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SIYE Time:15:17 on 29th March 2024
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The New Year's Eve Party
By Poseida

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Category: Post-OotP
Characters:Harry/Ginny
Genres: Fluff, Humor
Warnings: None
Story is Complete
Rating: PG
Reviews: 29
Summary: "'There are going to be three quite eligible bachelors there, missy,' Mrs. Weasley said. She began to look more staunch, if that was possible. 'Hermione's cousin Philip and Fleur's work partner David. And Harry, of course.'"
Hitcount: Story Total: 8857







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Twenty-three years old, Ginny Weasley reminded herself. She was twenty-three years old–twenty-three and a half, if one wanted to be annoyingly precise about it, which Ginny did. She was twenty-three and a half years old and she was still being ordered around by her mother as though she were just three.

“I,” Ginny said patiently, “don’t want to wear the fuchsia dress.”

“Well, that’s a bit silly, don’t you think?” Mrs. Weasley demanded. She assumed a soldier’s stance; her hands planted themselves firmly on her hips. Her gaze was deadly. “Seeing as it looks much better than the teal.”

“I don’t want to wear the teal one either!” Ginny responded, crossing her arms. “I want to wear the brown one, and I am going to wear the brown one, because I am twenty-three and a half years old and I can decide for myself.”

“And you are proving your age exceedingly well,” Mrs. Weasley said dryly, “by acting as though you are eight.”

Ginny shook her head and replaced in her hair a bobby pin that had been dangling precariously. She combed her fingers through her hair slowly, counting to ten and reminding herself that, in the long run, whether or not she wore a teal or fuchsia or brown dress did not matter even the slightest. Her dresses were all out of date, anyway; Muggle fashions in the wizarding world moved exceedingly slow, but Ginny didn’t have the attention span even to keep up with that speed.

“I don’t see how it matters much, anyway,” Ginny said, yanking the teal dress to her with a snort. “It’s a New Year’s Eve dinner, not a Ministry Ball. There isn’t going to be a single eligible bachelor there–and you didn’t care at all about what color my dress was until two years ago when you began to fear I would never give you grandchildren.”

“There are going to be three quite eligible bachelors there, missy,” Mrs. Weasley said. She began to look more staunch, if that was possible. “Hermione’s cousin Philip and Fleur’s work partner David. And Harry, of course.”

“Of course,” Ginny answered dryly, fiddling with a glass figurine on her nightstand.

“Don’t worry, dear. I’ve completely given up hope of you and Harry ever making a match of it.”

Ginny dropped the figurine; it shattered on the floor.

“What?” she yelled.

“Honestly,” Mrs. Weasley tutted, flicking her wand at the broken sculpture. “I’m not blind, you know, nor deaf. I have heard you every single time that you have said that you are not going to marry Harry Potter.”

“I never said that,” Ginny protested.

“Oh?” Mrs. Weasley’s eyes twinkled. “Didn’t you?”

“Not that I am,” Ginny said quickly. “I’m just saying that I never said that before. I’m surprised because you have been trying to get Harry and I together since I was thirteen; it’s not like you to give up now.”

“Well, people can change,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Yes,” Ginny agreed. “People can. You can’t.”

“Ginevra!”

She was glad to get off the subject of Harry. Harry was a complicated issue; Ginny never quite understood what they had. She knew that she still liked Harry romantically very much, even after all these years; suspected she might still love him, even–but it was difficult when he was her brother’s best friend–when he was her best friend–when he had not shown really any signs of reciprocating any of her feelings over the twelve years she had known him. Ginny had tried to move on, but she feared she would never quite be able to–that the daft, thick, heroic boy would never catch on but would always hold a piece of her heart quite captive.

She shook her head to clear her thoughts. There would be absolutely no mooning over Harry tonight; it was counterproductive as well as a little painful.

“I’ll wear the fuchsia one,” Ginny sighed.

“Oh no,” Mrs. Weasley said magnanimously, “you may wear the teal.”

“Which I am sure is incidentally the one you have wanted me to wear all along,” Ginny said, rolling her eyes.

“Incidentally, yes,” Molly agreed. “By the way, I also object to what you said earlier, about not caring about the color of your dress until two years ago.”

“Yes?” Ginny rolled her eyes and began to take the teal dress off the hanger.

“I have been caring about the color of your dress much longer,” Mrs. Weasley clarified. “Because I have been worrying since you first learned to speak about whether or not you would give me grandchildren!”


*


Despite her mother’s assertions to the contrary, Ginny Weasley really did not see any way in which Hermione’s-cousin-Philip could possibly be construed as eligible–or, if he could be considered thusly simply by being single, Ginny at least did not see any circumstances under which she could possibly be coerced to date him.

He was nice enough, Ginny supposed. He had smiled at her very politely when she greeted them. But he also had, as soon as she began to mix their cocktails, given her a deprecating glance and gently shoved her out of the way.

“I think I have a bit more experience with this than you do,” he said.

“Really? Why is that?” Ginny asked with a fake-smile plastered on her face. In her mind, she was putting a big black X next to Philip Perringbrooker’s name.

“Well. After all. You’re… well, I suppose I’m just accustomed to men mixing cocktails.”

“You’re probably right,” said Ginny, and then, even though she tried very hard not to, even though her mother would kill her and Hermione would pass out, even though she was supposed to be on her best behavior, she added, “I suppose I’m just accustomed to men treating women equally and not acting like snobby sexist pigs!” She gave him The Stare, which had been perfected during more than twenty years in the Weasley clan.

“Excuse me?” Philip demanded. His perfectly coiffed hair and tanned skin, which normally would have been so attractive to women, made him look like a stuffed doll when he was flustered.

“All right,” Ginny said. “You’re excused.”

She marched off pointedly, her nose in the air and her Firewhiskey Firecracker–without the Firewhiskey, thanks to Philip’s chauvinistic intervention–in her hand. Did she even want to know where Hermione and her mother found these men to set her up with? (Ginny didn’t even pretend that the invitation of a single man her age to their New Year’s Eve party was a fortunate coincidence. Lately, Hermione and her mother had been planning every one of Ginny’s movements to a tee, trying to introduce her to a man who she might conceivably want to have children with one day.)

Ginny was too busy thinking about Hermione to notice the girl herself, sitting on the couch. But Hermione noticed Ginny.

“Ginny!” exclaimed Hermione. She lurched her eight-months-pregnant body up into the air–no mean feat–and latched on to Ginny’s arm quickly. “You met Philip?”

“Er,” said Ginny, “yes.” Well, it wasn’t a lie, by any means. It just wasn’t quite the optimistic sort of “met” that Hermione was implying.

“Did you get along?”

“Actually,” Ginny replied, taking a sip of her gin, “I get along much better with men who aren’t sexist. But thanks for asking.”

“Oh dear.” Hermione’s face fell. “I had hoped I was just imagining it. We aren’t very close, you know. But he was visiting. And, really, he’s very nice, once one makes it clear that one isn’t a malleable custard woman, but rather, a strong stale cake woman!”

Hermione, whose pregnancy had given her a bigger sweet tooth than Ginny had thought humanly possible, grinned widely, pleased with her analogy.

“Thanks all the same, Hermione,” Ginny replied. “But I like men who don’t think that I’m a custard in the first place.”

“Who thinks you’re a custard?” an amused voice asked. Ginny and Hermione turned, surprised, to be greeted by a lanky young man.

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione squealed, hugging him as best she could with her belly. “I’m so pleased you came! I was very anxious; I practically fell over with sorrow when you said you had a lot of paperwork!”

She squeezed him very tightly. There were tears in her eyes. Harry looked a little shell-shocked, and glanced at Ginny.

“Pregnancy hormones,” she mouthed over Hermione’s shoulder with a smile. He smiled back, a lopsided smile that showed the one dimple he had in his left cheek, and Ginny ordered her heart not to flutter.

(It fluttered anyway.)

Hermione released Harry with a choking sob, and turned towards Ginny.

“You should get him some Firewhiskey,” she blubbered. “Or a martini. Whatever he prefer-r-rs…” She trailed off into tears. Ginny couldn’t wait for the child to be born.

“Come on, Harry,” she said in a low voice, so Hermione couldn’t hear her. “Let’s get whatever you prefer-r-r.”

She held her hand out automatically, then stared at it for a moment as though it were a foreign object. Had she really just done that? But Harry laughed at her comment and placed his hand in hers as though it was second nature. But Ginny saw his face–he couldn’t be blushing, could he? Surely not. The air was very cold; everyone had windburn.

“Is it me or is she getting worse every day?” Harry asked her as she led him away from Hermione.

“Oh God! Don’t even start. The sooner she has this child, the better; she acts like my mother, only crazier.” Ginny groaned, then added despairingly, “if that’s possible.”

Harry smiled and didn’t let go of her hand even when they reached the kitchen counter where the cocktails were set up. Ginny had to pull her fingers gently from his so that she could get his drink; he realized what he had done and even windburn couldn’t account for the red that spread across his cheeks.

“What do you want?” she asked, averting her eyes.

“Gin,” he said, his voice a little strained.

Ginny smiled at him. “And tonic, yes?”

“Er,” said Harry, “yeah.”

She prepared the drink in a silence that was somehow awkward and comfortable at once–she didn’t feel the need to speak, was content to just breathe when Harry was near, but at the same time, his presence was electric and unnerving. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he cleaned up nicely for such occasions–his shirt wasn’t quite buttoned and his tie was loose, and the disheveled look was–well, it was very nice.

She chanced another look at him out of the corner of her eye, and was startled to see that he looked extremely uncomfortable, as though he were trying to say something and wasn’t sure how. Or possibly as though he were choking.

“Harry, are you all right?” she asked anxiously, placing her hand on his elbow. He nodded, but didn’t say anything. She peered at him worriedly once more, then turned back to the drinks. He spoke suddenly.

“I really like your dress.”

She turned around to see him smiling with relief, as though saying those five words had been a great trial for him.

“Er. Thanks. I’ve had it a while. I don’t wear it much,” Ginny said awkwardly.

Harry gave a short, jerky nod, then added, “You look really nice in it. Not–not that you don’t look nice in anything else. Because you do. I mean, you look really nice out of it. Not, I mean–naked–because that’s not what I meant–although I am sure you look really nice naked too–oh bollocks.” He looked as though he wanted to kill himself. He really was blushing now, Ginny realized; there was certainly no debating that.

Ginny laughed and shook her head, blushing probably as much as he was, if not more so. Around Harry her blushes had never been subtle, even as Weasley blushes went.

“It’s okay, Harry, I know what you meant,” she said.

“Oh, God. Good. Except, er. You might not have.”

What was he on about now?

“No, Harry, I am pretty sure I did,” Ginny assured him, grinning as she handed him his glass.

“Okay, no, you did, except what if there were, for example, two meanings? I mean, for posterity’s sake, just assume. And then you got the first meaning, but possibly not the second? Except I would really like for you to get the second, because I would really like it if you had a second for me to understand, you see? Except I don’t think you get the second in the first place.”

He seemed to realize what he had said, and took a large gulp of his gin and tonic.

“Harry, I’m sorry, but–“

He looked a bit crestfallen. Well, actually he looked a lot crestfallen. Ginny was utterly lost.

“Oh, well, that’s fine,” he stammered. “I understand if you don’t, you know, return the sentiment.”

“Um,” Ginny said, “what sentiment?”

“The sentiment I just expressed,” Harry said very slowly, as though she were nine years old.

“But I–well, I didn’t understand any of what you said. So I don’t know what the sentiment is,” Ginny stammered, feeling like a complete idiot.

“Oh. Oh, God. Never mind.”

“No, tell me.”

“No, it’s fine, it’s just that–“

But Mr. Weasley popped his head into the kitchen at that point and said, “Ginny dear? Your mother wants me to tell you that David’s here.”

Ginny blanched.

“David?” asked Harry.

“Fleur’s work partner,” explained Arthur. “Your mum says, er, he’s perfect for you. That’s just what she said, though–there’s a Muggle saying, isn’t there? About knifing mailmen.”

“Er, don’t shoot the messenger, I think, is what you’re looking for,” Harry said, scratching the back of his head and holding back a laugh. His brow was furrowed. His very attractive brow, Ginny thought dismally. Which, incidentally enough, was situated above very attractive eyes with very attractive glasses.

Dammit.

“That’s the one!” Mr. Weasley nodded proudly at Harry, who nodded back awkwardly, then asked Ginny,

“Are you and this, er, David bloke, well, you know?”

“Er, are we what?” asked Ginny.

“Shagging!” Mr. Weasley said, a little uncomfortably. Ginny and Harry’s eyes bugged out; Ginny started choking.

“Dad!”

“I understand it’s all the rage with young people nowadays,” Mr. Weasley said, sounding resigned.

“Dad,” Ginny said gingerly, “are you quite sure you know what ‘shagging’ is?”

“Of course,” Arthur answered. He looked a little offended, which, Ginny was sure, meant that she was never going to hear the end of this. “Where do you think you came from? When a wizard and a witch love each other very much, they–“

“All right, Dad, thank you, that is quite enough,” Ginny said, waving her arms wildly.

“I was, actually, going to say ‘dating’, you know,” Harry said glumly.

“Oh. Oh dear,” said Mr. Weasley, looking back and forth between Harry and Ginny. “Well, I suppose that–“

“Please don’t say it, Dad.”

“All right. I’ll just–er–I’ll just tell your mother that you are, er, coming. Yes? Is that right? All right. Jolly good!”

Arthur left, and Ginny broke out into horrified laughter.

“Oh dear,” she said. Harry laughed, too, and set down his drink. “I suppose I have to go see my mum now, though–thanks for the reprieve.”

“Anytime,” Harry said quickly, and then–she wasn’t really sure why–perhaps because he looked so nice, or was being such a good sport, or had said very nice things to her–or perhaps just because she wanted to–Ginny kissed him very quickly on his cheek.

“Oh,” he said.

“Mmm,” she said, blushing profusely. His cheek was very warm and nice, and she did want to kiss it again, but she wasn’t sure if she would be able to stop. “So, er, thanks.”

“Yeah, you too,” he said, ducking his head and looking extremely adorably flustered. Ginny swallowed and smiled and ran out of the kitchen before she let herself kiss him again.

“Right,” Harry said, “right.” And he took a big swig of his drink.

*

David Danger was better than Philip, at least; in fact, he was a lot better than Philip. He was five years older than Ginny, with dark blonde hair and very nice blue eyes, and he had a good smile, and was very nice and didn’t seem at all sexist or anything, and even liked Deirdre Snipple’s music, which was so out of date that Ginny hadn’t thought anyone else even knew who she was. All in all, he seemed quite perfect. Just the sort of boy she would like to date, actually.

Except it was really, really hard to think about dating anyone else when Harry was standing right across the room from her.

Ginny was a bit of a romantic, though she didn’t like to admit it. Nevertheless, she highly doubted that after knowing Harry for over a decade, he was going to fall suddenly at her feet and say that he was madly in love with her. She held out hope, but she was trying not to. She supposed the best thing to do was to forget about him, look for someone else–there couldn’t really be one love for everyone, could there? That didn’t seem fair. At any rate, there had to be someone out there who she would enjoy spending the rest of her life with well enough; she wasn’t going to be overly picky. And David was a very nice man. His last name was even Danger; it sounded like something straight out of a romance book. Perhaps she was looking so hard at Harry that she was missing everyone else.

But it didn’t quite support that theory that just when she was thinking about how nice David’s eyes were, she glanced up at Harry and he was looking at her with a look that made her completely forget what she was going to say. And just when she was thinking about how nice David’s hands were, she caught a glance of Harry’s long, thin fingers pushing his glasses up on his nose. And just when she was thinking about how completely gentlemanly and sympathetic and intelligent David was, she thought of Harry, who was stupidly proud and heroic and private and quiet and thick, and she really didn’t know how anyone else could possibly hope to compare.

All in all, Ginny was entirely vexed with herself by the time her father started handing around Muggle party hats and wizard noisemakers. She groaned and backed into a corner, where Hermione promptly found her and began to lecture her.

“Honestly, Ginny, just socialize for a few more minutes; then it’ll be midnight and you can go home.”

“I’m not waiting for midnight,” Ginny said, because she wasn’t. She knew all about the stupid Muggle tradition of a midnight kiss, and the only man she wanted to be kissing at midnight, she didn’t want to be kissing just because it was midnight.

“Oh, Ginny,” Hermione said. “I know there’s one bloke here that you’d like to be kissing at midnight?” She gave a little grin and tilted her head. Ginny smiled despite herself–really, Hermione and her mother were trying so hard. It was rather sweet, actually, and might even have coerced her to stay if she wasn’t so afraid she would take Hermione’s advice and then attribute it, with a broken heart and a flustered face, to a silly tradition.

She did want to kiss Harry–she wanted to do more than just kiss Harry–but she didn’t think she would be able to look him in the eye afterwards, knowing that all the kiss had been to him was a quick thing between friends.

“Hermione–“

“I’m not saying you have to, but I don’t think he would react unfavorably if you did kiss him,” Hermione said carefully.

“I’m looking,” said Ginny sadly, “for something a little more than ‘not reacting unfavorably’.”

Hermione moved forward and took Ginny’s elbow sympathetically, and just when she was about to say something, Ginny realized very suddenly who was standing right behind her with a very strange, startled look on his face.

“Harry,” Ginny choked out. Her eyes stung; she tried not to cry at how upset he looked. She didn’t want him to pity her; she didn’t want him to know how she felt about him–not like this, at least.

Hermione stepped back and looked from Ginny to Harry knowingly.

“You know–“ she began.

“I’m taking a walk,” Ginny said, breaking eye contact with Harry. She certainly wasn’t going to stay here and feel like an idiot when the clock struck twelve; fortunately, the back door was close. She swung it open and began to march out. The door caught behind her; she turned.

“Hang on,” Harry said, pulling on his coat. “Can I come along?”

“I’m not really going anywhere,” Ginny replied. The thought of being with him and the thought of being without him both made her feel slightly sick. He nodded and gave a sheepish smile.

“Can I still come along?”

“Yes, of course,” Ginny said, although she wasn’t sure she meant it. She didn’t want to deal with him telling her nicely that he didn’t return the feelings; she certainly didn’t want to ring in the new year that way. Yet he grinned at her, and despite all her misgivings, Ginny felt all liquidy and warm inside, and so it wasn’t until Harry pulled the door shut that she realized what had happened, and that she hadn’t grabbed her coat.

“Oh, bollocks,” she said, reaching for the door. Harry gave a quiet little smile and handed a thick woolen coat that was draped over his arm to her.

“I thought you, er, um–might be cold,” he said quickly, looking away from her. She took it from him, careful not to touch him lest she dissolved on the spot. Her stomach was in knots.

“It’s Fred’s,” Ginny said as she pulled the coat on. It was too long–she was tall, but not for a Weasley–but warm, so she kept it on though Harry seemed prepared to go back and get her the correct one. Harry pulled out his wand and whispered “Lumos”, and so they went into the darkness, their feet crunching in the snow.

“Are you having a nice night?” Harry asked her politely.

“In some ways,” she said honestly, tucking her hair back behind her ear.

“And in some ways no?”

“Yes, that too,” she admitted. He nodded and looked down.

“But I take it you and David are getting on really well.”

Ginny looked at him, puzzled. He was trying to push her off onto David, she realized suddenly. He had heard what she had said and he had seen that David was flirting with her and he was trying to push her off onto David so he didn’t have to break her heart politely. It was exactly the kind of thing Harry would do, Ginny knew, and the realization made her stomach heave. But all she said was,

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

Harry looked as though he wanted to say something but didn’t have the nerve, and Ginny didn’t want to say anything for fear she would say everything, so they walked quietly onwards. A snow-covered hut outlined in Christmas lights came into view, and Harry grinned.

“Your dad put lights up on his shed?”

“Mum wouldn’t let him put them up on the house itself,” Ginny replied. Mr. Weasley had gone all out; there were green lights and purple lights and lights that blinked and lights that were shaped like snowflakes. The shed looked like an inferno of Yuletide cheer; it illuminated the snow all around them.

“Let’s go in,” Ginny said suddenly, pushing open the door. Harry followed her in, keeping the door propped open. The lights cut a swath of white and green light across the floor. Harry and Ginny stood for a minute in silence, until Harry said hoarsely,

“You should get back if you don’t want to, you know, miss midnight.”

“I don’t really care about midnight,” she replied softly, inwardly thinking, There’s no one I want to spend it with but you.

“But David–David’s there,” Harry said, swallowing. “And you know about the midnight kiss thing.”

“I don’t want to kiss David,” Ginny told him. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Harry looked hopeful yet puzzled.

“Don’t you?–I mean, I heard you and Hermione talking.”

“Yes,” Ginny said, not knowing what to say or think. He was suddenly somehow very close. She took a small step towards him.

“It was about Philip, then,” Harry said quietly. His voice was a bit resigned; his lip curled up a little in disgust–at himself? At Philip? At her? Ginny didn’t know, and wasn’t sure she wanted to.

“It wasn’t about Philip,” Ginny answered slowly. He looked up at her, suddenly, looking very hopeful.

“But–I–“ he said, then shut his mouth very quickly. There were somehow only a few inches separating them, but Ginny didn’t know who had moved towards whom or when.

“Ginny,” Harry said, his voice ragged. His eyes were very green, Ginny thought wildly; very green with little flecks of brown around the middle. And his glasses were fogging up just a bit. Had he said something? She didn’t know. She could feel his breath hitting her nose, and made a soft involuntary sound in her throat.

“I have to tell you,” he stammered. “I tried to earlier but–the thing is–“

He was going to kiss her, Ginny realized suddenly. He was going to kiss her. Her brain couldn’t quite wrap itself around that miraculous idea, and yet she felt herself leaning up towards him. His hands were still shoved in his coat pockets; he was motionless except for his eyes flickering back and forth over her face, and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he struggled for words.

“I sort of–“ he said roughly, “well, I sort of like you.”

Ginny couldn’t help it; she giggled. “How romantic,” she said. “Sort of?” And then she realized exactly what she had said and pulled a hand out of her pockets to grab him, to keep him from going away. Her hand went around his middle. Even through his coat he was warm.

Harry laughed awkwardly, then said, “Well, a lot, really.”

And Ginny was trying to come up with a good comeback, which was hard when her blood was pounding in her ears, but then somehow they were kissing, and it didn’t really matter anymore. Nothing else really mattered when his chapped lips were on hers, and his nose was bumping hers, and he was biting her lip gently, insistently.

There was a clamor from the house. Ginny pulled away, startled, until she realized what it was.

“It’s midnight, I guess,” she said, swallowing, looking at his mouth. Had she really just kissed it? It didn’t quite seem real. Things began to fall vaguely into place–the questions about David, the garbled talk of sentiments, the look on his face as he stood behind Hermione–and she felt strange, as though she was going to burst out of her skeleton.

“Yeah,” said Harry, floundering for words a minute before leaning down to kiss her again. He pulled his hands from his pockets and placed one on her cheek. It was solid and warm and Ginny leaned into it.

“D-do you want to go to my flat and–ah–date?” he asked. His smile was roguish but his eyes were worried. Ginny nodded, grinning back, feeling weightless.

“‘It’s all the rage among young people these days,’” she quoted.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get over him saying that,” Harry said, shuddering.

“I can help,” she whispered, not sure whether what he understood what she meant, and a little surprised at her own daring. She wrapped her arms around his neck and looked at him–unabashedly, for once.

Harry made an inarticulate sound of agreement, and kissed her jaw, and then the corner of her mouth. Ginny could still hear noise from the house; it seemed so very far away from–so very unimportant compared to–the two of them, alone in the little shed, with the garish lights spilling in on them and the assortment of useless, gutted Muggle things surrounding them.

Harry’s hand slid around to the back of her head, and he kissed her again.

“Happy New Year’s,” she murmured into his mouth. He nipped at her lip in response, and she smiled.

*


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