A/N: A shorter version of this was originally published under a different pen name. It's a completely standalone story, unrelated to any of the others here - I was experimenting writing in the third-person present tense. I've decided it's not my favorite style; I feel like the action and emotion feel a little farther away, but I think it works okay here.
The Firewhiskey is hot and the ale, ice cold. Putting them together creates a warm glow in the glass and a warm glow in Ginny's belly. The first is lovely. It makes the pub seem livelier, her friends more amusing, and Ginny herself feels witty and content.
The second combination goes down nearly as easily. If the pub becomes a little fuzzy around the edges afterwards, it doesn't really seem to matter. Everything is funny, and Ginny is just delighted to be there with everyone. Maybe this second drink did something to her judgment – just a little bit - because when a third presents itself in front of her, it seems like a really good idea to throw it back with the rest of the crowd.
It's only when the steam clears from her ears and her eyes stop streaming that she looks up to see her most recent benefactor. And if she can't immediately put two words together in thanks, well then, that's the fault of the three large icy-hot whiskey bombs. It's most certainly not because Harry is standing there in front of her, his easy grin showing its own hint of more than a little imbibing tonight.
The whiskey most certainly can also be blamed for what Ginny does next, throwing her arms around Harry with glee, as if she hadn't seen him in months, as opposed to just the previous Sunday at the Burrow.
He stumbles back a step at her enthusiasm, and she trips and almost falls herself, but then his arms shoot out to steady her and damn, if they don't just stay there, wrapped around her waist.
"Hey Gin." Harry's voice is a little slow, a little slurred, and she wonders for a moment exactly how many whiskey bombs he's had. But his arms stay where they are and that is something new for them, so she focuses on the feeling instead. He'd touched her arm – twice – last week at the Burrow, and then there was the backrub she'd given him after dinner at Hermione's, of course. That damn backrub she'd had to explain, over and over again to her friend and her brother, that meant absolutely nothing. Nothing at all except that she and Harry were friends and he'd been sore from work.
But now his arms are locked in place at her waist even though the chance of her falling is long past, and it feels like more than friendship that's keeping them there. It's not an arm, flung casually around her shoulders (his other arm had been around Ron), nor her feet in his lap (because the sofa at the Burrow is really too small for two to spread out comfortably). It's warmer, and firmer, and is does she feel him trembling?
Or maybe it's her.
She shuffles so she can look up in his face and Harry is watching her, his eyes brighter than normal. There's a question in them instead of a smile and she hopes that she's not too drunk, not yet, to give the right answer.
"Ummm." It's not specific, but not a rejection either.
"Yeah," agrees Harry. He apparently feels the same way. And then, "d'you want a get a drink?" He gestures with a free hand towards the bar.
It's probably not a smart idea, for Ginny to have another drink. She's already perfectly buzzed, maybe even a little more than buzzed. Definitely even a little more than buzzed. Harry is too, she suspects. But he's leading her away from the group and his hand is on the small of her back and it almost feels possessive, the way he helps her part the crowd. Normally, Ginny doesn't like to be possessed, but it's different right now. She giggles, and Harry looks at her curiously.
"What, Ginny?"
She just manages to bite back the words she'd been about to tease him with - you of all people know how much I don't like to be possessed. He wouldn't think it was funny, Harry wouldn't. Or maybe he'd even forgotten again. Like he did at Grimmauld Place.
"It's nothing," she says quickly. "Jus' thinkin' about what I want to drink. Next. What I want to drink next." She tries to make her words precise. I'm not that drunk.
Harry leans close. "You're not that drunk?" he asks, and Ginny realizes she spoke out loud. Harry knocks his hip against hers. "Neither'm I," he says. "Yet."
"Get me a Firewhiskey Harry, the good stuff." Ginny points at what she hopes is an expensive bottle.
"Make it two," Harry nods, and the bartender puts glasses in front of them. It certainly looks better than the whiskey that went into the icy-hot bombs. The flames dance around in the glass and climb up the sides in red and orange and gold swirls, and for a minute, Ginny can't stop staring at them.
"It's pretty," she says, twirling her glass.
"So're you," Harry says. When Ginny looks at him he turns red and quickly swallows his drink.
Ginny doesn't know what to say to that so she grabs her drink too. By the time the warmth and flames have died down to a more pleasant temperature in her stomach, she thinks it's okay to completely change the subject.
Unfortunately, her drink-addled brain seems to have other ideas.
"I like your shirt," she says, touching the fabric where it pulls taut against his stomach. Ginny has always assumed Harry has abs, and what her fingers feel beneath the soft cotton only confirm that belief. Harry jumps briefly at her touch, but then he relaxes into her. His hand is back at her waist and yeah, it still feels good to have it there.
"Wanna go . . .?" he asks.
This is an important question, Ginny knows. But there is still – luckily – a piece of her brain looking out for her. She tries to force that piece to ask the right thing.
"Go where, 'zactly?" Its work done, the last sober piece of Ginny's brain retreats underneath the ocean of drink, and the rest of it waits impatiently for Harry to respond.
Harry's brain seems to be having similar trouble though. He looks around. "Uhh . . . the loo?" He shuffles awkwardly. "I actually hafta go to the loo."
Ginny does too, she realizes. In fact, as soon as Harry mentions it, it's all she can think about. Well, almost all she can think about. "Me too," she says. "And then . . .?" She wants to make sure she gets another chance to feel Harry's hand on her waist.
Harry's shuffling again. "And then . . . yeah," he says. It's not much, but Ginny really has to pee, so she takes it, and takes Harry's hand, and they both walk to their respective bathrooms.
Of course, it takes Ginny longer – she remembers Demelza once saying that there's nothing like trying to balance over a pub toilet to pee to make you realize exactly how much you've had to drink, and Ginny realizes that yeah, she's had a lot to drink. And when she comes out, at first she doesn't see Harry. She's swaying a bit, and trying not to, as she walks back towards the bar when a hand reaches out and wraps around her again. Ohhhh good.
"Let's go . . . let's go out th' back." Ginny realizes this is a very good idea because all of their friends, and prob'ly a couple of her brothers are at the front of the pub. The waitress is levitating another big tray of whiskey bombs over that way so maybe no one would even notice them anyway, but yeah, sneaking out the back door with Harry seems like a much better idea.
On their way, the bartender gives them a smirk and then hands them each a glass "for the road", and Ginny should probably say no but she doesn't. Instead, she and Harry clink glasses and she thinks she should say something witty but all she can think of to say is "to snogging" and Harry's eyes grow wide and so does his smile, and before Ginny can even feel embarrassed, he's nodding in agreement. "To snogging. And whiskey."
"To whiskey," Ginny says.
"It's March outside the pub, and that's a good thing. The cold air doesn't sober Ginny up, not at all, but it feels good against her skin and when she breathes it into her lungs.
Harry's breathing too, with his eyes closed, and when he opens them again, they find her and smile. Questions have been answered.
"Better not . . . App'rate," he says, sounding as drunk as Ginny feels.
"Better not," she agrees. She thinks maybe there's another question she needs to ask, but then Harry is there, in front of her, and she forgets everything.
They've never kissed before, but yeah, maybe Ginny's thought about it, once or twice. What it would be like to feel Harry's lips on hers. And maybe she'd imagined them less tipsy and more deliberate when it happened, but as soon as Harry leans in it doesn't really matter anymore.
But they are both drunk, and Harry stumbles, just barely managing to reach out and grab at the alley wall behind Ginny's back before he falls completely into her. As it is, his mouth hits hers with more force than is probably necessary and Ginny jumps and makes a sound of surprise and just a little bit of pain.
"Sorry, sorry," says Harry. He regains his balance and one hand is still behind her on the wall and the other grabs at her waist and this time when they meet, it makes more sense.
Ginny can taste the whiskey on his lips and she assumes he tastes the same on hers, and it's sweet and smoky and sharp, all at once. Ginny arranges herself more neatly against him, and Harry stops and groans. When he starts again, his kisses are more frantic and she's not sure who opens their mouth first but suddenly they are not just kissing, but snogging, there in the alley, and it's absolutely brilliant.
Harry presses close and Ginny thinks that maybe she feels him down there, but her drunk brain doesn't let her focus on that beyond how good it feels to be wrapped up in Harry's arms, kissing frantically.
Ginny's almost out of breath when they finally pull apart, and Harry is too. She can see his eyes are glazed, and she doesn't know whether it's from the kissing or the whiskey, and for the first time, Ginny wishes that she was just a little bit more sober, so she could figure that out.
Harry's still breathing heavily, and he leans against the wall of the alley next to her and grabs her hand.
"I've wanted t' do that for ages."
Ginny isn't sure she's heard him right.
"Do what, Harry?"
His eyes are closed. "Kiss you. Wanted t' kiss you for ages n' ages." He opens his eyes and looks at her. "Guess it took whiskey t' get you t' want to do it back?" He shakes his head. "Sorry. I'm really drunk. Ferget I said anything."
Ginny's really drunk too but maybe it's finally helping her say the right things because she squeezes his hand and turns so she's facing him again.
"This isn't just whiskey glasses, Harry. I've wanted t' kiss you too. For ages 'n ages." And to prove her point, Ginny leans in and kisses him again. He kisses her back, and cups his hand against the back of her head. It's less frantic now, though, and when they stop, Harry leans his head against the wall.
"Wish I wasn't so drunk," he mumbles. He opens his eyes. "I wanna kiss you sober too, some time. If you want me to."
Ginny's exhausted, and she can't help but lean her head on Harry's chest and close her eyes. "Yeah," she mumbles back. "Sober."
"D'you have hangover potion at your flat, Ginny? Cause you're going to need it." Harry's voice seems far away. "I hope I have some too," she thinks he says. "Hmm, where did I put it?"
"I do, somewhere," she says. The rest of Harry's words don't penetrate farther. "Jus' gotta manage the Floo." She opens her eyes. "Think th' bartender will give me some water first?"
The noise of the pub seems louder than ever but the water helps clear Ginny's head enough to imagine facing the Floo home. Harry touches her arm as she stands by the fireplace and now she can't tell if it's just a friendly gesture again. But then he speaks.
"I meant it, Ginny. I wanna kiss you sober too."
Ginny feels a warmth that probably has nothing to do with whiskey but she's just too tired to think enough about it. She steps into the fireplace and grabs some floo powder before she forces herself to nod at Harry. "I'd like that," she says, before calling out the name of her flat and swirling away.
Whiskey glasses indeed.
HPHPHPHPHPHP
The next morning is uncomfortable, but not torture, for Ginny. She's pleased to have remembered to drink a swallow of the hangover potion and a big glass of water before falling into bed the night before. Her bigger dose today works better that way, and she's able to drowse lazily in bed without worrying about needing to make an emergency run to the loo.
And drowsing in bed is the perfect place to try to remember exactly what had happened last night; the potion helps headaches, not fuzzy memories.
She and Harry kissed; of that, Ginny is certain. The back of Ginny's head is a little tender and she's pretty sure she hit it on the wall of the alley when Harry lost his balance. She rubs it idly and pushes her reluctant brain to think harder. Harry had kissed her first, she's pretty sure of that. And . . . although this is far less certain, she thinks he said he'd been wanting to for a while. Wanting to kiss her, that is.
Ginny leans back against her pillows. The hangover potion isn't perfect, and thinking too much makes her head start to ache again. She closes her eyes and lets her thoughts flow where they may instead. Much better. Now she can recall the way Harry's eyes looked at her, and the way his hand felt, cupping her face before he kissed her. She remembers the kisses too, but it's fuzzier than she'd like. What had Harry said? Did he really want to kiss her sober too?
That's the important thing. Ginny's pretty sure she told Harry she'd wanted to kiss him for a long time, but had he told her first? She thinks he had. She hoped he had. It didn't really matter who said it first, she thought, if they both said it. Still, she hoped he'd said it first.
Maybe she can ask him.
Maybe she's still a little drunk, just a little, because asking Harry if he said it first seems like a pretty good idea. But luckily, she's mostly sober, and that makes her realize that maybe she should just Floo call him instead of, say, Apparating to his flat. Yes, a Floo call is definitely in order.
Ginny's only a little embarrassed that she takes the time to brush the nest of tangles out of her hair first. And changing out of her stretched-out t-shirt into a proper pajama top seems a smart plan as well. It's only when she's wrapped in blanket in front of her fireplace and has already thrown the powder inside that it occurs to her that Ron and Hermione might be at the flat too. She hopes they slept at Hermione's last night.
"Harry's flat!" she calls in a firm voice. If Ron answers, well, she'll just have to make something up.
It takes a long time, and Ginny wonders if maybe Harry isn't home; she hopes Ron and Hermione aren't there and just . . . busy. She's about to pull her head out of the Floo when a quiet, unhappy sound makes her stop.
"Harry?" she asks cautiously.
"I'm here," he says, and then he is, and he looks terrible. Bleary eyes peer at the green flames. "Ginny? Are you okay?"
Ginny can't help but feel a little rush of warmth at the concern in Harry's voice. She nods her head. "I'm fine. Really fine," she says. Her purpose for contacting Harry changes on a knut as another fuzzy image drops into her head. "Are you okay? I remember . . . I think I remember you saying you didn't know where your hangover potion was?"
Harry groans. His head bobs gingerly, as if too much movement will topple it off his neck altogether. "Couldn't find it," he agrees. "Ron n' Hermione weren't here to help me look." He winces. "Still aren't."
That's one thing sorted, at least.
He looks so miserable, the next words tumble out of Ginny's mouth before she can stop to think.
"I have a little potion here, want me to come through?" She could just hand it to him, of course, but that feels so impersonal. They kissed quite a bit last night, and the least Ginny can do is offer Harry some measure of relief.
As thanks?
Ginny banishes that thought. As friends.
Harry is rubbing his eyes and at first Ginny isn't sure he's heard her, but then he gives another of those tiny nods. "Yes, please," he says thickly.
Ginny runs back to her room and grabs the bottle, sorry to see how little of the liquid still sloshes inside. She'd been rather desperate for relief herself this morning. It worked though, and Ginny's trip through the Floo happens without incident.
Harry is slumped against the back of his sofa on the floor, and Ginny suspects he collapsed where he was as soon as she said she was coming over. He doesn't open his eyes, just holds out a shaky hand, and she presses the bottle into it.
He drinks it down in a swift gulp and holds out his hand again. "More?"
Ginny shakes her head and then realizes Harry's eyes are still closed. "Umm, that's all there is, I'm sorry." She feels stupid for drinking almost all the potion herself even though there's no reason for her to feel guilty. "It's better than nothing though, right?"
"Yeah," Harry rasps. "Helps." He opens his eyes. "Thanks." Single syllables seem all he can manage right now and Ginny feels another un-deserved stab of guilt.
"Can I get you some water? Help you to bed?" She doesn't know if Harry's the type to want to be alone when unwell, but at least she won't leave him on the floor.
"Water," Harry agrees in a tired voice. "Need to lie down."
That's five entire words and Ginny's encouraged. She moves towards him, but Harry struggles to his feet on his own, leaning heavily against the back of the sofa. He does an odd sort of flop over it and stretches out, face pressed into a cushion.
Ginny has to bite back a laugh. She's seen most of her brothers in a similar state on one occasion or another, and she knows amusement is to be reserved for when Harry is feeling better. And really, but for the potion she would surely be in the same place. She picks up a red throw pillow and holds it awkwardly above him. "I have a pillow, if you want it."
He holds out his hand much as he'd done for the potion and she puts the pillow into his hand before retreating to the kitchen. It's clean, and the counters are mostly clear, but an examination of the cupboards reveals than neither Harry nor Ron cares at all about how they organize their things. Boxes of pasta share shelf space with plates that are themselves piled high with silverware and napkins. In the third place she looks, Ginny finds pewter cup, wedged under what looks like a never-opened wizarding cookbook that no doubt came from her mum. Inside the cup is a familiar crystal bottle and Ginny grins.
Harry has managed to get the pillow under his head but he's still scrunched awkwardly where he landed on the sofa cushions. His eyes are shut and he gives no indication he knows she's there. Ginny reaches a hand out and tentatively touches him on the shoulder. "Uhh, Harry?"
He grunts.
Ginny grins again. "You may want to open your eyes and see what I found," she teases. "Unless you want your hangover to stay around the rest of the day."
That does the trick. Harry cracks an eye. "What?"
Ginny holds up the vial. "There's another swallow or two in here, I think."
Harry swears an oath and Ginny chuckles. "That's how I felt when I found my bottle," she said.
Ten minutes later, Harry's face is not quite so green and he's sat up enough on the sofa to make room for Ginny too. He's sipping carefully at the cup of water she conjured for him, and Ginny suspects he's paying such close attention to the liquid not out of concern for his stomach but because he, like her, is not sure what to say.
Ginny's less hungover, so it's probably her job to go first, she decides.
"So, about last night . . ." she begins hesitantly.
Harry looks up from his water.
This is harder than she thought. The truth is right there, and she wants to say the words, but . . . they were very drunk last night, for Merlin's sake. It's hard to trust anything that happens when you're drunk.
"I was very drunk," she says, and cringes. It sounds like she's about to let him down easy. She quickly shakes her head. "But that doesn't matter, that I was drunk. Even if I'd been sober, I'd have wanted . . ." the confession is on the tip of her tongue, but Ginny stops. Again, she finds herself wanting to know if Harry will say it first. That's ridiculous, of course. Ginny has never played anything at all like some of the silly girls in her class, acting dumb, letting the blokes make all the decisions. What does it matter if she tells Harry what she feels before he tells her? He was the first one last night to say it; there's no reason she can't say it now.
"I would have kissed you anyway," she blurts out, before she can talk herself out of it. "I think I said it last night, but I've wanted to kiss you for ages."
There. It's out there and she can't take it back. And as she sits on Harry's sofa and waits for him to respond, Ginny realizes it's okay, whatever he says. Because it's true; she has wanted to kiss him for ages and she strongly suspects this is more than a crush. If he doesn't feel the same way, then she really needs to know sooner rather than later. She knows she hasn't imagined his glances and his touches, and she knows she's been giving them right back. But maybe, for Harry, it hasn't really meant anything; maybe he was just flirting. Maybe the kiss last night – the snogging last night – was just the natural culmination of all that. Maybe he's satisfied now and ready to continue just being her friend and her brother's best mate. Maybe . . .
"I'm glad I kissed you last night. And I meant it when I said I wanted to kiss you when I was sober too." Harry is looking at her earnestly and Ginny's skittering brain slows down. She keeps quiet, knowing he's not finished.
"Actually, when I kiss you sober, I'd like it to be after I take you out on a proper date." Harry gives her a hesitant, questioning smile and Ginny can't help but smile back. She realizes that she hoped more than she wanted to admit that Harry would say something like that.
"I'd like that," she says, and Harry's smile grows a little bigger. "When we're both feeling better," he promises. He shuffles on the sofa and she waits again.
"I'm sober enough now to kiss you though, if you want. I did actually brush my teeth this morning."
It makes Ginny laugh, to hear that. "I brushed my teeth too. Twice, " she assures.
And when they come together for a kiss, Ginny realizes that it was not just the whiskey last night that made her think Harry was a lovely kisser. It feels as good as she's imagined in way too many recent daydreams, and she feels herself smiling against Harry's lips as he deepens the kiss and wraps one arm around her back.
When they break apart, Ginny is lightheaded, and she knows it's not from her residual hangover. "Wow," she says. "That was . . ."
"Yeah," Harry agrees. "I'd hoped, but I wasn't sure."
"Now we can both be sure," she says, and Harry takes her hand.
"I still want to take you on a date. Somewhere we can talk. Somewhere none of your brothers might see us."
"Somewhere they don't serve whiskey," she laughs.
"I'm not sure I'm ever drinking whiskey again," Harry says. He smirks. "Although, if it made me have the courage to kiss you, I can't say it's all that bad."
Ginny has to agree. As she gathers her things and prepares to Floo home – they both need showers and naps and time to think – she's pleased at how they are leaving things. They are leaving them just for a couple of hours, and that is fine with her.