Unconventional Commitments

Chapter Two

Loneliness is Better with Two

I am pathetic…pathetic with a capital P. I am in a bar, on my birthday, sitting in a corner table by myself. I even had to pay for my own drink…it is here that I realize that my life is hell and fate does indeed have a cruel sense of humor.

Someone attempted to bind me to them on my birthday—how horrible is that? As a self-proclaimed ruler of all things my birthday has always been a very important event to me. Almost better than Christmas. And now, it was ruined. There would be no saving this birthday. Well, perhaps there would be a few ways…such as a gorgeous man falling on his knees before me and begging to buy me a drink and then he would—no, I tell myself quickly, no thinking of men. Men are what put me in this predicament in the first place…men and their clingy and possessive ways.

Where on earth did anyone ever get the idea that marriage is a "woman" thing? Please, who is the one that proposes? Granted, with modern ways a few women propose, but for the most part, it is the men. If they don't want to be bloody married then they wouldn't very well ask. Men begin their quest for a wife the second that they leave home. They need someone to take the place of their mother, someone to pick up after them and take care of them. You know what, I want a wife. Not in a lesbian sort of way, just saying that I want someone to cook, clean, and take care of me. I can't blame men for searching for wives, I would too. But I do not want to be their slave. If I ever get married my husband will play the role of wife. And as that will never, ever happen it looks like I will not be getting married in this lifetime.

I think of my mother. She did absolutely everything while I was growing up. And as soon as I hit the age of eleven—Hogwarts age—it seemed that I was viewed as old enough to "help out." Apparently, if one is responsible enough for school then they are responsible enough to be a damn slave. My brothers were coerced into simple outdoors work, where they would invoke little effort into their chores, and then play Quidditch somewhere that Mum couldn't see them. Since I was a girl, though (and the only girl at that) it was my duty to stay inside and help my mother with her duties. Every summer was wasted picking up after the pigs that had the audacity to call themselves my brothers. I've been playing the role of wife and mother forever; I finally escaped a few years ago, so I will not be making the mistake of being imprisoned again.

My eyes drift to the middle of the room. There seems to be something going on over there—something happy. Well, it's nice that someone can have a good time on my birthday…too bad it isn't me. Self-wallowing is one of my favorite pastimes, if you can't tell already.

I hear footsteps coming towards me but don't bother to turn around. Probably someone ugly—er, not that it matters if a person is ugly or not. Yes, beauty is on the inside an all that.

"How are you tonight?" a deep voice said.

"I'm all right," I mumble into my drink as I take another gulp. I will not turn around. I do not care who he is; I am not on the market. Those with commitment issues do not go looking for relationships. Kind of like people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones…same thing.

"All right," he repeats in an amused voice, "well that must make it difficult for you to function then. If you were 'all right' then you would have two right feet as well as two right hands."

At this I finally turn around, my mouth open in disbelief and disgust. That has to be the corniest and dumbest joke I have ever heard. "Smooth," I say before registering whom the voice belonged to. I knew it had sounded familiar. "But then you always were the quite the ladies man, Harry."

He smiles widely and pulls up the chair beside me, "I kind of liked the joke myself. Edith told it to me at work."

"Edith," I say, feeling suddenly bemused, "Edith as in your eighty-four year old secretary. Nice, Harry, you are getting your pick up lines off of an old woman. Hard to believe the girls just aren't flocking to you."

He shrugs, "I do what I can." He motions a waitress over and orders himself, as well as me, another drink. Well, there could be some advantages to meeting Harry here. "So what brings you to the alcoholic corner, Gin?"

"Alcoholic corner?" I ask feeling confused. But then again, multiple drinks will cause you to being easily confused.

"Yeah, if you watch people that come in here all the alcoholics make their way to this dark corner, where we are now, so they can drink alone and a lot without being bothered. Now, what is driving you to alcoholism?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because your mother would kill me if I let you get piss drunk alone. You could be raped you know." I roll my eyes and feel a blush creep to my cheeks; he has evidently heard my mother's endless lectures and warnings about the imminent dangers of a young woman such as myself being raped. These said lectures are normally administered every time she spots me in an outfit that she deems to be less that savory.

"How sweet of you," I say with what I hope to be a sarcastic tone. You know, while drunkenness does have its many bright spots, it also has a downward slope as your drinking progresses. Point one: hangovers. Even the word causes you to flinch. Point two: any sort of intelligence that you may have possessed before making the decision to drink goes straight out the window. If you even attempt to have an actual conversation with someone—other than hitting on some random guy, or girl, as the situation may be—you will come off looking like an absolute uneducated fool. This is why after drinking I always swear never again…until the next time something fundamentally bad happens to me and then all the bad aspects of getting "wasted" seem minimal and largely unimportant.

"I know," he responds gallantly, "I'm just that kind of guy. Can't have you being raped in dark alley now-"

"No," I interrupt dryly, "I at least deserve a halfway decent hotel room."

Harry smiles, "That's the spirit!"

I stare down at Harry's own full drink. "You know, it's terribly rude to allow a lady to drink alone." Complying instantly, he downs his drink while I smile cheerfully, drinking socially is perfectly acceptable.

This began Harry's thinking he could drink me under the table. If there is one thing we Weasleys are proud of it is our ability to hold our liquor. Really, the secret to that though is that we all act so bloody insane sober that it's hard to distinguish whether we are drunk or not. Unfortunately for me—or unfortunately for Harry, however you want to look at it—my substance tolerance is actually relatively low. I have learned to pretend that I'm more sober than I am, but after about four drinks I'm completely gone.

And with Harry I lost count after the fifth.

Needless to say we were both a tad…under the influence, if you will. But if there is one major perk to alcoholic inclinations—and believe me, there is one—it is that anything stupid you may do cannot be blamed on you the next day. If you burn down someone's house, just shake your head with a laugh and say "Sorry about that, I was so drunk." This is a universal excuse that people will accept. If you are drunk you are out of your normal state of mind, you are—supposedly—not aware of, nor responsible for, any of your actions.

While we didn't burn down anyone's house, we did do…er, something that needs the "I was really drunk" line. And the worst part about it is that I'm not completely sure what we did. Okay, here's what I remember: We were having a right jolly time in the alcoholic corner, just laughing like you wouldn't believe…funny how everything seems hysterical after a few drinks. I told Harry about Colin and he thought it was just bloody hilarious that I had run out of the restaurant on poor Colin. Then I made the mistake of giving him my marriage theories and he found all those to be the funniest thing he had ever heard. I remember laughing with him, but I don't really find it funny, this is a major problem after all. No laughing matter.

So we were laughing, he told a couple of "You know you're Voldemort's obsession when…" jokes, and it was just a good time all around. And then we left. Here is where the problem comes into play, we left together and went home…together.

We went back to Harry's place and at some point we sort of fell onto each other's lips. I can blame that one on the fact that we are both klutzy enough without being drunk. So we kissed, that's innocent enough. Then I remember us continuing to kiss on his couch, which at some point led to kissing on his bed. And that's it. That is all that I remember.

So here I am, naked in Harry Potter's bed without any recollection of how I got this way. To make my innocence of last night even less of a slight possibility I should mention that Harry is sleeping beside me, equally naked. Speaking of which…

I peer down at Harry who is blissfully asleep. The sheet covering him has slipped down to hang low on his hips. I can see his long frame and muscled chest and if I bend just the right way and lift the sheet just a little—well let's just say that it's reassuring to know that if what I think happened last night did happen then I must have had a very nice time.

As I am contemplating this, Harry chooses this moment to wake up. And he doesn't wake up the normal way; you know when you gradually come back to reality and feel all groggy for a few minutes. No, Harry wakes up with a start; he goes from asleep to fully awake in like three seconds. He sits up in the bed hurriedly and looks down at me in a panic.

"Gin," he says quickly, "what are you doing here?"

I feel unjustifiably insulted by that. Maybe I don't remember what went on last night, but he bloody well should. Way to make me feel like I'm not only a whore, but a bad one at that. And my head is splitting in two, so it is, all in all, not a great morning so far.

I give him a moment to realize his nakedness and my own before speaking. "I'm not entirely sure what I'm doing here; I only woke up a few minutes ago."

He places a hand over his face and collapses back onto the mattress. "Shit," I hear him mumble, "damn it, fu-"

"Would you like to establish every curse word known to mankind before having an actual conversation?"

He peers up at me through squinted eyes, "we didn't…that is, we never, er, you know…did we?"

I shrug and am irritated that his own discomfort seems to exceed my own. He should be happy about this; I'm the one that should be upset!

Harry seems to take no notice to my growing annoyance though, as he continues to moan and ramble. "Oh, Ron is going to kill me!"

"Ron!" I snap finally, "you are worried about Ron at a time like this? Hang Ron!"

He at last seems to realize that he should say something specifically to me. "I'm so sorry, Ginny; I should have never allowed that to happen. You were drunk, and I was drunk…and I must have taken advantage of you, and-"

"Forget it," I cut him off as I climb out of the bed and throw on my clothes. "No big deal, we were drunk, like you said, so just chalk it up as a one-night-stand and move on."

"But-"

I bend down and ignore the disgusting morning breath factor as I give him a quick kiss on the lips. "Don't worry about it, Harry."

Obviously, this was a first time for him on the whole one-night-stand thing, as his discomfort seems to actually be growing. "Let me at least make you breakfast, or coffee, or something."

I shrug; that really isn't how this is supposed to work. I am supposed to leave upon waking up, but the idea of coffee is appealing largely to my headache. "Okay, that's sounds good."

He smiles then grimaces as he makes his way out of the bed and towards clothing—it is refreshing to know I am not the only one suffering from the aftereffects of drinking. We make our way to the downstairs portion of his house and I refrain from thinking about how utterly odd this entire situation is. Last night I was with my nice, stable boyfriend on my birthday eating at a nice restaurant…now I am with Harry, my brother's best friend. Nope, I am just not going to open that particular can of worms.