooing, "Now this won't hurt a bit if you just sit still!"

Ron crept around the edge of the hot pink building and peered into a window. He saw his sister and Hermione both sitting under what looked like medieval torture devices fitted to their heads. But Malfoy wasn't in the room, so he hurriedly passed on. In the second window, he could only see a group of wizards gathered around something-- or someone-- in front of a set of standing mirrors. He squinted at the sight briefly and nearly moved on when one of them shifted position, and Ron clearly saw a flash of light blond hair. Aha! Obviously some sort of dressing room. He settled into a comfortable position, making sure that he had a clear view of Draco Malfoy, who was bound to be in a semi-nude state. Purely for observational purposes, of course.

"I don't know," said David musingly, positioning the blond Slytherin this way and that in front of the mirrors. "Is it all too Helmut Lang for words?"

"I'm never wearing those damned robes again," purred Draco, looking at his open-collared black silk neo-Nehru jacket, black silk pants, and black patent leather shoes.

"Hmmm. Hmmm..." David scrutinized Draco from all angles and waved his wand. The black silks were replaced by extremely tight, artistically distressed leather pants.

Across the room, a hairdresser's assistant gave a little moan and crumpled to the floor in a faint. Draco looked up curiously when he heard the crash. "That's the third time that's happened today; what's going on?"

"Never mind." The fashion consultant flapped a hand in the general direction of a lycra-clad elf, who levitated the fallen wizard and wafted his out the door. "He's driving through the Mojave desert, David."

"They're dead sexy," Draco said wistfully.

"It was a hundred and twenty degrees in Needles yesterday. He can't wear leather pants. He'll die."

"But he'll leave a good-looking corpse, Chique," David pointed out.

Chique rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Lord give me patience. It's better to look good than to feel good, but there are limits. Let's try this."

The pants and jacket vanished in a puff of smoke, to be replaced by a suspiciously tight-fitting policeman's outfit.

"Uh... what's this?" Draco asked dubiously.

"No, Chique," said David.

"Or this?" With another puff of smoke, Draco was suddenly wearing a sleeveless plaid shirt, an extremely tight pair of blue jeans with a broad leather belt, and a yellow hardhat.

"Not the construction worker, Chique!"

"Well, what about this?" Puff. Draco looked down at his chest with a startled yelp. It was covered with silver chains, and he now wore a studded sleeveless leather jacket, studded cuffs at his wrists, a leather hat, and... ah, the leather pants seemed to be back.

"Really, Chique! Leatherman?" David glared. "Are you planning to go through all the Village People?"

"Oh, all right!" snapped Chique. "Once again, my creativity is being stifled." He waved his wand with an extremely miffed expression.

Draco slowly turned from side to side, admiring his own reflection. He was wearing a crisp yet soft white button-down shirt of fine Egyptian cotton, white cotton plus fours, and Manalos shoes that had probably cost about a hundred dollars per inch. And a silver Rolex, of course.

"It's the 'anyone for tennis' look," David said thoughtfully.

"But he can pull it off. He's got that to-the-manor-born thing going for him," Chique pointed out.

"You're right."

"As usual. Now, Drac--"

Draco winced. "My name is not Drac," he said.

"It isn't?" asked Chique. "What is it?"

"Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

"Whatever. Now, Draco--"

"I don't think you quite understand. People don't call me by my first name. "

"Is this one of those bizarre English things, like whipping in exclusive boys' schools while the students say 'thank you, sir, may I have another'?"

"I give up," said Draco with a sigh. "Call me whatever you like."

"Just don't call me late for Diva a Go-Go night at Club Chute!" chorused a set of voices from the door.

"'Lo, Miss Bianca, Miss Rita, Miss Sandita," said Chique, putting the finishing touches to Draco's hair. "I want a lock of it to fall over his eyes just so-- is that color natural? It must be. I hate him," he said in a confidential tones. "Anyone with natural blond hair, I absolutely hate. Isn't he delicious?"

Draco blinked. "I'm more accustomed to people hating me because I'm in the service of evil."

"Evil, shmevil. So--" Chique raised an eyebrow wickedly. "Coming down to Club Chute tonight?" The bevy of drag queens in the hall giggled.

"I don't think so, we have to leave right after this-- we're trying to find this tiresome prat Harry Potter who always runs about saving the world, you know."

"You don't even have time for a little bitty visit?"

"Well, personally, I couldn't care less if he stays lost and gets eaten by dragons. But Ginny would be quite upset," said Draco.

"The redhead? She's sweet," said Chique. "Nice to see you taking a brotherly interest in her."

Draco smirked. "That's not what I'd call it."

"Uh-- say what?" Chique asked cautiously.

"If I could just get her away from that moronic brother of hers," drawled Draco, "I would shag her so senseless--"

Gasps filled the air. They were so loud that no-one noticed the muffled crash outside as Ron fell off the window ledge in horror. The redhead scrambled to his feet and pressed his nose to the window.

"I think we're having a little misunderstanding here," said David. "Aren't you gay?"

"What?" Draco stared at him. "Of course not."

"But that's impossible!" said Chique, seemingly on the verge of tears. "You have platinum blond hair and a fashion sense! You've got to be gay!"

Draco shrugged. "I'm afraid I'm not. Wait a moment-- you mean you've been thinking that all this time?" His question was greeted by vigorous nods. "Oh..." he groaned, pressing his hands against his forehead. "Oh no... has everyone been thinking that all this time?"

"Well, anyone with a room temperature I.Q.," said Chique.

"That explains everything," Draco said miserably. "The way Oliver Wood kept patting my behind every time Gryffindor beat us at Quidditch! The way Justin Finch-Fletchley kept sending me boxes of Honeydukes chocolate with little pink hearts all over them! The way Marcus Flint always dropped quills on the floor in front of me and then asked me to pick them up! Even the way Voldemort asked me repeatedly if I wore briefs or boxers... What am I going to do?"

"Well, you could always--" Chique began hopefully.

Draco cut him off with a dismissive wave of his freshly manicured hand. "No, I couldn't."

"You know," said Chique, "sometimes if a boy's extremely homophobic, it actually means that he's secretly gay. I'm sure I saw a study in Cosmopolitan that proved it."

"But I'm not," said Draco. "You can be as queer as you like, it doesn't matter to me. I was raised to believe in the equality of all sexual preferences-- so long as the people involved are filthy rich, pureblooded, and devoted to the dark side, of course. I simply don't swing that way myself."

"He really is straight," Chique said dolefully.

David patted him on the back. "After a few dozen tequila body shots licked off Butch's inner thigh, you won't care anymore, hon. Come on. Let's take him to see Ginny."

They turned and left the room without a backward glance. If they had looked in the direction of the window, they might have seen Ron rising to his feet and walking to the front door of Sister Innocenza's House of Style, a gleam in his eyes to rival the maddened irritation Ray Park always felt after spending too many hours in Darth Maul makeup.

Got epics? Well, why not try "Jewel of the Harem," my loooooong fic spanning Scotland, Turkey, Germany, and four hundred years of D/G goodness. Find it at:

http://www.schnoogle.com/authorLinks/Anise/

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