"Potter."

"Weasley," Harry grunts as she passes - no, prances by him, flaming red hair flying after her and he can practically swear she meant to give him a mouthful of it; swish-swishing that long hair by his desk every morning, a constant reminder of their little rivalry of sorts.

He throws one last glance at her and sips heartily from his coffee, rolls his chair closer to the desk and prepares to submit his request for holiday overtime. That, at least, ought to give him good leverage over Weasley, a swift climb up the corporate ladder just in time for the yearly evaluation rounds and promotion proposals. Certainly Harry won't be seeing her giving up Christmas, with her big family and stupid boyfriend (whose existence Harry still can't prove, but he's also very positive she has) and blah, blah, blah.

Ugh, he takes another long sip and punches the enter button on his keyboard. Good, done. Working on Christmas day. It's all perfectly not sad. And if this doesn't land him employee of the year, Harry doesn't know what else will do it.

At the far end corner of their shared space office, Harry can see Weasley smirk and this time it doesn't bother him. Nope, because he's working on Christmas and he's been in the office early ever since July whereas she keeps popping in late (although with zero consequences, to Harry's dismay, but maybe the CEO's her boyfriend, then? Harry tells himself he has to chill by this point) and all of this combined gives her exactly no reason to be smug. Harry's about to prove, once and for all, that he's simply better.

And as though they'd read his mind, an email from HR announcing Harry Potter as the sole saviour of the company on Christmas day zooms into his inbox. With an intense feeling of determination, with great satisfaction, Harry double clicks on it to read -

Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley up for Christmas day

What the fuck? What the actual -

Harry feels like punching someone, especially HR people who really don't get the point. It was supposed to be his moment, goddammit.

The sheer audacity of her!

"Oi, what are you playing at?" Harry slams his fist on her desk, very disappointingly not startling her at all.

She does scan him for a long moment, pen dangling at the corner of her mouth, with every move revealing that one freckle peppered above her lip. For no apparent reason, Harry's hands grip at her desk a little tighter.

"Scared I might get the promotion, Potter?"

"No, just calling you out."

She snorts. "What for?"

"Being a copycat," Harry sputters, a little bit of spit landing on her face, right between some particularly nice clusters of freckles. Harry pretends nothing happened and continues to stare angrily.

Weasley wipes her face, bored, rolling her pretty brown eyes at him, her hand pushing Harry away with surprising force as she gets up, "Aw, baby Potter's mad I stole his toys. Don't worry, I know how to share, unlike others," she grins wickedly, one finger hooked through her mug's handle as she shuffles away to the office kitchen. "See you on Christmas, Potter."

"And every other day till then," Harry mutters before he spins on his heels and makes his way back to his desk, ready to smash his face into the keyboard and call it a day.

His house is dark and cold when he leaves early in the morning, determined to step through the office doors way ahead of Weasley.

Harry blows out a crisp breath of air, slides his hands into his pockets and shivers. Daylight barely reaches the street, mounds of ice and snow glazing the sidewalk as he saunters to the tube, hat pulled lower over his ears, cheeks growing ever rosy in the winter chill. His mind strays to the office coffee machine, the feel of warm liquid rolling down his throat to make him feel cosy and light already vivid in his imagination.

As expected, except the few passengers in his cart who rather look like they're about to miss a train to their families, Harry's the only corporate yippee ready to clock in at dawn on Christmas day. But what's he got to lose? No family, no significant other, no pet. Not even a sordid Christmas tree - Harry refused to pretend this year.

He checks his watch before the tube doors slide open: 06:05, mind the gap, hop off, get to work, win that promotion, find some meaning in your life. Ten minutes later, he's walking victoriously through the office doors, feeling cool, feeling bloody brilliant, mate. He beat Weasley.

"Morning," a bleary voice wafts its way to him from the coffee machine.

Or apparently he didn't.

"What? Did you actually sleep here?" Harry spats, harassed, slapping his mittens and hat on his desk a little too forcefully. She, in turn, just looks at him, sleepy, and yawns.

"One of my brothers dropped me ten minutes ago on his way to the airport. Visiting the other brother in Romania."

Harry generously offers a non-committal grunt, cursing himself for that extra ten minutes in bed he allowed himself this morning, as a Christmas treat. Well, if he needed anymore proof Christmas miracles don't exist…

"You can drop that frown, as sexy as I find the brooding look," Weasley says and sips her coffee, plonking a fresh mug on his own desk and Harry's stomach inexplicably churns. "I'm not here to snatch away your promotion."

"You're not?" Harry says stupidly.

There's pity in her gaze when she locks eyes with him, lone freckle tempting as she lets herself smile a little before she speaks, fingers brushing over his arm when she walks away right after. "No. Ridiculous as it sounds, my family's away for Christmas, the whole lot of them. Guess I just didn't want to spend it alone and feeling sorry for myself."

His heart nearly leaps out of his chest and he doesn't really know why - just that she'd have been alone today, and perhaps that small sad smile on her lips. Harry slides lamely into his chair, his knees jelly.

He punches the keyboard heavily as he files in yearly reports for his team, he oversees and nearly micromanages all still pending projects, he writes cheerful follow-up emails and gentle reminders that aren't really that gentle as far as he's concerned (wanting to whoop someone with a chair over the back of their head for pretending to do some tasks they clearly didn't is miles away from gentle in Harry's dictionary, but, eh, he still wants his job so what can you do).

Still, every now and then, a pair of green eyes drifts to a flush of freckles and long, red hair coating her hand-knit Christmas sweater, his mind losing focus for the briefest of moments before he shakes himself back to reality and to the task at hand.

Two cups of coffee and zero small talk later, his eyes' little escapades seem to get a little out of hand. Alright, ridiculously out of hand as Harry catches himself typing in 'ginger' and 'freckles' and, worst of all, 'Weasley' in the project document he'd been working on. The last one of them especially stares him in the face like the foulest betrayal.

With an exasperated huff, Harry scrapes his chair back, rummages in his bag and proceeds to the kitchen, pointedly not looking her way. He's not himself today, but bloody hell if he can't power through it.

"What are you having?"

Harry jumps at the sound of her voice, fork clattering against the small table. Bits of meat fly on his face and he sighs, wipes them dejectedly. His mind had been...off somewhere.

"Sorry, are we not speaking? Should I eat in perfect silence?"

Harry swallows the last of his bite and pushes the chair in front of him with his foot under the table. "Don't let me stop you."

And perhaps he did sound as grouchy as he heard himself because she neither attempts any form of chat nor does she spare him a second glance. Harry can't completely understand what's possessed him so he swiftly proceeds to do what he does best: he sulks.

"Oh, bloody buggering -"

His eyes nearly pop out of his head as Weasley peels her sweater off to inspect the fresh stain of gravy she'd just adorned it with, leaving her standing in front of him in a tank top. Who knew humans could have so many freckles.

And cleavage.

And skin that looks so soft, so bloody soft he might actually touch it -

"You do realise you're gawking, right?" Weasley throws him an amused look, her fingers wiping furiously at the sweater with a napkin.

...He had very much not realised that.

Face on fire, Harry feels his feet take him quickly away from the crime scene before his brain can even command them to. He'd been gawking at her chest. He definitely had been and she'd caught him and now all he wants is to hide under his desk forever and quite probably stop feeling so uncomfortable in his chair. Is there any possibility his pants have suddenly shrunk two sizes?

He'd gladly hit himself with a crowbar now. Best Christmas ever.

Twenty minutes (and a world of intense embarrassment) later, Harry figures he can send his brain home for the day and let his instincts guide him. They can't do much worse anyway.

And what they do is take him straight to Weasley's desk and open his big mouth wide enough for more embarrassing words to roll off it.

"Why?"

Weasley looks up at him, luckily fully clothed now, and blinks. "Why what?"

"Why would you have felt sorry for yourself?"

She blinks again. Then seems to remember, thank god and all his angels, as Harry'd been one second away from activating his brain again and running out of there.

"Oh. Christmas tends to have that effect on people who're not involved, I've been told."

"Who're - I mean, you're not, erm, are you not seeing someone?"

Please stop.

"I'm not aware of it, at least," she drawls, eyebrows rising.

"Not even the CEO?"

Alright, somebody kill him or he will himself.

"Are you quite alright?" Weasley laughs heartily and Harry is very grateful to notice she thinks it was a joke.

"No, I must...I must have gone a bit mad," he tries on a grin, hand ruffling his hair at the back. "Been living on my own for too long, you see, plays tricks on the mind."

She gives him a long, appraising look, the feeling of discomfort washing over him again and Harry shifts on his feet.

"What's your excuse?"

"I'm very good with women."

She snorts, "Clearly."

There's a moment of silence between them and Harry's surprised to discover he doesn't really feel out of place like that, sitting next to her.

"Cookies? Mum sent me some, they're brilliant," Weasley offers with a smile and his stomach churns a bit. Weird, he'd just eaten though.

"Thanks," he grins and swipes one from the tin. "Wow, they are brilliant! Your Mum's brilliant."

"I'll tell her that, although she might try to adopt you after. Feed you till you're not as skinny."

"Oi," Harry brandishes the cookie under her freckled nose, "I'm fit, not skinny."

"Won't hear me complain," she winks, grins and sends Harry into a flustered fit, cookie crumbs flying up his nose as he violently coughs.

"Woah, mate, learn to take a compliment," she jumps to smack him on the back until his coughs start to die down. "Alright, Harry?"

And it's perhaps hearing her call him 'Harry' for the first time or maybe the fact that his brain is coated in cookie crumbs and some sort of flowery smell wafting up his nostrils all of a sudden, but Harry does feel a little pacified, a little mollified, something warm and calming growing in his chest.

"Yeah," he says softly, "yeah, I'm alright. Thanks, Ginny."

The splatters of freckles on her face seem to catch fire for the briefest of moments and it dawns on Harry that this is the first time they've called each other 'Harry' and 'Ginny'. No 'Potter' and 'Weasley', no jibes and snark attached to it, no double meaning. It's strange and confusing, but also somehow nice - and that's the odd part. It shouldn't feel like that.

"I'll, er - I'll be at my desk. Lots to finish, end of the year, you know," he offers with an awkward smile as he backs away slowly, suddenly needing as much space as possible between himself and her.

Ginny's smile fades a bit, but then she shrugs and slides into her chair again.

"If you want more cookies, you know where to find them."

Harry nods stiffly and drops in his own chair, a safe half-office between them. All he needs to do now is focus on his work, clock out at six and pretend this day and its strange lack of hostilities never happened. Go back to calling her Weasley, go back to being Potter, neck in neck for that promotion and mostly anything involving a competition of sorts.

Yeah, that ought to do it.

Only instead of that, Harry's eyes stray to her, his fingers annoyingly suspended in time and space when they should have been typing, his mind conjuring images of her smiling at him, of her in the kitchen, wiping away gravy in her tank top, when it should've crunched numbers and spewed corporate shit in tens of emails. Why is he so obsessed with gravy anyway?

Harry happens to ruffle his hair as he stares at her again and she happens to look back, grinning, then ducking her head back to work. Harry ruffles his hair some more, pushes his chair back and forth with the sole of his feet, then stares at her again. It becomes very clear to him that he's out of control and he doesn't even understand why.

Perhaps he'd been actually staring at the office Christmas tree, right next to her desk?

Before he can throw himself through the glass wall to stop his little trip down the mental rabbit hole, Harry gets up to do something he'd been dreading all year: he approaches the office printer.

Yes, it's an endeavour that requires a great amount of being dramatic for he who dares disturb the printer's slumber and no mantras or meditation or prayer has ever worked in getting it to actually function. As far as he's concerned, Harry's not below kicking it once or twice to get the job done and it's exactly what he's about to do if the bloody thing squeaks 'error' at him again.

"Work, you flaming piece of -" but Harry bites his words before he can fully give the printer a piece of his mind because, Christmas miracle, it starts beeping and burping and actually printing what he's asked it to print.

"Huh, I am a little turned on right now," Ginny's voice sounds dangerously close to his ear and Harry nearly jumps out of his skin. When's she got there?

"When did you get here?" Harry asks, leaning heavily on the printer as it continues to spit out paper with alarming speed.

"Seemed like you needed help," Ginny raises her eyebrows, brown eyes scanning his face, "but clearly you've got it covered. I do like a man who can tame beasts. Very macho," she winks and he's suddenly both uncomfortable in his clothes and a little out of breath.

"Had to show it who's boss," Harry mumbles back, breathless.

A quick head to toe glance from her has his windpipe constricting, his fingers grasping for the printer desk for support.

"And are you the boss?" Ginny grins, her eyes intently on him, and Harry's head probably inflates because what he says is -

"Would you want me to be?" And he doesn't even stammer.

For a moment, she appears as surprised as he is to hear those words roll down his tongue. Then there's a blazing look in her eyes when she steps closer to him and talks, her voice sending shivers down his spine.

"What would that imply?"

"Probably lots of boring stuff," he blabers, no longer aware of what he's saying, his brain only focusing on the decreasing amount of space between his body and hers.

"Then we should change that," she whispers and closes her eyes - and, oh no, Harry's brain is screaming, screeching really, that Ginny - no, Weasley's about to kiss him. The printer hits him in the back, evil, vile thing, and shoves him against her, her lips landing awkwardly over the prickling skin on his neck.

There's a moment of silence before she peels her body off his, Harry's arms going limp around her, and she's looking at him with something akin to horror, stretching all over her freckly face. Harry's heart leaps a little.

"Oh, fuck, Harry, sorry, I -"

But his heart leaps a little more and there's that same smell of flowers thoroughly numbing his senses, that one small freckle above her upper lip, her long, red hair cascading down her shoulders. Harry takes in all of it and finally it hits him. He probably should've realised faster anyway.

"Fuck it," he groans and kisses her.

He kisses her till her back presses into the nearby wall, kisses her until he forgets to breathe and has to come up for air, kisses her until there's flowers growing in his brain and sun lighting fire in his chest and Harry asks her if she's alright with all of this.

And she is, she gloriously is and Harry lets her kiss him hungrily, push him into the angry printer and curl her fingers through his hair. He lets her kiss him in all the ways she wants.

It's ridiculous, actually, how he's never seen it, that he fancied her, that he wanted her, that it had never been about who's winning but about the two of them keeping close, building something. He understands it now, when her mouth is slanting over his and her tongue licks down his bottom lip, him moaning, groaning low as her hands sneak inside his sweater. He sees it now, when he's tasting her, feeling her body press into his, feel the softness of her skin as his palms rest on her jaw, knot into her hair right after.

And now that he finally sees it, he wants all of her.

"Ginny," he breathes hard against her mouth, "where do you want to stop?"

"Thought you were the boss," she grins, her chest rising quickly as she pants, brown eyes blazing.

It's her gaze that undoes him, that certainty and confidence pooling from her eyes, making him forget himself and, along with it, everything else.

So Harry sweeps her in his arms and perches her atop the printer, gloriously silencing it.

"Much better," Ginny grins and dips her head to seek his mouth again, holding onto him as Harry combs his fingers through her hair, lets them feel at the hems of her sweater, feel the cotton fabric in her tank top.

Ginny locks her legs around his hips, pulls him closer, licks and nibbles at his neck and Harry feels himself harden, painfully so, her name rolling down his tongue. She presses herself over him, the heels of her boots pushing him into her core and Harry moans her name again.

"It sounds nice, when you say my name," she whispers into his ear and he groans.

"Ginny, Ginny, Ginny," Harry breathes, his hands sliding inside her sweater, up her back, feeling the hard plastic clasp of her bra there. He pops it open.

She presses herself into him again and Harry's brain goes mush with the feel of her breasts in his palms, feeling them through her top before Ginny grunts, curses and shoves her sweater, tank top and bra off in a messy ball.

Harry gawks.

"Harry," Ginny bites her lip and gestures vaguely that he should return to what he was previously doing. But, of course, that was in a world without her naked chest in front of him, wasn't it?

"Oh, yeah, sorry," Harry finally acknowledges and resumes his hungry kisses.

His mouth tastes down her neck, over her chest, takes one breast in and traces his tongue over the small freckles peppering her skin there. He kisses her all over, tastes one nipple and finds himself thrusted further against her body when Ginny moans, grips at his hair and tugs him into her.

His mouth is still busy with her breasts when Ginny's hands fly to his zipper, yank it down forcefully before she grabs his face and kisses him hard, insatiably.

"Let's do it," Ginny breathes between kisses and Harry feels like he's a moan away from taking her right there, over the printer, corporate HR rules be damned.

"Here?"

But instead of answering, Ginny simply wiggles off her jeans, kicks off her boots, hooks her fingers around the hems of her knickers and tugs them down.

"Ginny," Harry groans, swallows hard, his entire body throbbing with the sight of her, bare and beautiful on top of the office printer, her back leaning against the wall, her thighs, freckled and full, open.

He stops thinking then, mesmerised and drunk on her in a way he'd never been before. Harry tugs down his trousers, boxers, and closes the distance.

He enters her slowly, his knees shaking in anticipation, sheer pleasure coursing through him as he feels the warmth of her thighs, the warmth of her tightening around him, her hands wildly into his hair as she breathes near his ear. Harry nearly lets himself go.

Then he starts moving, his knees rubbing against the desk as he finds his rhythm, the back of her thighs scraping against the edges of the printer as she quickly adjusts, as she starts to respond to him. Ginny moans when he pushes in deep and Harry goes faster, a little harder till her legs are locked around him and his arms are wrapped around her body, holding her closer as he rocks them both.

"Harry," she moans again and he needs to push faster, thrust deeper, harder, her nails digging into his back. His glasses slide down his nose with the speed of their motions and Harry presses his forehead into her shoulder, feels her gripping at his rumpled hair.

Ginny thrusts her pelvis into him, her hand reaching between their bodies, fingers curling around his length and she squeezes gently. Three times she does it and it's enough for him to turn completely blind, an explosion of black at the back of his eyelids and he shivers with release.

Ginny holds onto his shoulders as her body trembles, shakes with that final wave she'd ridden. When it's over, she's like mush in his arms, soft and warm and smelling of flowers.

Her beautiful brown eyes lock with his and Ginny kisses him again, this time softly, gently, her cheek resting over his right after.

"We'll have lots of explaining to do," Harry sighs, relaxed, not very aware of what he's babbling.

"I'll just bribe the surveillance camera bloke," she shrugs and pulls him in for another searing kiss.

"What if we clocked out early today?" Harry smiles against her lips, feels her smiling just as widely.

"We've already established that you're the boss," Ginny winks, shifting slightly so their bodies are no longer connected. Harry instantly misses it. "We probably should clean up a bit, though. We've made a mess over the printer."

His green eyes travel to the spot she'd indicated and he feels both horror and his face catching fire - what a mess indeed.

"Reckon it'd be easier if we just kicked it out the window."

Ginny laughs heartily, hopping off the desk with surprising agility to find her clothes. "Say no more. Vile thing had it coming anyway."

And, at the end of the day, Harry has to admit that he'd been a little persuaded to believe in Christmas miracles: where he'd woken up in a cold bed, he now goes to sleep in a warm one, another soul wrapped cosily in his arms, the smell of love and flowers in the air above them.