In which Ginny isn't dating Justin


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The sky was gray and the sidewalk was layered with brown slush, seeping cold into Ginny’s shoes. She’d had the entire night and then some to contemplate Justin and his filthy mouth and her apparent attachment to him, and she grabbed his arm before he could push inside the pub.

“Look,” she said when he glanced over at her questioningly. “We’re not dating.”

Justin’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay.”

“I mean it,” she stressed, gripping him almost desperately. She was trying to make a very important point.

He grinned. “Gin, we’re not dating.”

“Right.” She nodded. They weren’t dating. They absolutely weren’t, because that would be dirty and wrong and not at all hot, and it didn’t matter in the least that he might, perhaps, possibly be open to a threesome with Vincent; on the off chance that Vincent would be interested and she could get them all sweaty and bothered beforehand. Right.

“It’s much, much worse than that,” Justin said solemnly.

He leant in close and her eyes went wide and she did not back away, not even a tiny little bit.

“We’re best friends forever.” He patted the hand still manacling his wrist. “I’m afraid you’re never getting rid of me, Weasley.”

Ginny blinked, not entirely sure she understood. “What?”

“Sex would only muck this up,” he explained with a disturbingly patronizing air, gesturing his free hand between them, and there were so many things wrong with that statement.

This was Justin.

Ginny couldn’t imagine Justin ever saying no to sex.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked, slipping her hand off his arm and pressed the back of it against his forehead, his cheek.

“Fine,” he said brightly, offering his arm. “Inside?”

Ginny nodded dumbly, mind a whirl of why and how and, worst of all, half-formed plots to get Justin into bed, and she wasn’t completely sure that hadn’t been his plan all along. The prick.

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