AN: So, this probably looks familiar? Yeah. Someone had posted it here under the pretence that they had wrote it. No. I'm the original author, and I'm guessing this person who posted it was one of my Tumblr followers. To say I'm livid is an understatement. Anyway – this is the fic from the true author, and I hope you enjoy. This is going to be a series of ficlets, because I have a LOT of Gerity ficlets. Mostly, mainly, because I'm too lazy to write a full fledged fic. For now. With Weasley & Who? And everything.

Either way; I hope you enjoy it.

'Hey,' His murmur fell on the shell of her ear, slipped along the whorl and finally tumbling into the canal. She shuddered, fingers tightening around her glass full of amber liquid. 'It's almost midnight.'

'Mhm.' hummed Verity, turning so the hand on her back slid to rest on her hip. She leaned up, her aim to fetch a kiss - but he recoiled his head back into his neck, like a snake preparing a strike. She frowned, cocking her head curiously at his behaviour. George smirked, and gave a faint shake of his head.

'Not yet. S'not midnight.'

'Sounds reasonable.' Her forehead found the tip of his chin and she bumped it playfully, grinning when he tapped the bottom of it atop her head. His arm rose to rub her back, before dipping low to rest on the small of it again. His fingers played at the smooth ruffles of her dress, and she nuzzled his collarbone. 'Even though it's only twelve minutes off.' He nodded, pulling her in close before leaning in towards her and forcing her to dip. She managed to keep her drink steady as she complied with his pressuring, lifting a leg for dramatics.

'Still, it'll be worth it.'

'It'll be no different than any other kiss.' She flicked his nose with her own, and he snorted.

'It'll be a little different.'

'It won't be different.' She grinned, and bit at his chin. He pulled her up right and to him, enough that his nose slid against her ear and earned him a shiver out of her. They passed the minutes like that; embraced and swaying on spot. His hand would smooth up and down her back every so often, and she slid her free hand into his side pocket, reveling in the warmth his leg gave off beneath the fabric. His breath nudged her hair from her ear, and she pressed her mouth against his neck; felt his pulse-point and timed her breathing to slow her heart to match.

They had dwelled like that for too long; suddenly voices arose in a countdown, and George lifted his head curiously. 'Eight,' He counted, and turned his head down to look at her. His expression was lazy, but his eyes glinted with a mirth she loved to return. She beamed.

'Seven,' His hand climbed her back.

'Six.' She pushed up on her toes, heels tossed somewhere during the night and no longer worn.

'Fiiiiive,' he crooned, free hand pulling her by the hip the final inches and clutching into the ruffles.

'Four.'

'Three.'

'Two,' He smiled, then, real and pleasant and enough to make her stomach flip-flop like she would vomit something fluffy and gooey like butterflies. She smiled back, flinchingly, suddenly shy without a good reason. His hand stopped in her hair and coiled about the locks, drifting lower in a rather graceful (in George terms) swoop. She gave an unconscious, preemptive lick of her lips, and titled her face upward.

'One,' they murmured the word together, exchanging the breath it came on into each others mouths. He tasted of fire-whiskey amongst other alcohol she could not identify, and she drowned out the cheers and the hollers as the new year rolled in on a second because her time was only consumed by George. It all seemed to stop, anyway, when he pulled back and smiled again.