XIX. Violet


He was wearing violet robes. Ginny would have thought that Draco would at least have had the sense to wear something inconspicuous, yet there he was, flouncing around in ghastly violet robes and looking awfully peacock-like. It was so ridiculous that she didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

The Malfoys were ruined now, completely ruined, but Draco didn't seem to have grasped that concept. He still seemed to think he had the whole world bowing at his feet, and instead of staying out of her way, which he would have if he had any sense, he was heading straight towards her.

"You're looking quite wonderful, Weasley" Malfoy drawled. "We can tell you're female now you've somehow got the money to buy some decent robes rather than wearing your brothers' cast-offs."

"Still throwing around old insults, are you?" Ginny sighed. "If that's the best you can come up with then you need to learn to be a bit more creative. Now will you kindly leave me alone?"

"Why should I? I only look even more dashing when placed next to something like you."

"Never one for modesty, were you, Malfoy?" she sneered, wondering whether the entire war had just gone straight over Draco's head. He was as arrogant and unpleasant as ever, even if the purple robes didn't make him look quite so idiotic as she'd first thought.

He smirked at her. "Unlike you, Weasley, I can afford the best of everything – and I always have been able to. I don't need to rely on the charity of some war hero." He spat out the last words with more contempt than she would have ever thought possible.

"I don't think even you have enough money to buy your soul back," Ginny sneered.

He looked so lost at those words that she almost felt sorry for him; evidently he hadn't been so oblivious to the war as he was trying to make out.