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I'd Rather Fall in Chocolate | ||||||
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Category: Alternate Universe Characters:Harry/Ginny Genres: Comedy Warnings: Negative Alcohol Use Story is Complete Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 421 Summary: Ginny's got a new enemy - she's just not sure who it is ... Harry knows what he wants - he just doesn't know how to get it ... Hitcount: Story Total: 100777; Chapter Total: 8044 Awards: View Trophy Room Author's Notes: Ohai! Hope you're all going well :D |
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Anything that reminded Harry Potter that Ginny Weasley was a girl was bad news. Flowery smells were bad news. Tinkling laughter was bad news. Dresses that showed off shapely long legs were bad news. And yet somehow Harry couldn’t help himself and sat next to Ginny through a torturously lengthy meal while she smelt good and sounded good and had very good legs. What Harry wouldn’t give for a nice pair of blue jeans right now. For Ginny, not for him. Maybe then he wouldn’t be a nervous wreck who kept spewing idiotic rubbish about his work in a valiant but ultimately vain attempt to keep his eyes off Ginny’s legs. There were four perfectly good pairs of Weasley Brothers eyes watching him right now and if he didn’t pull himself together he might have to say goodbye to what little eyesight he had left. He’d already said goodbye to his tastebuds. Sweet Merlin, Hermione could ruin boiled water. That custard was going to sit in his stomach like lead for at least a week. Harry tried again to escape to the kitchen but Mrs Weasley thwarted his plans by clearing the dishes before he could get to them and waving him into the sitting room (where Ginny’s brothers were waiting to catch him staring at their baby sister and think of creative ways to torture him for even thinking about it). Harry slunk into the sitting room and attempted to take up an unobtrusive spot behind the door but George spotted Harry as soon as he entered and dragged him forcibly to the chair next to the fireplace and pushed him into it. Harry almost fell backwards, landing with a soft “Umph!” in the overstuffed chair. “Oh, uh, hey George,” Harry said lamely, trying to cross his ankles casually and look as though he meant to fall awkwardly into the chair. He was aware that he had failed miserably but chose to ignore both that and the pain in his back where he was sure one of Hermione’s books had been stashed behind the cushions. “So-oooo,” George drawled with a toothy leer, leaning back against the mantelpiece with much more grace than Harry could ever hope to muster. It was then that Harry noticed Bill lounging in the chair opposite with a feral grin and Percy standing primly in front of the fire with his hands behind his back, looking at him steadily. Harry gulped. “Not sure how many more we can come up with, Harry,” Bill said lazily, flicking imaginary dust off the arm of the chair. “Indeed,” Percy said self importantly, puffing out his chest slightly. “The supply is entirely exhausted from my quarter.” “You’d better get a move on,” George said seriously. “We simply don’t know all that many gits. Except Ron, he’s probably still got a few up his sleeve.” “My mates are not gits,” Ron protested from the couch. Harry hadn’t noticed him slouched on the couch, holding his stomach gingerly and nursing bottle of mead. “They’re just a little ... eccentric.” “Hermione’s got a lot to answer for,” George said sadly, shaking his head. “But we’ll worry about your vocabulary later, after we’ve finished with Harry, here.” Harry was very much of the opinion that they didn’t need to finish with him, in fact they didn’t need to start with him, they could just skip that part of the evening because it didn’t sound very pleasant and probably involved some sort of torture or dismemberment. At that moment Bill leaned forward abruptly. “I reckon we can only run interference for maybe two more weeks,” he said. “I’ve been holding back Abner Breben but I was hoping not to use him, he’s a little ... moist.” “Er, moist?” Harry asked not entirely sure where the conversation was going — or where it had come from. “Yeah,” Bill mused, leaning back in his chair. “Not really sure why but he always looks sort of damp and I swear he squelches when he walks. Too long down in the tunnels, I expect.” Harry stared at Bill in bewilderment. “I have absolutely no idea what you are on about,” Harry said finally. He waited expectantly, shifting uneasily while the book under the cushions dug into his spine. George sighed heavily. “I told you it was too subtle for him,” Hermione said suddenly. Harry started, he hadn’t heard her slip into the room but she was standing in the doorway, arms crossed and staring pointedly at them all. Harry was miffed. He’d put his life on the line for her custard and here she was on their side. “I honestly didn’t think he was this dense,” George whined. “I don’t know what you’re all talking about,” Harry said defiantly, covering up his confusion by loftily raising his chin so that the only person he could make eye contact with was the portrait of Fred on the mantelpiece. “Have you really always been this rubbish with women?” George asked. Harry glared at George, still not understanding the conversation, but acknowledging the insult nevertheless. “Perhaps a more ... direct approach is required,” Percy said. Bill hummed thoughtfully and Ron looked pained, but Harry couldn’t tell if that was from the surreal conversation or the custard. “I know I’d like you to be more bloody direct,” Harry muttered, shifting in the chair in a vain attempt to dislodge the book from his spine. “Look, Harry,” George said patiently, “we’ve done what we can but you need to step up to the plate, aim for the bullsye, shoot for victory —” “Your obsession with Muggle sports grows old, brother,” muttered Bill, rolling his eyes. Harry still had no idea what they were talking about but he had a strange feeling they were about to take him out and use him for target practice. He decided to address the only part of the conversation he thought he might be able to grasp. “Look,” Harry said, sitting up straight. “I am not rubbish with women.” He punctuated his statement by stabbing the air with his forefinger which he then ruined by crossing his arms petulantly and glowering at the lot of them. “Well then, what is it going to take for you with Ginny?” Ron asked with exasperation, throwing his hands in the air, narrowly missing Hermione who was attempting to snuggle into his side. Some of Ron’s mead sloshed out of the bottle. “Hey, I never touched her,” Harry protested, flinging his hands up in surrender as the book attacked him mercilessly, nearly dislodging a vertebrae as he fell back into the chair. “I swear I didn’t do anything more than stare at her legs and maybe her bum — but just a little bit — there was nothing in it, I swear!” The only reaction to Harry’s outburst was Bill raising one eyebrow. Harry didn’t quite know where to look and contented himself with staring at a burn mark on the hearthrug that looked like a big black dog. ‘That’d be right,’ thought Harry morosely. ‘What utterly mortifying moment of potential destruction would be complete without the appearance of The Grim?’ George cleared his throat. “The thing is,” George said, “about Ginny —” “She really doesn’t like me,” Harry interrupted hurriedly. “Nothing to worry about I swear —” “ — when are you going to make your move?” George finished as if Harry had not interrupted. “We can’t keep her occupied with idiots for long — Heath Winter wants to take her out — and he’s normal.” “Make my move?” Harry asked dumbly. His mind rapidly catalogued all the ways in which one could ‘make a move’. He had a feeling they weren’t talking about Quidditch. “With Ginny, not chess,” clarified Ron helpfully. “You mean ... ask her ... you know ...” Harry trailed off gesturing vainly in the air unable to formulate the words. “Merlin’s Beard, man!” Percy burst out uncharacteristically. “Would you just ask Ginevra on a date and be done with it?” Harry froze. He felt a little like he’d been blindsided by a Bludger while searching for the Snitch. The tension in the room seemed to go up — which could probably be entirely accounted for by Percy who straightened his perfectly straight pin-striped waistcoat and cleared his throat uncomfortably, looking as though he rather wished he hadn’t lost control. Harry rather wished he’d never entered the room. It was like being sucked through the Floo sideways and coming through a grate where everything was backwards. The fire popped suddenly, sending a shower of red sparks up the chimney and a noise in the doorway broke the tension suddenly. “Why d’you lot always leave me to do the dishes?” Ginny complained as she stalked over to the chairs in front of the fireplace, one hand on her hip and the other clutching a bottle of mead. “Yeah, well you’re a girl,” Ron said lazily, taking a swig of his mead. Hermione’s hand made swift contact with the back of his head. Ron nearly choked before blurting out something that could never save the situation. “That means you’re better at it!” “So sleeping on the couch,” George muttered. “I see your notions of male/female interaction do not extend to offering a lady a seat,” Ginny said pointedly. Harry hastily began to scramble to his feet but had only made it halfway out of the chair when Ginny dropped herself gracefully into it, effectively pinning him between the arm of the chair and the book wedged behind the cushions. It’s possible all his breath also left his body. Harry watched wide eyed as Ginny tipped her head back, taking a swig of her drink, the firelight flickering across her creamy skin. Harry though he heard another shower of sparks fly up the chimney but that could just be what he could feel where their knees touched and where Harry’s hand was trapped under Ginny’s thigh. George was leering again, Percy cleared his throat pointedly and Ron groaned, still rubbing his head. Harry gulped. Bill raised an eyebrow. Hermione sighed loudly. Ginny lowered the bottle of mead and settled back firmly into the chair before yelping and twisting around to dig the offending book out from behind the cushions. “Wedding Planner,” she read from the cover of the white spiral bound notebook. “Should have known you’d have a book for it.” Ginny grinned as she tossed the book to Hermione and settled into the chair once again. “Oh good, you’ve found it,” Hermione said, apparently delighted. “I couldn’t remember what colour I’d chosen for Harry’s robes.” “They’re black aren’t they?” Ron asked. “All those robes we tried on were black.” Hermione shook her head as if Ron was a small child. “No,” she explained patiently as she flipped through the notebook. “The first was raven and the other three were ebony, soot and charcoal.” Ron just rolled his eyes. “Well, we wouldn’t want a mix up there,” Ginny said under her breath, her voice laced with sarcasm as Hermione launched into a description of why obsidian and midnight were the wrong choice entirely. Harry didn’t care what colour he wore, he only wondered if Ginny could feel the sparks the way he could because there was a danger he might spontaneously combust. But what a way to go. |
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