Her Flying Ways

Her Flying Ways

By Caducee

(inspired by Glock's artsie smartsie here)

He's always mucking about with the air of someone who sees themselves as the superior kind. Seeing himself as the king of all, with the fairest hair and face on the Quidditch pitch and the newest robes and garments at every feast the Society offers. Ha, in the world, she should say.

There's the barest hint of bitterness in her face as she sets about unhooking her change of clothes after what she considers the cruellest practice she's ever been a part of. Then again, she likes being caked with dried sweat; it makes taking a shower a lot more enjoyable, and it's much more fulfilling on a whole anyway.

The door swings shut again and she's delighted to know he's enraged. Probably because he's been mingling yet again with his inferiors. Batshite.

"What do you want?" he snarls at her as he removes his shoulder pads. She knows how they smell. Granian-hide, sweat, and mud. The sight brings back a particularly delightful memory of him plunging at remarkable speed toward ground, practising Wronski's feint like a mad house-elf, only to dive headfirst onto the ground, covering every inch of himself in mud and grass from the fall.

She pulls her head down low, grinning behind the locks of hair falling in front of her eyes. Her lashes get stuck in it as she peeks up. "Nothing," she says, and he returns to his current activity, consisting of pulling out the laces from one's robes and wriggling one's self out of one's grimy overrobes. She looks around her and everyone's groaning as they remove their clothes and really wish they were in the shower two minutes ago.

He's ignoring her now, completely turned away. He must have forgotten that she knocked him toward the Snitch only a mere hour ago. So much for a big thank you from the deepest black pit of my wiener-sized heart.

Now she's standing in front of her locker; she knows she's taking her time. The women's side is always flocked with Brightons, her fellow Chaser, who is amazing on the field but tends to go back into whinging mode when it comes to bruises and the shade of her lush brown hair after practice games. Ginny has one green and yellow bruise on her arse cheek and she's not quite that eager to share it with her.

It seems he's taking his time, too. She can see it from the small mirror on her locker door. Sitting on the bench, he seems to be stretching his muscles, and she's tingling all over when every last one of his limbs, it seems, snaps and cracks. She loves the sound of cracking backs and the feel of tired muscles. It means you've been outplaying yourself. Basically, you've been playing relentlessly.

His hands are raking his hair; they're greasy and can almost stand on end. They seem undecided between that and staying cosy and flat on his skull. Shifting her gaze to the mirror on her door, she stares at herself and almost laughs out loud: the state of her own hair is quite scary, in all honesty.

Hangleton passes by and whistles at her. She giggles and plays coy with him, hooking her arms behind her neck and shimmying as if she's in a pub and smells heavenly and isn't in a state of undress. The tall Keeper reminds her of her brothers, except this lad has mousy brown hair and fudge-like eyes.

There are cackles of laughter from the men's shower where some of her team mates are looking on. Hangleton leans over and smells her armpits. "My, my, Weasley, but you are wearing the most alluring perfume tonight. Wonder where you bought it so I can get a whiff of it on my bird."

Malfoy's looking on with a mean glare of complete class, like he thinks of her as the last slut he'd ever consider fucking. Ginny snorts and turns back to Hangleton.

"You like? I call it Sweet Scents of Nature. In stores everywhere until the end of time."

He smacks her arse cheek with his towel and stuffs it in his duffel bag before exiting. "Goodbye, heavenly team!"

Ginny offers him an airborne kiss.

In minutes everyone seems to be exiting faster and faster, chatting animatedly with her and harbouring a less than demure sense of decency before leaving. She likes it. Likes the tight-knit family they've been able to weave through the months of hard labour and skill-sharpening. But soon she realises there's only one thread that never really fit anywhere in the pattern. Malfoy. Who seems to enjoy being the tight-arsed bitch that doesn't know when to stop being so arrogant and pricked-out.

"Enjoy being the in-house scarlet woman?"

She's been ready for the shot since before practice. Without turning around - he doesn't deserve that attention - she pounces right back, removing her sodden jersey. "Just as much as you enjoy being the tight arsehole."

She's shut him up. With a victorious smile she grabs her soap and shampoo boxes and hairbrush and starts toward the women's room.

"Think you're clever? Think you're like them now? Like a - a man?"

She stops at the doorway, eyebrows creased dangerously. "I've been living with men my entire life. I know who I am, Malfoy, I just don't want to stand out as being a loser. If we lose a game because of you, Malfoy, I don't think they're going to be very forgiving. You've been lucky so far, but don't be so arrogant as to think it will last forever."

He snorts derisively. "So, what, acting like them is going to make it all better?"

She shakes her head, meeting his lean figure, and he's removed his jersey and trousers already. He's definitely built some since they were recruited for the Falcons last year. Lean, yes, but still a bit more noticeable than in his former days when he lounged around his Manor while she busted her boots serving food at The Witches' Spill to save some Galleons.

"Perhaps you never learned how to socialise with that precious daddy of yours."

"Leave my father out of this," he groans furiously.

She shouldn't have touched that subject. She knows it, but now it's done and she feels like shite.

"Don't you dare speak of him," he says forcefully, and with venom. She wants to cower away, under the spray of water, but she knows that would only be incensing him. He doesn't want to be pitied, he's made that much very clear.

There's silence again, where they both don't know what to say, or how to leave it off.

Ginny regards her shower things hugged to her breasts, and she looks up again in a huff. "You're just a prick, that's all. It's what everybody thinks of you."

"And you're just a prancing scrubber, Weasley. That's probably what everyone thinks of you here."

Though she is properly seething at his choice of insult, Ginny remains calm, strikes a sensual pause, and lets her body do the rest for him. "Really."

Malfoy is properly shocked at her exhibition, but his eyes quickly travel back up to her face, where she is licking her lips rather outrageously if he might say so himself, and his face contorts in an expression of 'told-you-so'.

Ginny, quite red all over her body from her fury kept well-hidden for the time it took for him to rake her body, finally snaps. She throws her things to the floor and trembles as she takes two or three strides to Draco. His eyes widen and he seems to panic and try to find an escape route, but there are none, really, if he's honest to himself. She's there and he knows she is quite powerful when given the incentive. Which, well, he is, right now. She reaches him far too quickly, knocks him backward into his locker door, and holds his shoulders steady with a strong grip. A second later, her face is mere inches away. "Now you listen to me, Draco. I don't care a second what everyone thinks of me. I'm here to play and have fun at it. I am not a shagbag and never pretended to be," she spits into his face. Then, "Fuck, if you think I'm this low..." She drops him suddenly, as though afflicted by the mere touch of him. And then, just as he thinks she'll leave him good and well to take her damned shower, she grabs her broomstick and mounts it for takeoff. The second later she's already kicked off. In her bra.

She's crazy, he thinks. Completely barmy.

And that's why he fumbles for his FireComet 360. Kicks off after her. Why's he doing this, again? Ah, yes, the bared bra. "Ginny!" he yells, but the wind's strong and he should have known it. Fuck, and it's pretty cold, too. She'll catch a cold for sure. So he follows what his mind's saying and he flattens himself onto his broomstick and fires after her.

She sees him, all bloody frightened, and she laughs into the wind, thinking she doesn't care for appearances and displays of power. She goes on living her life her own fucking way, without boundaries or confines. So, who cares if Malfoy can't understand how people can accept her joshing manners? That's how she's been taught to live, and she doesn't really care to change.

"Ginny!" he shouts from next to her.

"Good, you can reach me!" she shouts back. "See if you've learned your feints well."

He seems to comprehend that she's gauging him, trying to see if he'll keep hacking her off for the hell of it. He understands that it's a question. Truce, or no truce?

He starts to speak, then realises that his voice can't pick up with all this wind, then starts off again. "I'd love to see you try to elude me!"

She grins, then takes off downward, and he's hot on her tail. She's the Snitch and he won't let her get away from his reach. He's got to catch her, win the game.

But all of a sudden she's laughing in the wind, and somehow she rear-ends into his broom, and they're both tumbling down fast. He's let go of his broomstick in the tumult, but she's holding onto him fast with her one free arm grasping hard onto her broomstick. She's not stopping their fall, though, only keeping them from dying in the process. Draco sees the grass approaching fast. His eyes are soon squeezed shut, and he only hears the wind whistle in his ears and some kind of laughter.

He feels her fall atop him gracefully. She's always been good at smooth landings. He remembers that from Hogwarts. But he's shaking and he feels the ground beneath him and oh gods he made it alive, and she did too. A miracle, he thinks, a bloody miracle. That woman is a menace. A good one, though.

And then her knee squashes his chest. The wind's knocked out of him. Bloody hell, he just fell.

"Not bad, Malfoy. That was a tricky one." Her breasts are in full view. He sputters for air. "Sorry." She removes her knee and sits back. If that's not an indication that he's not on her black list anymore, Draco doesn't know what is.

He sits up and rubs his chest with his fist. Ginny's staring at him owlishly and he knows what she expects of him. He tries to be flippant about it. "You know you're not quite that properly dressed?"

She sneezes and he sees gooseflesh form on her skin. She hugs her knees to her chest, but doesn't evade the subject like he does. "Shut up and be a decent human being for once."

He snorts lightly, picking at a few grass blades. "Yes, mother," he says without looking up. He always hated saying it with his own mother; how can she expect the magic words to come out of him?

She's incredibly patient, for a woman. And Draco has known his share of women in the past, all of whom were far too impetuous for their own good. "I'm waiting," she says, gaze unwavering.

Draco sighs, rolling his eyes and then finding himself staring back into her own darker ones. He has to admit she's filled out a lot since her early school days. And become quite bossy and confident, too. "I'm sorry and I'll hang out with the lot from now on," he grumbles. "Somehow. If they'll accept me," he teases, but he knows his team mates and they've already singled him out as the loser-slash-loner.

She seems to know what she's talking about when she says, "Of course they'll accept you." That probably means 'I'll-make-them-or-Merlin-help-me.'

They marched back toward the team's tent, talking about Quidditch and next week's season launching game.