I totally suck at finishing some things....

[skoosiepants]

Ministry Incident Report #54001
Date of Incident: 11.28.05
Time of Incident: 11:30pm
Persons involved: Auror Ginevra Weasley, Auror Colin Creevey, Mr. Draco Malfoy, Miss Gabrielle Delacour, Mr. Trent Tessra
Report compiled by: Auror G. Weasley

At approximately 11:30 pm, Auror Creevey and I were walking through the Ministry lobby when we noticed the night secretary, Mr. Tessra, being harassed by a visibly agitated Miss Gabrielle Delacour. We approached, asking politely if there was a problem, and were told to “fuck off” by the lady in question, who then went back to shouting obscenities at Mr. Tessra. Auror Creevey attempted to calm Miss Delacour down, placing a hand on her arm, to which she responded by drawing back and jabbing him with a sharp right hook in the eye.

I was then forced to jump onto the woman’s back, as my wand had been temporarily confiscated for hexing Auror M. Johnson’s hands off that afternoon – see Incident Report #53999 – and proceeded to wrestle her down to the ground in a Ministry approved emergency Muggle Sleeper Hold.

Mr. Tessra explained that the very upset Miss Delacour had been looking for her recalcitrant boyfriend, Mr. Draco Malfoy, who she suspected was dallying in his office with his “pale-arsed mistress.” Mr. Tessra was obligated to enforce the Ministry policy of allowing no visitors entrance to the building after 8:30 pm, and refused Miss Delacour her request to search the Department of Magical Law, at which time she grew, in Mr. Tessra’s words, “shrill and just plain mean.”

At approximately 11:40, Mr. Draco Malfoy entered the lobby and shouted at me to “get the bloody fuck off Gabby,” grabbing my arm and causing four visible bruises on my bicep. We explained the situation, at which time Mr. Malfoy started shouting at Miss Delacour, and Auror Creevey advised the two quarrelling lovers to “take this show on the road.”

At approximately 11:50, Mr. Malfoy and Miss Delacour left the Ministry building, after Miss Delacour threatened to sue my “flame-headed arse.” I suggested politely that she consider taking a course on English diction, as well as how to successfully insult someone with wit, as she clearly has the IQ of a five-year-old.

Mr. Malfoy shot me a nasty look before escorting the French woman outside.

Compiler’s signature: Ginny Weasley
Date: 11.29.05

***

December 1, 2005

Ginny’s desk was a mess, papers stacked high and toppling over, three dirty coffee cups – one half-full - on her ink blotter, paper towels with crumbs. And then there was one perfect cinnamon scone, just taunting her as she waited impatiently for Colin to finish brewing their second pot of the morning.

She glanced up and snapped, “What?” at the nervous-looking young man hovering in the doorway, out of place in the chaotic Auror offices in pristine black robes, a large white envelope under his arm.

He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. “Ah, it’s,” he stepped forward, flat package extended. “It’s a restraining order, miss. I’ll need your signature.”

“Are you joking?” She snatched the envelope from his hands with wide brown eyes, tearing it open viciously and scanning the top of the thick stack of papers inside. “No. No, you’re not,” she murmured, mostly to herself, then louder, “That wanker.”

It was a big, fat restraining order, signed by Draco Malfoy, Solicitor at Magical Law, stating that she, Ginny Weasley, had to maintain a distance of at least fifty feet from Miss Gabrielle Delacour. Was that even legal for an Auror?

“Your signature, Auror Weasley?”

Ginny shot the messenger a death glare. “There’s no way I’m signing for this. And here,” she tore off a scrap of paper and scribbled Nice try, Malfoy. It hasn’t even got a Ministry stamp, so let’s try for something a little more believable next time. She shoved the note and ripped envelope back at the gangly youth and jabbed a finger towards the door. “Tell your master I hate him.”

“What was that about?” Colin asked, slipping in the door and watching curiously as Malfoy’s lackey hurried down the hall.

“Malfoy’s trying to drive me mad with immature pranks,” she muttered, leaning back in her chair. “What’s on for today?”

He waved a stack of papers. “We get to arrest people.”

“Oh, joy. We’re being punished, aren’t we?” She tilted her head and glowered ineffectually up at the cracked-plaster ceiling, the office directly above theirs belonging to one Robert Dempsey, her division head and a hard-nosed old-school Auror who’d put her through more anger management seminars than she cared to remember.

“You’re being punished,” Colin clarified, moving to his desk and hopping up on the edge, knocking several folders onto the floor. “As usual, I get to be miserable by proxy.”

“Lucky bastard. How many warrants have we, then?” she asked, resigned.

“Five. Including one for good old Marcus Flint, King of Sunshine and Giggles.”

“Again?” Nothing ever stuck to the ex-Slytherin, yet the Ministry kept approving arrest warrants for the bloke since he was rude to everyone, held a notorious temper, and had an ongoing, vocal feud with the Apothecary owner in Diagon Alley. With a groan, she buried her hands in her hair and tugged. “Fucking hell. It’s Christmas.”

“In a month,” Colin countered, swinging his legs.

She shot him a quelling glare. “It’s Christmas,” she reiterated. Then her desk got a mean pout and she muttered petulantly, “Wish they’d give me back my wand.”

“Maybe if you asked Finch-Fletchley nicely—”

“Not bloody likely,” she snarled. Justin was a prime arse. Her elbows fell on her desk, palms slipping over her eyes. “God, I wish I were drunk.”

“Don’t we all,” Colin said dryly.

***

I know she’s your mate, Creevey, but that girl is batshit crazy.
- JFF

***

December 3, 2005

“What do you mean I’m grounded?” Ginny gaped at Shacklebolt. It was a formal dressing down, and she should be thankful she hadn’t been kicked off the team completely, but grounded? She’d just gotten her wand back!

Kingsley rubbed his fingers over his forehead with a pained grimace. “Weasley, you’ve had your wand back for two days, and Finch-Fletchley’s already been sent to St. Mungo’s.”

“He was deliberately baiting me!” Ginny complained.

“That may be, but it’s beside the point. You should be able to hold your temper as an Auror; particularly around your superiors,” he chastened. “I’m afraid I have no choice in the matter short of dismissing you, and you’re good, Weasley. I’d hate to lose you.”

Ginny bowed her head, pissed off at Kingsley and Finch-Fletchley and herself, too. “D’you need my wand?”

“No.” His sigh was weighty. “No, against my better judgement, I’m keeping you in the field.”

She gave him a curious look. “You are?”

“You’ve got Diagon Alley,” he said briskly. “I’m suspending your Apparating License and issuing you a broom.”

Bloody hell. A damn beat Auror. With a broom. She might as well be put out to pasture with the other nags. Taking a deep breath, she tried one last ditch argument. “But sir, that’d be unfair on Creevey. He shouldn’t be punished,” again, “for—”

“Oh, he’s not going to be,” Kingsley cut in.

Ginny blinked. “Pardon?” It was rare, less than rare, for an Auror partnership to be dissolved, barring anything except retirement, suspension or, heaven forbid, death.

“You’re being reassigned to Dutch.”

“But.” Ginny’s mouth opened and closed dumbly. “But. Dutch is like over a hundred!” He was the oldest Auror in the division, and should’ve been forced to retire years ago. He could hardly hear, was missing half his teeth, and he smelled unpleasantly like cinnamon mothballs. “And I’ve never worked with anyone but Colin.”

“This isn’t permanent,” Kingsley assured her. “Dutch will be good to practice your patience on, and I’ve signed you up for your fourth anger management session. One on one this time.” He gave her a stern frown. “Your behaviour is erratic and, therefore, extremely dangerous to you and your fellow Aurors, Weasley.”

Ginny felt torn between crying and ripping the man’s throat out. She supposed he may’ve had a point.

Duly, if not quite effectively chastised, Ginny stomped down to the office she shared with Colin and then spread out on the floor, arms sprawled wide and eyes staring glassily at the ceiling.

Colin materialized over top of her. “Poor duck.” He gave her a sympathetic moue. “Just heard you’ve got Dutch in D’Alley.”

Word always traveled fast at the Ministry. Ginny could never figure out exactly how, but she had a feeling it was all the paintings’ faults. “Arrrggh,” she said.

“And you’ve a package.”

Her head popped up. “A package? From who?”

He turned the box on its side and read solemnly, “Malfoy & Boot, Solicitors at Law.”

“Oh, for the love of.” She struggled to her knees, boosting herself onto her feet. “Give it here.”

Leaning against her desk, she tore off the brown wrapper and cut the tape to reveal… a pair of dove-gray trainers. “What the…” She thumbed open the accompanying note and gave a disgusted grunt. Grounded in Diagon Alley for the seasonal rush? You’ll need a sturdy pair of shoes. Those Auror brooms are crap, too, but then I suppose you’re used to substandard goods. Enjoy the crowds, and don’t make any bets with Dutch. He’s uncannily lucky. DM.

“Shit. It’s Christmas!”

“We went over that a few days ago,” Colin said around a fresh donut. They had the best secretary in the world. He was new, clearly hadn’t read about the Healthy Eating dictate for all Auror divisions, and Colin was sure to gain five pounds by the New Year. He felt it’d be worth any enforced dieting, though. Mmmm… donuts.

“But! Christmas! Oh god, D’Alley is going to be a nightmare,” she groaned, sliding down onto the floor again, knees upraised and back to her desk. She coshed her head with the box.

“On the bright side, word is they weren’t able to grow Finch-Fletchley’s hair back magically.”

***

Auror Requisition Claim # 50340
Requisition of: One (1) Cleansweep 2003. Standard issue.
Special amenities: Single handle floodlight. Wouldn’t say no to some reinforced footrests. Oooo, and maybe some chrome plating on the bristles?
Requisition for: Ginevra Weasley
Auror Division: Tenth
Division head: Robert Dempsey Signature: Robert Dempsey

***

December 5, 2005

For all her huge family, Ginny was not particularly good with children. She’d been the baby, after all, and while, yes, Fred and George and Ron had all arguably acted younger than her, she still found herself at a loss around persons less than twelve years.

Diagon Alley in December was crawling with them.

Ginny stared at the three lost little girls in front of her with growing irritation, exacerbated by the fact that they only seemed to speak French. The two eldest – obviously twins – looked no more than eight, with wide blue eyes and wispy strawberry hair, and they were chatting non-stop at her, cutting each other off with French so rapid-fire that even if Ginny had had any inkling of the language, she most likely still wouldn’t have been able to follow their words. The youngest, pure blond with a pixie nose, twirled and twirled with a high laugh and then suddenly it hit Ginny. Hit her like a Stunner right at her heart, knocked her clean off her feet. Literally.

Her legs folded under her and she dropped onto her bum, robed knees falling open and broom clattering to the walk beside her.

The girls – Bill’s girls – fell silent and watched her curiously.

“Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle, are you all right?” one twin asked with a thick, barely comprehensible accent, and oh god. It could’ve been either Clara or Mia and it killed Ginny that she didn’t know the difference.

“What are you doing here?” she breathed, darting her gaze up and down the crowded street, searching out the elder Delacours that, with a stinky French Ministry court order, had taken the girls away after Bill and Fleur’s deaths. She hadn’t seen any of them for five years, not since little Sam had been a plump ten month old.

And, of course, the question set the girls off again, full-speed French, this time with wildly spinning hand gestures and some nasty jabbing and hair-pulling. Ginny surmised they were blaming each other for their lost predicament.

She fought off the urge to grab all three and squish them in a fierce hug right there on the walk, with passers-by already looking at her oddly, her recognizable Auror robes likely the only thing keeping them from making pointed, rude comments as well.

“Clara! Mia!”

Ginny jerked her head up to see a livid Gabrielle Delacour – her favorite person in the entire world – stalking towards them. The petite blonde grabbed one of the little girl’s arms and shook her lightly, spouting what were no doubt berating comments about wandering off by themselves. She slanted Ginny a warning look full of seething hatred and the only thing keeping her from doing something drastic was the presence of her impressionable nieces.

“What do you think you’re doing, you utter cow?” Gabrielle hissed, pushing the little girls behind her and bending down to nearly touch her nose to Ginny’s.

....

And here my muse went bye-bye... *pouts*