Disclaimer: I don't own any characters blah blah blah owned by Stephanie Meyer blah blah blah don't sue me. Ditto for JK Rowling.

(I've been sitting on this for a while, and just realised the draft will be deleted tomorrow. So, here it is.

There's no guarantee of regular updates - in fact, there's more of a guarantee ofirregular updates)

Summary: Sometimes, Harry wished he waited a few seconds to think things through before he did (or said) something.

It only ever got him in trouble.

He stood in the formal living room, watching the surviving Order members celebrate.

Despite Mrs Weasley's attempts to take it from his hand, Harry clasped a glass of Firewhiskey, sipping periodically.

Kreacher had outdone himself with the food: a large buffet table was packed with turkey, stuffing, Brussels sprouts, Christmas cake and Christmas pudding. A stack of plates floated nearby, waiting to be used.

Harry heard Ginny's laugh at something Hermione had said. His lip twitched, pleased she wasn't as depressed by Fred's death, though as he glanced over at George, who was standing motionless in the corner, his happiness soured.

He knew why they celebrated the first Christmas after Voldemort's death, but he couldn't.

After the Forbidden Forest, after King's Cross, he'd changed.

He didn't want to be an Auror, rarely played Quidditch, and didn't take the offer to return to Hogwarts to finish his NEWTs.

Hermione had, and he wished her well, but… he wasn't a schoolboy anymore.

Ron had joined the Aurors, and while Harry also wished him well, he didn't want to catch criminals for the rest of his life.

The wizarding world had expectations and weren't too pleased when someone broke the mould. Kreacher had had fun banishing the Howlers that had flooded in when the Prophet had published the interview where he'd declared his wish to get away.

A week later, despite people who had no right to stick their noses into his business trying to dissuade him otherwise, Harry left the country in the Channel Tunnel, guessing no one would think he'd use a Muggle mode of transport.

While Hermione, Ginny and the others were in Hogwarts, and Ron was training to join the Aurors, he explored Europe and Asia.

He visited a community of Parselmouths in India, learning to appreciate something he'd previously seen as evil - his eyesight had been healed by one of the Parselmouth community elders, upon whom he'd heaped effusive praise.

He had wandered around Rome, visiting the Muggle tourist attractions (some had wizarding sections) and enjoying the Italian beaches. He'd heard rumours about a large coven of vampires living further up the country and had been tempted to visit but was ultimately dissuaded by an Italian wizard.

Harry had even taken a short trip down to Egypt, learning the mythology (he was almost certain most of the ancient Egyptian pantheon of gods and goddesses were wixen. In that case, the animal heads would probably be their Animagus forms.

He returned in time to agree to host a Christmas party in Grimmauld Place.

He was also trying to have a private conversation with Ginny, a task at which he was failing miserably.

During his travels, he'd realised that he… might not… be in love with her.

He loved her.

Just not in a romantic sense.

It wasn't something she had done. On the contrary, she was fierce, beautiful, and played Quidditch… she should have been perfect for him.

She would have been if she didn't have too many similarities to his mother for him to be comfortable.

Fiery-tempered, brilliant with hexes, red-haired, snarky, (kind of) loyal… It made him slightly uneasy.

Harry didn't want to string her along. She deserved to fall in love with someone who loved her back.

Just as he did.

He blinked, returning to the present as he glanced at the clock. Looking around, it seemed everyone who'd been invited had turned up.

Why they want me to give a speech when that's part of the reason I don't like fame, I have no idea, he mused, concentrating slightly.

A faint clink echoed around the room, stopping all conversations as the guests looked at Harry, who'd raised his glass.

(Another thing he'd learned on his travels - methods of casting spells wandlessly and non-verbally.)

(He was now successful over half the time - much better than when starting out.)

"I'd like to propose a toast," he declared, "to those that died in the second war."

The guests without drinks grabbed some before looking up at him (like he was a god). Harry was grateful that there weren't any reporters here (well, Luna was, but he could trust that she could willingly print the truth (unlike a certain bug). They'd have a field day, probably making headlines such as The Cult of The Boy-Who-Lived or other such rot).

"To a young boy who loved taking photos. To Colin," he toasted, raising his glass in the air. There was a murmured echo of "Colin" from the guests before everyone sipped their drink.

"To a girl that loved fashion and Divination. To Lavender."

(Hermione and Ron's response was slightly muted based on their respective histories with their former classmate.)

"To a man that loved pranks and had the entrepreneurial spirit to make a living from that love. To Fred."

(The responses to that name were more heartfelt, especially amongst his surviving family.)

He continued, listing everyone on their side (or at least, not on Voldemort's) that had died. Sirius Black, Amelia Bones, Charity Burbage, Dirk Cresswell, Dobby, Albus Dumbledore, Gornuk, Gregorovitch, Griphook, Hedwig, Remus Lupin, Alastor Moody, Rufus Scrimgeour, Severus Snape, Edward Tonks, Nymphadora Tonks, Emmeline Vance…

Some people got a heartfelt chorus of their names (Dumbledore was the loudest).

Others gained him a few funny looks (why was he mentioning an Eastern European wandmaker?).

After Harry finished, he walked towards Ginny, who was (finally) alone.

"Ginny, can we talk?"

"Sure," she said, swaying slightly. He wondered if he should wait until she was sober (her glass was almost empty) to have this conversation, but he pressed on to get it over and done with.

"Alone?"

"Ok," she whispered, leaning forward in an alcohol-related lack of balance. He touched her shoulder when her teetering brought her into his personal space.

"Oi! Everyone! Harry might be about to ask Ginny a question," someone (he couldn't tell who through the din of murmured conversation) announced.

"In private," he whispered insistently.

He recognised the stubborn look that washed over her face. He often saw it on his own face, though he could be deterred.

Drunken stubbornness wouldn't be so easily dissuaded.

"No!" she exclaimed loudly, "everyone is here, so you might as well say it now. I-"

"I'm not proposing!" he yelled, silencing her.

He thought someone must have cast Silencio to achieve the resulting silence. Even the music playing in the background (God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs) had stopped.

Ginny blinked, opening and closing her mouth a few times.

"Wh- wh- what?" she stammered.

"I don't want to propose to you," Harry repeated softly, "I'm not seeing anyone else; I haven't cheated on you, nor am I in love with anyone. It's just that I'm also not in love with you, and you deserve to be with someone who loves you desperately. I- I look at you and see a younger sister who has too many similarities to my mother for my comfort. I know this-"

Slap!

His face was whipped to the side by Ginny's strike to his face. He slowly turned back to look at her, keeping his hand by his side.

Harry deserved that, and she deserved to see that her hit had landed.

Despite the hurt he had caused her, Harry still admired her. She had tears in her eyes but wasn't letting them fall in front of him.

"I'll leave," he told everyone, "you can commiserate with Ginny, tell her what an arse I am, anything you like. I'll be back in an hour if anyone needs to yell at me. To most of you, who will be gone before I return, goodnight, Merry Christmas, and sorry for ruining the party."

So saying, he turned on his heels and left the room, leaving his half-empty glass on the table by the door.

He automatically checked his neck for the moleskin pouch which he'd taken to wearing after someone had attempted to rob him when he was in the Porta Portese flea market.

It contained a variety of healing potions, 100G, his Invisibility Cloak, the Marauders Map (though he was thinking of owling it to the Headmistress. It would make their nightly patrols much easier - give the map to a Professor who could cast a Patronus each night, send their patronus after any student out of bed, and swap every night. That way, only one was needed, rather than all the Professors and some prefects), and two items he hadn't told anyone about.

Although Harry had been sure he'd returned the Elder Wand to Dumbledore's tomb and dropped the Resurrection Stone in the Forest before he died, he'd woken up a week later to the sight of both items lying on his pillow. Moreso, his attempts to "lose" them again kept failing - even dropping them in a volcano hadn't worked, and, after that failure, he accepted that they wouldn't be leaving his possession anytime soon. He'd stashed them in the pouch and tried to forget about them.

He wandered around, admiring London's lit decorations on Christmas Eve, along with the sound of carols singing Christmas songs with varying levels of competence.

(He was desperate)

Due to only drinking part of one glass of Firewhiskey, he was slightly tipsy but could walk in a straight line.

(So hungry)

It took him a while to realise he was a bit lost.

(He needed…)

Harry shrugged.

(A sniff)

He still had some time to kill.

(Young. Slightly drunk - won't have the best reaction time. Wixen.)

Harry paused, looking around.

(He would be perfect)

(Once he'd fed, the Wixen would make a good newborn)

He thought he'd heard-

Something slammed into him at high speed, shoving him against the nearest building wall.

Harry gasped in pain as he felt some of his ribs break.

It took him three seconds to realise what was happening; two more to grab his wand.

It was five seconds too late.

He felt something in his neck, biting, sucking, drinking. From the corner of his eye, Harry could see a man's face, feel the hea- cold from his body.

He nearly laughed at the irony, almost able to see the headline.

Boy-Who-Lived killed by vampire

Or, if Skeeter was involved,

Boy-Who-Lived accidentally killed in a moment of passion by his vampire boyfriend

His last act before unconsciousness claimed him was a desperate attempt to Apparate to St. Mungos.

At least they'll notify Hermione and the others when I die, he thought as he fell into the swirling feeling of Apparition.