Disclaimer: Warner Bros. and JK Rowling own this. I own the plot, as far as I can tell. I probably don't even own it. It's 5:44AM on Christmas Day and I just busted my hump to get this finished so MERRY HOLIDAYS.

With Bells On
Chapter I – Christmas in the City

My shoes were getting ruined, but I hung on to Harry's arm like he was my only life-line in the sea of fake people, straining to get a peek at Wizarding London's favourite couple. It had snowed earlier and for the moment, the weather was content to merely be unbearably cold for those in skimpy cocktail dresses, but the heavy clouds threatened to release more of their white load later. We were standing outside of the newest and trendiest restaurant, having our photographs taken by men in sensible jackets. I was bored senseless and annoyed at my shoes, but I let Harry kiss me "passionately" for the front cover of some trashy magazine.

'I'm cold, Harry,' I told him through clenched teeth as I smiled brightly to the crowd.

'We can go in just after this photo. Is that Colin?' Harry inclined his chin towards one of the younger photographers in the mob.

'Creevy? Well, he did have a crush on you during school. Wouldn't surprise me if he'd made a career out of it.'

Harry gave me a look, which I ignored decidedly, and whirled me around by the elbow he was holding. Inside, the restaurant looked plain, boring and over-saturated with light. I had no doubt that I would need to take something to make the experience either more interesting, or painless. A waitress seated us at a long table, full of balding men with paunches, several of whom leered at my low-cut dress and made my skin crawl. I leant closer to Harry, hoping for some reassurance, but he moved over an inch or so to give us room.

I studied the menu with more eye-for-detail than I had my O.W.L.S, and found nothing that would keep me within my current dress size. With the knowledge I'd spend a few hours in the bathroom that night, I ordered, and then polished off my glass of wine. Harry hated when I got drunk at functions, but I hated Harry for taking me to them so we were even.

'Are you going to get plastered again tonight, Ginny?' He asked in a conversational tone, his eyes not leaving the menu.

'How mightily perceptive of you, Mr Potter,' I said as I watched the waitress refill my glass. 'Yes, I am going to get plastered tonight.' I paused, flicking my eyes to where he sat. The only reaction was his knuckles turning white from gripping the menu. Not nearly good enough. 'I will get plastered tonight and then I will pass out on our bed and pretend I don't feel you fumbling with my dress.' I took a healthy mouthful of wine, my lips curving in a cruel smile.

Harry let out a short puff of air and stood, throwing his napkin down on the chair. 'I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't have any more wine, or I'll be leaving without you tonight.'

I pretended I hadn't heard him and finished the drink. A few of the men sitting around us looked at Harry, who was more or less stomping outside for cigarettes and a phone box so he could spend 50p calling her and having his ego stroked.

My "relationship" with Harry was complicated - I'd be the first one to admit it. I had originally been fond of him, had felt genuine affection for the wizard, but as time wore on, and we wore on each other, we realised we didn't have enough in common to sustain a friendship let alone a close bond. But, I looked good on a front cover, and was the wholesome girl-next-door that gave his reputation a boost in the right direction. He could have his little romance on the other side of the country, but would return to me for an opening night such as this. Plus the sex was good.

What did I get out of it, this agreement that wanted to seemingly destroy our souls? I was a member of a family full of larger-than-life boys. I liked being the special one; the one everyone paid attention to. I wore pretty clothes, and expensive jewellery, and didn't have to share anything. I could be as selfish as I wanted, as long as I pretended to be some simpering lady completely in love with the marvellous Harry Potter.

Domestic life: I loved it; I hated it.

We were married soon after the loose ends were tied and had retired from the social scene closely thereafter, finding a small house in a modest neighbourhood to completely ignore our friends. We lived in wedded bliss for a number of years, before realising there were only two things we had in common: Sirius' death causing untold damage to our psyche and a pulse. Aside from that, there was a vast expanse of conversational wasteland, a no man's land of poorly picked topics. And she managed to convince me I was boring.

It was a Monday night, a few days before Christmas. Tonks was in the kitchen making us sandwiches (she'd burnt herself on the stove last week and had refused to use it since) and I was in the recliner, the newspaper hiding my tabloid magazine. It was a usual scene for us, not talking, not paying attention to one another and getting on with our lives. We're British, this is how we do things. The doorbell rang and I leapt out of the chair with amazing grace for someone as old and as creaky as myself, taking care to arrange the newspaper over the magazine.

'I'll get it!' I called into the kitchen to no reply.

I opened the door and greeted a very cold Ron Weasley. I had no idea how long he had been out in the snow, but he looked like the sort of thing Tonks liked to re-heat and serve up for dinner. He grasped my hand, probably intending to shake it, but his fingers dug into my skin and it turned more into a gesture of great distress. I pulled him indoors promptly so he could melt on my rug in front of the fire.

'Who is it, Remus?' Tonks asked kitchenwards, probably working out how to dissect a chicken without using a sharp instrument.

'It's Ron.' I replied, smiling uneasily at the lad, who I hoped didn't realise what a sham my marriage was by this snippet of inane conversation.

'Wotcher Ron!' said my wife enthusiastically as she returned from her domestic task with a plateful of peanut butter sandwiches. 'How are you? Have a sandwich.'

'G'evening Tonks, Remus. Thanks.' He grabbed one and shoved it in his mouth. After chewing noisily and vividly, he swallowed and took a seat in my recliner, squashing my magazine and newspaper. 'You've been invited to the Burrow for Christmas.' Ron said this thickly, as the peanut butter residue trapped his tongue in an epic battle.

I subdued a groan as I recognised the blatant pity in the invitation. Molly Weasley evidently thought that since we have no living relatives, or any children, that we were lonely on Christmas. Well, that was true, but that was true for every other bloody day, so why does Christmas have to be different. As I said, I subdued that groan that wanted to escape, and simply looked at Tonks. She was munching on a sandwich and returned my questioning gaze with a puzzled one, as if the idea of her having an opinion on the matter was absurd.

'The Burrow, you say,' I said to stall time. Maybe it would be a good idea, as long as I didn't take it on the charitable face value. Maybe spending time with other people would give us a different perspective, a fresh outlook on our marriage. Wizarding divorce is a messy business and nine times out of ten it's just plain easier to live in misery. 'Sure, sounds like a lovely time.'

Ron's face, now thoroughly thawed, cracked into a familiar grin. 'Cool! Mum'll be glad. Oh, here.' He folded over the sandwich and shoved it in his mouth, freeing his hand to get an envelope out of his pocket. 'S'the official invitation. Dad got Mum a calligraphy set for her birthday and she's got all her inks out just for the occasion.'

I opened the envelope and saw some curly letters that were hard to make out, but the dates were clear since numbers are hard to make a mess of. 'Thank you, Ron.'

He brushed his hands on his pants and shook mine. 'You're welcome. I'll look forward to it! And you, Tonks!' She shook his hand as well and we saw him to the door. 'Have a good night, you too!' After a few metres of walking backwards and waving, he disappeared and we were alone again.

'That was nice of them, wasn't it?' Tonks said, gingerly putting the plate on the coffee table.

'Oh, very nice.' I agreed without any sarcasm. It was a nice gesture, if naïve of its own innate compassion. And Molly's Christmas dinner was nothing to sneeze at; after several of Tonks' burnt potatoes and collapsed tables, a normal, safe, delicious meal was very appealing. 'I'm not very hungry, darling.' I said, referring to the sandwiches.

'Neither am I.' She shrugged and picked up the plate, walking back into the kitchen.

I picked up my magazine and nervously read the article I'd been hiding. The media sensationalised everything, but I was still fascinated by Ginny and Harry's public life. Their relationship wasn't a sham. They had nothing to hide. It made me feel hopeful and more depressed at the same time.

There was a crash from the other room. A few years ago, that would have had be risen and with my wand in hand. Now it just made me raise an eyebrow and query in Tonks' general direction. 'Are you ok?'

After a few moments, she replied. 'Yes. I slipped on some peanut butter.'

I sighed, settling further into my recliner. I wouldn't be having sandwiches for a while.

My hangover was being a real bitch, and Harry had left without making me breakfast, so I was feeling sorry for myself and angry at him when I rifled through the mail. She'd sent him a love letter, and I threw it in the bin without a pang of guilt. He should have cooked me some sausages or something before he went to work

There was something addressed to us both in fancy writing, but with the Burrow as the return, so as confused. My hamster had fallen asleep at the wheel. I opened it and saw my Mum had decided to invite us to the Burrow for Christmas. I loved my family but there was no way in hell I would ordinarily spend time with them voluntarily. Mum would complain about how I wasn't married, and how I hadn't popped out three kids. But Harry always got uncomfortable whenever we were with my family, because I was like a time bomb, ready to tick and tell them about his little lady friend.

I picked up my quill and wrote a quick reply, stating that yes, we would be there. With bells on.

AN: Yes, this is only part one. Part two should be coming out shortly, and even though it is probably looked down upon to have a Christmas story extend past Christmas, I find myself not caring. This story is for Hannah who is several layers of awesome. It is also for my brother who smells like mint and rustles in his sleep, making it impossible for me to sleep this Christmas/Eve. And to my spelling which seemingly evaporates when I don't get any sleep in me. And to Colette, who is a damn fine beta reader. And to Jenn, because I never praise her enough. I suspect that doesn't let you do Author Notes any more but gorramit, I'm really tired. So I'll stop talking.