A Good Old Fashioned Magical Kick Up The Arse

"Are you absolutely mental!" Ron Weasley's eyes widened in horror, his face aghast. "Have you completely and utterly lost the plot!" He flung himself down on his bright orange bedspread, his voice muffled by his pillow the next time he spoke. "Seriously, Harry, I wonder about you, I really do."

Harry Potter frowned, pushing his trunk hard in an attempt to shove it under his bed in Ron's room. "What's so weird about it?" he asked. "I gave you help when you asked for it and it worked."

Ron rolled over, pointing his index finger at Harry. "Correction. I did not ask you for help. You stuck your big nose in all by yourself."

"Well, it worked, didn't it?" With a final grunt, Harry successfully deposited the trunk under the bed. "You got the girl and you all lived happily ever after. Well, since February, anyway."

"And now you want my help? Me. Ron Weasley, Mr Sensitive-As-Plank-Of-Wood. You're barmy, mate. One hundred and fifty percent certifiable. Stark raving, mouth foaming mad. Total and utter lunatic. Nutty as a fruitcake. Crazy as a coconut."

"Quite finished?"

"Almost. More insane than Trelawney."

Harry sucked in air through his teeth. "That was below the belt!" he retorted indignantly.

"Maybe," Ron conceded. "But seriously, Harry, come on. This is me we're talking about. You don't need my help. You could have any girl in the school, you just have to snap your fingers. Come to think of it," he continued. "You could have any girl in the school, why the hell do you want my scrawny little sister?"

Harry smiled, more to himself than to anyone else. "Not so scrawny any more," he replied. "Filled out quite nicely in places."

For the second time in as many minutes, Ron looked horrified. "Enough! That's my little sister you're talking about!"

Harry looked surprised. "I thought you were okay with it?"

Ron shuddered. "I am, just…ugh…keep thoughts like that to yourself!"

"Fair enough. I just don't know how to tell her." He sighed. "I don't know if I even want to tell her. I'm confused, Ron."

Looking thoroughly uncomfortable with the entire situation – not being used to sharing confidences of the romantic kind with his best friend – Ron shifted on his bed. "Just tell her. She fancies you anyway. Always has done."

"That was years ago."

Ron grinned, his eyes flashing wickedly as he began to sing under his breath. "His eyes are as green as a-"

"Sod off!" Harry cut off his tuneless singing, face flaming red. "You're no use!"

"I already told you that," muttered Ron, burying his face in his pillow again.

Sighing, Harry lay back into his own pillow, staring blankly out of the window, where snow was falling softly, as was only right on Christmas Eve. He and Hermione had been invited to spend Christmas at The Burrow this year; Mrs Weasley had been incredibly excited by the fact that, for once, all her children – with the notable exception of Percy – would spend Christmas under the one roof. Consequently, she had gone to great effort and The Burrow looked like some kind of magical Santa's grotto. There was a Christmas tree in every room, twinkling non-melting icicles adorned every high surface and tinsel covered every other one. Magical fairy lights decorated the eaves of the house and the gnomes in the garden had been enchanted to squeak 'Merry Christmas' at passers-by. Christmas music had been playing continuously since they had arrived two days previously and Mrs Weasley could constantly be heard singing as she cooked dish after dish in preparation for Christmas lunch the next day.

It was the best Christmas Harry could possibly imagine, almost like what he'd seen on the television. There was only one fly in the ointment: Ginny.

Sighing again, Harry thought of Ginny with her trademark Weasley red hair and freckles and felt his stomach constrict. Ever since they'd broken up, all Harry had wanted to do was grab her, tell her it had all been a mistake and snog her senseless. But he couldn't. His reasons for breaking up with Ginny still held strong. If Voldemort knew how special she was, he was sure to go after her. And Harry couldn't – wouldn't – live with that.

But, it transpired, he couldn't really live without Ginny either. Every day he seemed to want her more and more. And it wasn't as if they'd been avoiding each other since they'd broken up. Quite the opposite. Everything was falsely cheerful and there was a great sense of forced camaraderie between the two. Look at us. We're still friends. Aren't we grown up?

But every time she was near him, his stomach flopped, his heart pounded faster, his palms began to sweat and he became illiterate and incomprehensible. He finally had to admit it to himself: he still fancied Ginny. A lot.

And now he was spending Christmas in her house. Which meant seeing her. A lot. Which meant a lot of stomach flopping, heart pounding, palm sweating, stammering and stuttering for Harry. He was glad the twins hadn't noticed or they'd have been taking the piss out of him constantly.

He wanted to tell her. But he didn't know how she would react. Did she still feel the same? Had she come to terms with the situation and written Harry off in the 'could-have-been-nice-shame-it-didn't-work' ever-growing file of her love life?

He sighed heavily again.

"God, Harry, you sound like an asthmatic parrot or something!" Ron's voice interrupted his pondering.

Harry snorted. "Well, I'm sorry if my mental anguish is an inconvenience for you, Ronald," he replied haughtily, the expression on his face making it clear he wasn't serious.

"Mental anguish!" scoffed Ron. "Over Ginny? Who'd have thought?"

"It's all your fault," continued Harry, bringing his hand against his brow dramatically. "If only you'd help, Ron."

Ron rolled his eyes at the amateur dramatics. Clearly, Harry wasn't going to be seeing his name in lights any time soon. "I told you, Harry, I'm rubbish. I don't have a romantic bone in my body. Well," he conceded. "Maybe my little toe."

"No, not even that."

The boys looked round as Hermione Granger entered the room, closing the door behind her and lowering herself down onto Ron's bed.

"Hey, I heard that!" cried Ron, indignantly.

Hermione raised her eyebrows. "I assumed you had. Unless you've suddenly gone deaf?"

Ron grumbled incomprehensibly, turning away from her and shaking his head in disgust.

Smiling, Hermione reached out and poked him in the ribs. "Every time, Ron, every time. I can wind you up like a toy soldier."

Ron shot her a dirty look and turned his attention back to Harry. "Are you sure you even want the girl?" he muttered. "Look where it gets you."

The pained and pitiful expression on his face caused Harry and Hermione to burst into fits of laughter, which, in turn, caused Ron's face to darken even more.

Fully expecting steam to come from his ears any minute now, Hermione realised she'd taken this far enough and scrambled up to kneel behind him, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him softly on the cheek. "You know I'm only kidding," she murmured into his ear, the feeling of her warm breath tickling against his skin still causing him to tingle all over, even after all these months. "I wouldn't have you any other way: romance, or no romance."

Aware that Harry was in the room, Ron – although desperate to kiss Hermione properly – merely turned to face her and wrapped his arms tightly around her, burying his face in her shoulder and deeply inhaling the fresh cotton scent of her clean clothes. "Same goes," he whispered. "Even if you are an insufferable know-it-all…"

Watching as Hermione began to pummel Ron with her fists, the pair of them laughing and shrieking, Harry felt another tug in his stomach. He thought of Ginny and the feeling became even stronger. As Ron and Hermione tumbled off the bed with an almighty crash, still playfully knocking lumps out of one another, Harry closed his eyes, replaying Ron's words in his head.

Are you sure you even want the girl?

Finally, Hermione collapsed on top of Ron, out of breath and laughing. Harry turned away, trying hard to ignore the horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. How could anyone not want what they had?

"That's not fair, Ron, you're such a cheat! Mum! Ron's cheating again!"

"I am not! She's just a sore loser." Ron stuck his tongue out at his sister.

"I really couldn't care less." Mrs Weasley didn't even look up from the silver plate that she was polishing furiously. "You'd think, by now, you two could play nicely, what with you being adults and everything." She frowned. "Oh, for goodness sake, this is useless." She pointed her wand at the plate, which, instantly, became shiny enough to reflect the twinkling Christmas tree lights.

"Oh, Molly, you promised you'd try." Mr Weasley looked at her reproachfully.

"What difference does it make?" his wife retorted irritably. "Muggle Christmases are no better than ours! They blow up their houses using all that eckeltricity for lights and burning turkeys in ovens and all sorts of other nonsense. I'm using magic from now on and that's that. Honestly. Muggle Christmas." She snorted and stalked out of the room.

Mr Weasley shrugged and turned back to the Daily Prophet, giving Harry a 'what-can-you-do?' look.

Harry smiled at him, then surveyed the scene before him. The massive Christmas tree was twinkling furiously with enchanted lights and the fire crackled merrily, giving the entire room a Christmas card feel. Ron and Ginny sat in front of the fire, arguing over Wizard Chess; Hermione was curled up in the armchair, reading; Bill and Fleur sitting at the table, discussing differences in the way the French and the English drank tea ("Ah, but ze Earl Grey, eet ees drunk with only ze lemon, ees eet not? You do not add ze milk? Eet ees utterly absurd!"); and Fred and George were in the corner regaling Charlie, who was looking very amused, with tales from their shop. Twelve stockings hung in front of the fire (Mrs Weasley, ever optimistic, had hung one for Percy as well) and an ever-decreasing plate of warm homemade mince pies sat on the small table in the corner.

Sighing contentedly, Harry took another mince pie and bit into it, savouring the tang of the dried fruit and the sharpness of the brandy combining with the sweet, buttery pastry. Mrs Weasley really was the best cook in the world. Lazily, his gaze drifted to Ginny, who, having abandoned the dishonest game of chess, was lying on her stomach in front of the fire, stroking Crookshanks. He watched as she tickled the huge cat's stomach, and, suddenly, he wished for all the world that he were that particular ginger, bad-tempered cat. Lit by the fire, her red hair seemed to glow and illuminated her face, making her appear almost ethereal. And, as she lay her head down on her arms, obviously tired, Harry felt his heart tighten as he battled with his desire to go over and scoop her up in his arms.

His reverie was interrupted by Mrs Weasley returning with a glass of milk. "Right, all of you, bed, now!"

Everyone groaned in response.

"I mean it, I don't want any grumpy faces ruining tomorrow. And besides," she added, grinning, "Santa only comes if you're asleep!"

Bill laughed. "Do you think we should burst her bubble and tell her that she's older than she thinks and all her children are practically grown up?" he whispered loudly in a conspiratorial tone.

"That's enough from you," Mrs Weasley shot back. "I don't care if you're married, I can still punish you if needs be! I mean it – bed, NOW!"

Ginny awoke with a start, her throat dry and burning. Rolling over and trying to ignore her thirst, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut and waited for sleep to roll over her again. She waited. And waited. And waited. Then she counted, a trick that she'd used to get to sleep when she was younger. But she couldn't concentrate, and after reaching 1087, she gave up.

Lying there, too warm under her thick duvet, she listened to the noises that only a house far too full of people could make. There were eleven people staying in The Burrow that night – a very tight squeeze. She could hear snoring coming from above her and someone – probably George, he was prone to it – mumbling in their sleep down the hall. Luckily, Hermione was silent. As the only unmarried females in the house, Hermione and Ginny had been lucky enough to escape the additions of any extra people in their room. Bill and Fleur had, for some reason, opted to set up camp in the attic with the ghoul, and Charlie was sleeping in with the twins, which meant that Harry and Ron, being in the smallest room anyway, weren't any more cramped than usual.

She thought of Harry lying in bed on the floor above, probably struggling to sleep through Ron's snoring. Then again, he was probably used to it. Then she pushed the thoughts out of her head. She didn't let herself think about Harry any more. He'd made his decision and she had to respect him for it and try to act as normally as possible around him. She still liked him – that was becoming more and more obvious. But, she hoped, the more she blocked him out, the less she would feel until, one day, she would wake up and look at him and it wouldn't hurt any more and he really would just be her brother's best friend.

Unable to ignore her thirst any longer, Ginny kicked off the covers and crept silently through the room for fear of waking Hermione. Carefully, she made her way downstairs, the clock in the hall telling her that it was almost three in the morning. A strip of light glimmering from underneath the living room door caught her eye and she pushed it open, glad that she'd be able to extinguish the candle. Imagine a fire on Christmas day!

She stopped, stock still, shocked by what she saw in front of her. Ron, wearing only his pyjama bottoms and Hermione in a flimsy nightdress lying one on top of the other on the couch, kissing passionately. Ron's hands were wandering all over Hermione's body and Ginny wanted to tell him to stop being such a pervert, only Hermione actually seemed to be enjoying it, judging by the soft moaning sounds she was making. Ron's pyjama top lay discarded near her feet so she picked it up and threw it at them.

Instantly, they sprang apart.

"Ginny!" Hermione looked mortified, her face flaming.

Ron, on the other hand, looked extremely disgruntled. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"My house," she shot back. "I can be here if I want. You two should get a room!"

"We had one," Ron retorted. "You were in it!"

"Oh, sod off." Ginny slammed the door behind her as she left the room. "Ugh," she muttered to herself. "Imagine someone actually wanting to snog Ron."

Fully awake now and her thirst forgotten, Ginny slipped out into the garden in an attempt to cool down. And banged straight into another brother attached to another female by another set of lips.

"Ginny!" breathed Fleur. "We were not expecting any company out 'ere."

"Clearly," replied Ginny dryly as Bill looked at her sheepishly. "I'll leave you to it, then."

Shaking her head in disgust, she entered the house again. What was it with her horny brothers and their inability to keep their hands to themselves for one night? She would get her glass of water and go back to bed, she decided. At least she should be safe from snogging brothers there.

She pushed open the kitchen door and groaned when she found that, yet again, she was joined by two other people.

"You two aren't snogging, are you?" she demanded as she picked up a glass from the worktop.

George, his mouth full of turkey, looked horrified. "You what?"

Fred on the other hand, reached out and grabbed his twin's hand. "Yes, Ginny," he replied sarcastically. "That's exactly what we were doing. Snogging each other. In the kitchen. With our mouths full of turkey sandwich. Mmm, it's such a turn on." He rolled his eyes at her. "Idiot."

"Well, everyone else is snogging," she retorted defensively. "Ron and Hermione in the living room, Bill and Fleur in the garden. It's disgusting!"

Fred raised his eyebrows. "Jealous? Just because there's a certain someone upstairs you'd like to be snogging in the garden."

Draining her glass and slamming it down into the sink, she turned on her heel. "Bugger off, the pair of you. I'm going to bed. I'll leave you to your snogging."

Fred chuckled. "Now you mention it, Ginny, I think George really is rather attractive; stunningly good looking, in fact."

"Why, thank you," replied George. "You're rather gorgeous yourself. Although, obviously, not quite as stunning as I am."

Rolling her eyes, Ginny left the twins congratulating each other on their good looks and stomped back upstairs, still muttering under her breath.

She pushed the door open to her room and groaned when she saw who was lying on Hermione's bed. "Oh, for f…"

"You were the one that told us to get a room!" Ron pointed out.

"I didn't mean my room!" She sighed. "Fine, whatever, you win. I'm going to sleep in your bed. It's your funeral when Mum and Dad find you in the morning, though."

Shaking her head yet again, she climbed another set of stairs. Reaching the door to Harry and Ron's room, she took a deep breath and went in.

Now it was Harry's turn to waken with a start. Someone was shaking him. "Whassit?" he mumbled. "Ammasleep."

"Harry, wake up!"

"Ginny?" Now he was awake. He reached out for his glasses and shoved them on his face hastily. He hadn't been dreaming. Indeed, Ginny was sitting on his bed, wearing only her nightgown and a rather angry expression. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Do you have anyone in that bed?" she demanded.

"No," he replied, thoroughly confused.

"Are you going to be snogging anyone in this room between now and seven o'clock?"

"No." Not unless she was offering… He shook his head, trying to concentrate.

"Good. I am sick and tired of people snogging all over the place! Ron and Hermione, Bill and Fleur, Fred and George-"

"Fred and George?" Harry repeated incredulously.

"Well, no, not really," she admitted. "Though they probably are by now, I left them telling each other how gorgeous they were."

"What?" Harry was more confused than ever.

"Never mind. I'm sleeping in here. Just thought you should know." And she got off his bed and climbed into Ron's. "Goodnight, Harry."

"Er, goodnight." Harry lay for a while, staring at the Ginny-shaped lump in Ron's bed. Watching her as she slept peacefully, chest rising and falling, rising and falling, rising and-

"Harry!"

"What?"

"How am I supposed to get any sleep if you keep staring at me like that?"

Harry's face flamed. Clearly she hadn't been sleeping at all. "Uh, sorry," he mumbled. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she replied, sleepily.

Harry couldn't help it. He kept watching her. He'd never seen her sleep before, or in her nightgown since she was eleven, that morning he'd first appeared in the kitchen. She was beautiful. The freckles on her nose, the shape of her lips, the way her eyelashes spread against her cheeks when her eyes were closed-

"Harry!" This time she sounded more irritated. "Seriously. Stop watching me!"

Sighing, Harry took off his glasses and put them back on the bedside table. "Goodnight, Ginny," he said, finally.

She smiled in the darkness. "Goodnight, Harry," she whispered softly.

Charlie undid the top button of his trousers and sank back contentedly in his chair. "Merlin, that's better," he breathed, rubbing his uncomfortably full stomach. "Great nosh, Mum."

Mrs Weasley smiled; nothing made her happier than seeing other people uncomfortable as a result of over-indulging in her cooking. And almost everyone was loosening trousers around the table, with the exception of Ron, who had eaten so much he was actually lying flat on his stomach on the floor in an attempt to ease the discomfort and Fleur, who had claimed that she could not possibly eat such heavy food, she was just not built like these sturdy British women. Which seemed to have caused a great deal of offence to Mrs Weasley, Hermione and Ginny, who had all turned slightly pink and began running their hands self-consciously over their stomachs, hips and bottoms. However, when the food was served up, Hermione and Ginny had clearly decided that they would rather be sturdy than eat Fleur's wilted salad and happily ate their way through second helpings of everything, much to Mrs Weasley's delight – she thought Fleur was far too thin and worried that she'd start giving the others ridiculous ideas.

"Now, for the pudding!" she exclaimed brightly, and everyone began to protest.

"No, Molly, I couldn't possibly-"

"Mum, we're so full already-"

"I'm stuffed, Mrs Weasley-"

But then she lifted the lid from the serving platter and revealed a plump, dark, sticky Christmas pudding, which smelled delicious, and everyone, suddenly, changed their mind.

"Wow, that looks amazing-"

"I've always said I had a second stomach for puddings-"

"Well, maybe just a small piece-"

Satisfied, Mrs Weasley dished up the pudding and everyone tucked in, except Fleur, who looked appalled by such gluttony.

"Bill, you must not eat so much, you will be getting fat!" she hissed, in a horrified tone.

Mrs Weasley's eyes flashed angrily, but Bill merely shrugged, unperturbed. "It's Christmas, Fleur. You're allowed to get a little bit fat over Christmas. You should have some."

Harry almost choked on his pudding as Fleur's features rearranged themselves into an expression which would have been more suited to Bill suggesting she eat her own grandmother.

Happily shovelling another spoonful of pudding into his mouth, Harry reflected on what had possible been the best Christmas he had ever had. He had awoken to find not Ginny, but Ron, in the bed next to him in order to avoid a roasting from Mrs Weasley. Not long after, Fred and George had set off a whole box of fireworks, woken up the entire house and almost given poor Charlie, who had been sleeping soundly on the floor, a heart attack.

Once Mr Weasley had persuaded Charlie to stop strangling Fred, they had all headed downstairs in their dressing gowns to open presents. With eleven people, it took almost all morning and it was nearly noon by the time Harry and Ron, ecstatic with this year's presents had returned to their room to dress. The rest of the afternoon had been consumed with dinner – preparing it, cooking it, serving it and eating it. After what seemed like hours of peeling Brussels sprouts, they had finally sat down to Christmas lunch at three o'clock, with Mr Weasley mourning – as he apparently did every year – that he could not have a television and therefore could not watch the Muggle Queen's Christmas speech to the nation.

Now, with the pudding demolished and everyone full and sleepy, Harry tried to remember a time when he had felt so contented. Voldemort, prophecies and horcruxes shoved from his mind, he stretched out lazily and closed his eyes.

"Oh, damn, the fire's burning low." Mrs Weasley's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Harry, Ron, would you be dears and nip out to the outhouse and get us some more logs?"

Harry got to his feet, but Ron, who was still face down on the carpet, groaned loudly. "Mum, I can't move! I'm too full of turkey and potatoes and carrots and stuffing and pudding and…"

"Well, you should be so greedy, should you?" She nudged him with her foot. "Up!"

"Noooo," he moaned. "I can't."

"Up!"

"Noooo…"

"Up!"

"Noooo…"

"Up!"

"N-"

"Oh, for the love of Merlin, I'll do it!" interrupted Ginny. "This could go on until Easter! Come on, Harry."

She found the key for the outhouse in a box labelled Eggs And Needles, then led the way out into the garden, where a veritable blizzard appeared to be blowing.

Teeth chattering and wishing he'd put on a coat, Harry wrapped his arms around himself. "Sleep well last night?" he asked, head bent against the snow and the wind.

"Eventually. Bloody brothers."

They reached the outhouse and Ginny fiddled with the lock for a while. Finally, the door sprung open and she led the way in, lighting the torch just inside. Instantly, the door slammed shut behind them, causing them to jump.

"Er, Ginny, that's not an automatic lock, is it?" Harry asked.

Ginny laughed. "What, leaving us stranded out here in the snow, with only each other to keep us warm? Do you read a lot of romance novels, Harry?"

His ears reddened. "I was just checking," he muttered, hauling a couple of logs into the little trailer the Weasleys used to cart logs to the house. Why did she have to make a reference to romance? Now he felt awkward.

They loaded the trailer and turned to head back to the house. Harry pulled the door, but, to his surprise, it wouldn't budge. He pulled harder and harder but the door was stuck fast.

Ginny sighed exasperatedly. "Out of the way. You men, you're all the same. Bloody useless." She pulled the door with all her might, but it really did appear to be stuck.

"Thought you said it wasn't on a snib?"

"It's not," she replied. "I don't understand. Come on, let's both of us try pulling together."

So they did, but nothing happened. They tried again. And again. And again. But the door wouldn't budge.

Then the torch went out, leaving them in pitch darkness.

"How the hell did that happen?" Ginny blustered.

"Wind?" suggested Harry.

"Well, this is just brilliant. Stuck in here for God knows how long. I bet they're all asleep." She sighed heavily then began to move.

"Where are you going?"

"Up the back, there's an old mattress up there. We may as well be comfy if we're stuck."

"Why do you have a mattress in the log shed?" Harry wondered.

"Why was the key to this place in the Eggs And Needles box? In fact, why do we keep eggs and needles in the same box? My parents are strange. Lovely, but strange."

Harry, listening to her footsteps as guidance, gingerly made his way towards the back of the outhouse. Suddenly, he tripped, putting his hands out to steady himself. He grabbed onto something round, soft and warm and had the sinking feeling that it was a part of Ginny's body.

"That's my bum, Harry." She confirmed his worse fears.

"Ah. Right. Sorry."

"It's okay. It's sturdy, remember, according to Miss Skinny-Minnie in there. Just because she lives on frog's legs."

"Isn't that racist?" asked Harry, smiling in the darkness.

"No. I don't have anything against French people in general. Just that one. Sturdy. Cheeky cow."

Finally reaching the mattress, Harry sank onto it. "Come on, you must like her better now."

"She's not as bad as she used to be," admitted Ginny reluctantly. "But she's still a pain in the arse. Blimey, it's cold in here." She started flapping her arms around in what Harry assumed was an attempt to warm up.

"Hmm." He didn't know what else to say. He would gladly have offered to warm her up but he wasn't sure how such an offer would be received. "I'd offer you my coat if I had one," he said finally.

"Thanks, Harry."

They sat in silence for a while, still unable to see anything. It was completely silent bar the noise of them breathing. Harry didn't know how far away Ginny was sitting or which way she was facing, or, for that matter, which way he was facing.

"Harry?" She sounded tentative. "Why did you keep staring at me last night?"

Oh, crikey, thought Harry. Here we go. "I- I wanted to make sure you were okay?" He cringed in the darkness at the lame excuse.

"Oh, okay." He could hear the disbelief in her voice. "It's just that I thought maybe you still liked me or something, but never mind."

Harry stopped breathing for a second. Ginny had always been direct and to the point, but he'd never have dreamed that she would be so blunt. Last night, he thought he had felt something pass between the two of them. Maybe she'd felt it too and was sick of all the games. It was time to be brave. "Would it… Would it be so bad if I did?" His voice was shaking.

Ginny took a while to answer, then her voice came ringing through the darkness. "It would be terrible."

"It would?" Harry felt like he'd been kicked in the stomach.

"Not really." He could hear the smile in her voice. Then a rustling noise. She was obviously moving.

He felt her hand brush against his body. "Ginny, that's my shoulder."

Without speaking, she moved her hand slowly up his neck and over his chin until eventually, she reached his lips. She traced their outline, sending tingling impulses down what felt like every single one of Harry's nerves. He resisted the urge to kiss her fingers, or take one of them in his mouth. He wasn't sure what she wanted yet.

Her fingers stayed on his lips for a few more seconds, then up over his nose. She removed his glasses and, as he closed his eyes, stroked the tips of his eyelashes. Still not speaking, she ran her fingers over his eyebrows and up into his hair. Then, abruptly, she removed her hands from his face.

He could hear his breathing become deeper and hers was heavier also as she replaced her hands on his body. "Ginny, that's my stomach." She lifted his jumper and slid her hand underneath, causing Harry to take a sharp intake of breath. She slid her hands lower, over the waistband of his jeans and down a little more. "Ginny," he gasped, "that's my-"

She cut him off. "So you are enjoying it." Her voice was teasing.

He didn't reply, he just stuck his hands out blindly until he felt her jumper. He pulled her towards him and kissed her, hard, but didn't feel her kiss back.

"Harry, that's my forehead," she laughed.

Slowly, he kissed his way down her face, bit by bit, over the bridge of her nose until, finally, he got to her lips. Then she surprised him by yanking him towards her and kissing him forcefully, pushing her tongue into his mouth. He kissed her back, enjoying the feeling. It was like coming home. He ran his hands down her back until they got to her bottom, which was absolutely perfect as far as Harry was concerned, sturdy or not.

She pulled away. "Merry Christmas, Harry," she whispered, before kissing him again.

Outside, Ron pulled his jacket more tightly around him and tried to figure out how long it had been since he'd cast the spell to turn out the torch. Being of age and allowed to perform magic outside of Hogwarts was proving exceptionally useful. Calculating it had been at least five minutes, Ron got to his feet and pointed his wand at the outhouse. Five minutes was plenty long enough; he didn't want things going too far. Ginny was still his little sister after all.

Creeping across the snow-covered grass, he saw the slit of light under the doorway, proof that his spell had worked. Smiling to himself, he pointed his wand at the door and removed the locking charm that he'd placed on it.

Maybe he wasn't very good at the romance stuff, but he could certainly help create the situation.

A little bit of good old fashioned Muggle romance was all well and good, he thought to himself triumphantly, tip-toeing slowly across the grass. But, sometimes, what you needed was a good old fashioned magical kick up the arse.

The End