Pairing: D/G obviously!

Rating: T for more mature content

Summary: Because, really, all she could see was a mannequin, dancing to the tune everyone else played; destroyed, and broken.

A/N: To get back into the swing of things, I'm writing a response to my own challenge! I haven't been writing for a while (The Harry Potter Files was an epic failure). I've been beta'ing a lot and kind of miss writing my own stories so that's where this little baby was born from! Its a little darker, and a lot different than I normally would write, but the idea was there. I'm not too sure about my ending but everything else, I was happy with.

Thank you sooooo much to XxXRegretsXxX! You're brilliant.

So enjoy! :D

Bright, fluorescent lights pulsed to the beat of the loud, pounding music as men and women drank from the bar or danced on the floor to their own tune. The crystal chandelier hanging precariously shook with the vibrations as men and women screamed to the words and danced their worries away.

Those at the bar sat and watched, wary. One or two men walked into the dancing throng, intent on following in the drunken adults' footsteps - to see and be seen, and give up their lives for a night of pleasure and passion. Women would walk past in skimpy costumes, trays laden with cocktails as they flirted with anyone within walking distance, mascara-coated eye lashes fluttering, calling attention to their assets in hopes of getting a large tip that night.

And in the middle of the throng, eyes closed to the world, surrounded by grinding, dancing men and laughing the night away with a drink in hand, a little red-headed witch danced provocatively, eyes opening and glazed as she saw nothing but the bright, colored lights. Brandy eyes beckoning, no man could deny her as they pushed past friends to get a glimpse of the princess holding court in the middle of the floor.

With her curls spilling out like liquid flames, and her minuscule, sparkly green dress riding up, showing long, creamy legs for all to peruse, it's no mystery why so many gathered on these Friday nights when their red-headed goddess chose to arrive and lose herself in the nightly passion of the world. Even as she danced in the middle of the circle, the envy of all the make-up covered, skimpy dressed women surrounding her as they tried to push their way in and pull an unsuspecting man away, no one could ever figure out who she was. Even though she came every Friday night without fail, no could figure out who the mystery woman was.

The biggest mystery of all though was, even when she was piss drunk and could be called with a crook of a finger to snog the night away, she never could be brought home for a night of rolling in bed. At the stroke of two in the morning, every Saturday, she would leave, leaving the man of the night to sit and contemplate.

So, most of the horny, unsatisfied, dancing men had to be content with drifting their hands over her arse and her barely-covered breasts as she danced, sneaking less-than-innocent touches on her pale legs and pulling red curls and letting it run through their fingers like silk.

And so, in the night, as she lost herself in the passionate life, away from the world where her parents demanded the best, where her brother ignored her in favor of his two best friends, where the Boy-Who-Lived was convinced they were meant for each other, Ginevra Weasley slowly faded away, unknown to the world, unable to stop herself from drowning in passion, drinks, and dance.

…

He was there, every Friday, without fail. The bartender chose not to think much of it, since many young, handsome men came for a drink and a chance to dance with the graceful, red-headed vixen in the middle of the floor. Yet, even as he sat at the bar, in his impeccable clothes and perfectly coiffed hair, the bartender couldn't help but wonder as he dried the shot glasses, why he didn't go in for a chance with the girl, instead of sitting on the sidelines, mercury eyes burning as she danced. He knew for a fact that the little mystery child was terribly sweet, always asking politely for a drink before dancing away like the rest of his patrons. So, he could never figure out for the life of him, why a perfect woman like her chose to spend her nights getting drunk and groped by men.

…

The white-haired man watched, ignoring the lusting eyes of the rest of the girls. He downed another glass, eyes never leaving, eyes always watching as the vixen danced. She didn't dance like the sapphire and diamond laden women, all clunky and sluttish; she danced more like a ballerina, gracefully leaping and twirling in the tight space, ignoring how her dress seemed to cover nothing at all.

Sighing and running a tired hand through perfect hair, the handsome man turned to the clock as it chimed. Laying down a few Muggle bills, he stood up and stretched, clothes clinging to his lean body, and walked out at the stroke of two. Perfect, as usual. Pulling out a Muggle Lollipop, he sucked on it absentmindedly as he waited. Slate eyes burned with intelligence and worry as the doors finally opened, and a red-headed woman and tonight, a black-haired, blue-eyed man stumbled through, mouths' fused together and hands wandering.

Pulling his wand out, letting it drift to his side as he continued to suck the red candy, he approached the pair. Oh Ginevera...he sighed, slowly and methodically disentangled the groping hands as the angry man stumbled, glaring hazily. Rolling his eyes at the stoned git, he guided him back into the club. They never remembered anyway.

Ginevra turned, confused, as he guided her gently to the nearest Apparition Point. She stumbled in her heels, giggling and spewing out incomprehensible words as he tugged her over. Grabbing the inebriated girl before she fell over again, they appeared in front of her little flat.

Pulling the red-headed girl in, he silently stripped her clothes away (there wasn't that many to start with) and lay her on the white, downy comforter. Smiling slightly as she sighed in contentment and snuggled down into the blankets, he put a glass of water next to her bedside, ready for her when she woke up.

"Oh Ginevra..." he whispered as he watched her, lying there like an angel beckoning, "Why do you put yourself through all this..." This time, she answered, eyes hauntingly clear as her blood red lips formed the words, unlike every other Friday before,

"I lose myself in dancing, Draco," she whispered so softly he had to strain to hear her words, "And I never want to come out. It's my only escape; dancing." And with a sigh of contentment, she fell back, and lost herself in the haze of alcohol.

Shaking his head, Draco walked out silently, making plans to get her out of the club sooner next time.

…

The next morning, Ginny groaned, head pounding, groping at the beside for a glass of water. And sure enough, there was a glass, terribly cold, and perfect for her horrible hangover. As she stared at the drops of condensation spilling down the glass, she wondered absently, just like every other week,

Who managed to save her from her destruction every week...?

And as she contemplated the mystery, a small note fluttered off the night stand, landing straight into her arms. The script seemed so familiar, yet so different...

An answer for an answer. Why do you choose to destroy yourself every week Ginevra? You answered my silent plea, and I'll answer why I choose to save you.

Because you, of all people, don't deserve to be broken. Look into the mirror and see for yourself. I'm just waiting until the fateful day you learn that.

-Anonymous

And so she did look at herself, look at the flushed face with make up running down her cheeks, and hair tangled in one giant knot, and she couldn't help but see the clothes she wore, the heels she walked in and silently, her dainty hand drifted up to her face, touching to see if it was all real. Silent tears poured down freckled cheeks as she stared at her broken form. Because really, all she could see was a mannequin, dancing to the tune everyone else played; destroyed, and broken.