A/N: this felt too long to include in the ephemeral one shots and also I want it to really be a part of the fresh pickled toad canon verse series of my fics so here it is. Just shy of 1k. Prompt from shining-jul-of-hope over on tumblr
Hermione and Ron's wedding ceremony was in a little chapel. The same little chapel where Hermione's parents were married twenty or thirty years earlier. Ginny can't be sure. Hermione has said so many things over the last six months, the last year really, that Ginny was bound to forget some things.
The brain has a way of prioritizing, and apparently decided 'Auntie Helga hates shrimp cocktail but loves to talk about it' was much more important than however long the Grangers have been married. It's not much of an issue considering both pieces of trivia are fairly banal and definitely won't come up.
At least not for Ginny. After the ceremony went off without a hitch - thank god - they'd had a short reception in the church hall had been enough that Muggle friends and family had believed it to be the full extent of the celebrations. Once the room cleared and the mess had been taken care of, the Weasley-Granger-Potter family trooped off to Ottery St. Catchpole for the real reception.
It had taken some time to come to a decision about the separation, but in the end, Hermione and Ron agreed that the only way to even potentially avoid George's antics taking place in front of Muggles was to give him an alternate outlet.
Which means Ginny and Harry's main duties as maid of honor and and best man centered around keeping George from hijinks that shift from endearing and memorable fun to George needs to be taken into custody for his own protection.
But Hermione and Ron disappeared in a swirl of tulle and satin about a quarter of an hour earlier and Ginny just needs - she needs.
The dance floor is still filled with couples turning circuits, the buffet picked over but with enough left that Charlie's apparent intent to stock up like he's going into hibernation rather than going home to Romania is still possible, and Teddy, Victoire, and the other kids have drifted off to sleep. Mainly strewn over the laps of their respective adults, though Teddy seems to be enjoying a doze beneath the main dais, his carefully shined dress shoes peeking out in the dim light.
Ginny's wondering if she needs to delay her little escape when she spies Andromeda making her way across the dance floor toward her grandson with an endeared smile playing on her lips.
With a soft grin of her own, Ginny pulls the ever tightening straps of her heels loose and sighs as her much abused toes curl in the lush green grass.
The air is cool against her champagne flushed cheeks and the moon a pale sliver overhead. Still, the night isn't too dark. Ottery St. Catchpole is a true country village, each star in the sky visible and winking at her from a blanket of deep cobalt.
A cracking twig, perhaps a leaf or two, startles Ginny from her contemplation of the velvety sky and she's about half a second away from getting her assailant in a choke hold when she smells that spicy cinnamon cologne that only makes its appearance on the most special days. "Harry."
There's a smile in his voice when he answers, "Ginny."
"Such a little stalker you are. Who would've guessed?"
"I dunno, probably pretty much everyone who knew me sixth year. Though I would like to go on record that Malfoy was up to something."
Ginny continues picking her way through the trees as she chuckles, a quiet, flirty thing. "I had other things on my mind with regard to you in sixth year."
"You say that like it's not the case most of the time."
"Don't contribute to the perpetually randy Harpies stereotype."
Harry's fingers find hers in the dark. "I could say the same to you."
They share a short laugh before silence falls, broken by the crunch of leaves and the night song of crickets chirping from their hidden places among the trees.
As they breach the treeline, Ginny's pace slows and Harry comes even alongside her. Another wind rustles through the trees and Ginny shivers.
"Would it be too cliche to give you my jacket?"
Ginny hums. "Yes, but I'm quite chilly so hand it over."
She takes a deep breath once Harry's scent surrounds her and resumes her meandering path, leaving Harry to take care of her sandals.
Eventually, they end up in the middle of the swaying grasses that fill the paddock out behind the Burrow, stars winking at them from above and Ginny's hair a mess of flyaways. Though the fresh air has cleared her head of the remaining bubbly muddle of champagne after effects.
"Care for a fly, Weasley?"
Ginny shrugs. "I fly for a living, Potter."
"That's not the same thing and you know it," Harry shoots back, hooking the straps of her shoes over a tree branch and flicking his wand toward the broom shed.
The doors swing wide and an old and well-loved Clean Sweep floats into his hand. "Now I'll ask again, fancy a fly?"
"I'm wearing a skirt."
Harry blinks at her. "I'm sorry, I thought I was engaged to a Gryffindor."
"Real mature."
"Pretty lofty words for someone who poured half a bottle of hot sauce on her food just to spite Percy."
"That was a matter of honor," Ginny says with a sniff.
Harry extends the broom toward her and raises his brows. "So's a dare," he pauses for the drama, "And I do. I dare you to fly this creaky, slow, barely flyable broom to kingdom come while I cling to you like a scared cat."
"I'm an adult."
His eyes narrow behind wire rimmed glasses. "Yes, an adult chicken."
Grabbing the broom, Ginny tears her skirt up the middle with a few quick tugs, and straddles the handle. "Get on the damn broom."