A/N: little something inspired by a fan art by blvnk-art on tumblr...the 'photo' happens off screen I guess lol.

Generally, Ginny views all mail sent directly to her box at the stadium as suspect. She's not had too many close calls with the less savory of her fan base, but there's been enough that Harry - and Gwenog - insisted all her official correspondence go through particular screening with the DMLE before it reaches her hands.

So when the heavy envelope reaches her hands, it's been checked over multiple times with magical and standard means. They do their best to make it feel like she's the first to read it, carefully tucking the missives back inside and re-sealing the lip - though the effort's rendered fairly useless with the triplicate stamps across the face of the parchment that verify she's cleared to open.

Mostly, her notes come on standard issue parchment, her fan base more concerned with gushing, critiquing, and usually asking for a picture or autograph than showing off their opulent tastes. Which is no bother to Ginny - her favorites were the flimsy rainbow colored missives she received. Scrawling handwriting, cartoonish stickers, and the beautiful childish excitement of young muggleborns who've just discovered the magic of Quidditch. The magic of anything really. She's mostly not ashamed to admit the first little note she'd received of the like - complete with a crayon drawing of the little future Harpy on a broom 'just like Ginny Weasley' - made her tear up a bit, and then send as much child-sized official gear as she could find.

Which, is all a mess of a mental rabbit trail to travel down when she receives a letter that smells of frog spawn and pipe tobacco, her name in swirling golden script across the front, but it's just so odd. Whatever variations of fanmail she's received, this is certainly the most fancy, though sadly, not the worst smelling.

When she opens the envelope and her gaze immediately drops to the closing signature, Ginny's a bit disappointed with herself that she didn't but two and two together. Slughorn. Who else loves to flaunt status so dramatically while smelling of what can only be described as 'bog'?

As she wanders toward the floo just down the hall, Ginny skims the letter in more detail and discovers it's more accurately described as an invitation to none other than the Slug Club. Fabulous.

Eyeing the date, she realizes dejectedly it's not a night she's busy. Which means she'll have to lie to get out of it or give up one of her few nights off with Harry. Those evenings are so hard to come by, Ginny's taken to memorizing the dates in advance so of course Slughorn is hijacking the first 'date night' they've had in nearly a month.

Though, it is highly unlikely that Harry's not gotten an invite as well - so at least they can suffer together. Hopefully it'll be less tortuous than the Harpy press mixer the month before last. Ginny'd nearly got into a fistfight with Rita Skeeter's assistant and Harry decided to cope by swiping as many tiny appetizers as possible - Ron was proud and Harry was left with digestive troubles for half a week.

When she arrives back at Grimmauld, the crackling fire warms her cheeks and the salty, rich scent of Harry's perfected stew swirls through her nostrils. It's good to be home.

Depositing her bag in the entryway as she passes, Ginny clambers down the steps toward the cozy kitchen and her lovely fiance's tight bum. And the rest of him too - but he does this little clenching thing when he cooks and it's just too much.

He's lost in thought - or more accurately, song - singing along with the wireless and doing that adorable little two-step attempt at dancing he saves just for her, and Ginny can't quite bring herself to interrupt. Until he does that little arse wiggle and she can't bear to keep her hands off him.

Harry jolts slightly but settles into her embrace as her arms twine around his middle. "Hey Gin."

Ginny nuzzles his shoulder and sighs, the tension of the day slowly easing from her muscles as the steady thrum of Harry's heartbeat rumbles against her. "Hey, love."

"How was practice?"

"Good - long - and then I got a letter."

With a clatter, Harry drops the lid back on the stew and turns in Ginny's arms. Though his expression is less sultry than she'd have liked. "What kind of letter - I knew we should've kept the screening in the Auror office."

Ginny presses a kiss to his bristled jawline and laughs. "No. It was an invitation to the Slug Club dinner this weekend."

While Harry groans, Ginny chuckles, "You've probably got one in your box at the Ministry. Slughorn must want us to know this is an invite in the professional capacity."

"That makes me sound like a rent boy."

"Anyway, we may need to go," Ginny sighs.

"Do we?" Harry squeaks, voice pitching up rather pitifully.

"I dunno, I think we have to be nice or something - maybe just an appearance?"

Groaning, Harry drops his forehead to Ginny's, "You're probably right. Date night though."

"We can make a night of it - nice evening out," Ginny says, though she seems doubtful. When Harry quirks his brow, she amends, "We can go, leave as soon as possible, and get takeaway to eat on the couch?"

Harry leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to her lips. "Sounds lovely."

Ginny grins. "Now feed me."

And, as expected, there is another overly formal and conspicuously opulent invitation waiting in Harry's box when he arrives at the Ministry the following day. He nearly forgets about it when his day is filled with false leads on dark magic activity that still require paperwork just to cement the utter pointlessness of even waking up that day.

But as he's leaving the office, shoving the detritus that accumulated on his desk throughout the day into his satchel, Harry's fingers fumble over the thick parchment. Blast.

Thursday evening is one of those odd few evenings where Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Ginny all arrive home for dinner at the same time, give or take. The time is well past nine, but they throw a couple of frozen pizzas in the oven - Harry likes to think Sirius would enjoy the utterly muggle meal being prepared in the old kitchen about as much as Mrs. Black would've hated it - and laze around sipping firewhiskey while they wait for the pizzas to bake.

"It will be good networking at least?" Hermione tries, earning reactions varying from vaguely confused to entirely unconvinced.

Ron shrugs, "At least Sluggy doesn't spare expense in the food and drink department - speaking of. When's this pizza going to be ready?"

Hermione rolls her eyes but the effect is mostly lost when her own stomach grumbles angrily.

Luckily, the timer sounds not long after and the foursome dig in without a moment spared, even to wait for their slices to cool. After many shared bites, messy fingers dabbed on crumpled serviettes, and a group effort to empty half the bottle of Ogden's, Hermione droops her head onto Ron's shoulder tiredly. "I really don't wan' to go to that party."

Ginny snorts, "Join the club?"

There's a beat of silence before Harry murmurs, "Just not the Slug Club, eh?"

So when they arrive, separately, because they're not totally codependent, Harry's really impressed with their powers of self-denial. Though, he has to admit, having Ginny on his arm is a definite improvement from his last foray into the land of Slughorn orchestrated elbow-rubbing.

The benefit is really twofold, first, being he pretty much loves Ginny's company in any situation - humor, comfort, partner in crime, whatever you call it - but also she's definitely more exciting than a run of the mill Auror who hasn't done anything too exciting since he was eighteen. Well that's sort of a lie, but he definitely hasn't done anything more interesting to discuss than winning the Quidditch championships and being a major candidate for the national team.

Yes. Ginny is his secret weapon at parties and she dresses like it. Damn woman. And today, the struggle against snogging her within an inch of her life is made worse by his complete and utter unpreparedness for the body hugging and completely Muggle top and skirt that's basically a second skin.

He's not got this much self control. Especially when she's tossing her hair back like a pennant, teeth flashing behind dark red painted lips - and then she's looking at him across the crowded room.

The warmth in his chest is certainly part that familiar creature, though it tends to purr in her presence at the knowledge that she's chosen him out of everyone. Not to be hokey, but sometimes that's what he thinks of when someone refers to him as the 'Chosen One' in a gossip rag or whatever - the only real choice that matters to him.

Neville bustling his way over to the punch table jars Harry from his increasingly soppy thoughts and manages to keep his mind off the whole 'why did Ginny even bother to put on clothes' mental rabbit trail for a quarter of an hour or so.

Until the woman herself wraps her arms around Harry from behind and swipes his recently refreshed drink. "Alright, boys?"

Harry lifts his arm and guides Ginny 'til she's pressed against his side, warm and steady. "How lame would it be if I said 'better now'?"

Neville snorts. "Disgustingly. But there's Hannah - and I'm going to flee to her side right now like a little lovesick puppy, so I can't really point fingers."

Ginny pats his arm. "At least you're self aware."

With a cheeky salute, Neville wends his way through the crowd and disappears in the fray.

Rising on tip toe, Ginny presses a chaste kiss to Harry's jawline and sighs quietly. "How long do we have to stay?"

Harry snorts, "You're the one who made me be 'mature' and whatnot. In my book, we've been at this little catered torture session longer than necessary," his fingers clench on her hip, the silken top that dances over her skin, "Though, seeing you in this makes it a bit more tolerable."

With a warm chuckle, Ginny fiddles with his belt loop and breathes against his neck, "Seeing me out of it would be even better, eh?"

"You can't say shite like that when I'm in the same room as your brother, Slughorn, and a bunch of scrawny third years."

There's a pause as the crowd mills around them and by some miracle Harry and Ginny don't draw attention to themselves. Ginny clinks the ice in her drink and runs her palm up Harry's spine. "Slughorn just stepped into his office, so does that mean I can say shite again?"

Casting a glance around the room, Harry tugs Ginny into the shadows and gently herds her toward the wall, her back pressed against the rough stone. "You are a bloody tease."

"We've been through this - it's not teasing if I intend to follow through," Ginny says, sly, though Harry doesn't miss the dilation of her pupils or the way she swallows, long and distinct. Carefully, he runs his fingers up Ginny's arms, touch warm and gentle through the thin fabric. "And I still hold that it's teasing when your 'follow through' is impossible without public indecency."

Ginny blinks at Harry, then fumbles in his pockets, drawing a yelp from Harry. "I wasn't saying we should do it in public - "

"Don't be such a prat," Ginny says with a roll of her eyes, as she pulls a long, silken cloak from his pocket, "You're the one with the centuries-old, undetectable invisibility cloak stuffed in your trousers."

"You make it sound weird - and that's an heirloom meant for doing important things."

Ginny smirks, fingers dragging meaningfully along her decolletage, her engagement ring sparking in the low light, "And I'm not important?"

Eyes dipping to the exposed skin, Harry's face heats and his breath catches. "You - er-"
Looking a bit too proud at having regained her footing, Ginny cups Harry's cheek with one hand and tightens her grip on the cloak with the other. "I guess you're right - this cloak is for big grown up things like pranking Malfoy in Hogsmeade."

"That was a long time ago," Harry says, as loftily as he can manage when Ginny's pressing her body along his from knee to shoulder.

All in all, the current state of affairs - tucked away in a private corner, Ginny held close, and a wand at the ready to stealthily summon hors d'oeuvres as needed - really isn't all that bad. In fact, Harry's willing to wait things out and see if he can avoid being the first person to give in and bail. Though if Ron's grumpy expression - likely the result of the aforementioned tiny hors d'oeuvres - is anything to go by, the competition isn't too stiff.

Moments later, Harry begins wondering when he'll learn that things don't tend to go his way if there's an alternative. Aside from Ginny Weasley of course - maybe he used up his lucky breaks on her. Which, if you asked him, he'd call it a worthy trade. Regardless, his good fortune runs out when Slughorn emerges from his office, a press-pass wielding wizard in tow, and seems to be searching the room for someone. Or two someone's he's willing to bet.

"Climb on my back."

Ginny's brow furrows, "I don't follow."

"Slughorn, three o'clock."

Gaze following his direction, Ginny finds the incoming assault. "On your - oh!"

And without another second passing, Ginny locks her arms around Harry's shoulders, and her legs around his hips, while he flicks the cloak over both of them with a small flourish.

They make it out of the crowded party with minimal trouble - there's a close call with the oversized bouffant of one of Celestina Warbeck's back-up singers and an irresistible need to slip a sliver of ice down the back of Ron's robes - and soon enough they're a few dark corridors away, breathless and giggling like teenagers.

"Did you see Ron's face?"

"Did you hear him squeal like a baby?"

When their breathing calms, Ginny droops and lets her head rest on Harry's shoulder. As he brings his arm to wrap around her middle, Harry presses a kiss to her forehead - a grin splitting his lips. "Now we've got to get out of here."

"Or," Ginny begins, straightening up and twisting so Harry's pinned to the wall, her lips hovering a breath away, "We could make use of a nice, empty corridor for old times' sake."