not sure why so many fics assume the ministry host lots of galas but it’s a fun idea. I like the idea of Ginny getting to buy a new dress and getting her walks down the stairs and takes Harry breath away princess moment.
A/N: the Ministry hosts lots of galas so we fic writers can indulge in lots of festive fluff! On that note, Alexa, play The Way You Look Tonight…
Ginny hadn’t felt nerves like this since the last time she’d found herself facing off against a Death Eater.
On that occasion, her fear had been justified. The killing curse that had passed her by mere inches had demonstrated with bone-chilling clarity, just how close she’d been to mortal peril.
Of course, she was in no such danger now.
It was astounding, really, how much circumstances had changed from one Christmas to the next. Last Christmas Eve, she’d spent the night in her bedroom, tossing and turning, unable to stop her restless mind from wondering…
So many questions had plagued her: where were Harry, Ron and Hermione? Were they safe? Would she ever see them again?
Now, just one short year later, returned to the very same bedroom where last year she’d buried her head in her pillow to smother the sounds of her desolate sobs, she had the answers to all of her questions; and while her hands were trembling, it was not sorrow that caused Ginny to shake.
“You look perfect!” Fleur declared. Clapping her hands together in delight, she took a step back to admire the image of Ginny in the mirror affixed to the wall in front of them.
“Are you sure?” Ginny resented the nervous quiver to her voice.
It was ridiculous, utterly stupid really, to be so consumed by nerves at the prospect of attending a frivolous Christmas Ball, but no matter how much Ginny told herself as much, the flutter of fairies currently swirling madly in her stomach refused to settle.
“C’est magnifique.” Fleur stepped back to her, adjusting the flowing cape that fell from the back of Ginny’s emerald, off-the-shoulder gown. “Tu es magnifique.”
Fleur reached up, halting Ginny’s hands before they could tug at the carefully arranged strands where the top had been pinned back. “It is striking. All eyes will be on you.”
Far from being reassuring, this statement caused Ginny’s heart to thud more erratically. All eyes would already be on her, that much was inevitable when one attended an official Ministry function as the date of the Saviour of the Wizarding World.
Already, she was anticipating the articles that would be dedicated to her in Witch Weekly over the coming weeks. Ginny was under no illusion that they would be any more flattering than the ones she’d been the subject of in the summer, when she and Harry had first been photographed – without either of their knowledge – together in Diagon Alley.
People, of course, expected the Chosen One to be with someone sophisticated; someone glamorous; someone whose idea of good time was slightly more high brow than a game of pick-up Quidditch in the orchard with her brothers.
Suffice to say, Ginny had not been judged by the general population to meet those lofty standards.
Looking in the mirror now, however, Ginny hardly recognised the hollow-eyed, sallow skinned, morose girl that had appeared unwittingly in print a few short months ago.
Fleur had worked a miracle more powerful than magic.
The silk dress she was wearing – borrowed from Fleur – hugged curves Ginny didn’t even know she possessed. The bodice was tight fitting, the waist cinched flatteringly and the skirt flowed gently to the ground. A charm of Fleur’s own invention – as she’d informed Ginny proudly – caused the light material to shimmer faintly with every slight movement Ginny made.
Her usual careless mass of waves had been battled into uniform loose curls, and the front had been pulled back in a complicated braid that had been secured with two gold and emerald pins that she was already panicked about the prospect of losing before she could return them to Fleur tomorrow.
Her assumption that Fleur would be less than helpful with makeup, given her genetic predisposition to require none, had proved patently incorrect. In truth, Ginny wasn’t even sure if whatever potions and tonics Fleur had covered her face in technically counted as makeup.
Ginny still looked like herself, all her defining features – including the multitude of freckles she usually attempted to disguise – were still perfectly visible, but every imperfection she tended to dwell on seemed to have faded into obscurity, leaving an overall impression that she was struggling to find fault with.
“You are ready,” Fleur said, her tone leaving no room for Ginny to argue.
She might look the part, but she certainly didn’t feel it. The dress, the hair, the makeup, were all a façade, one she was sure would crumble under even the lightest of scrutiny.
Suddenly, going head to head with a murderous Death Eater didn’t seem like the worst option.
It wasn’t an option at all. The only option Ginny had was to allow herself to be led out of her bedroom by a triumphantly grinning Fleur, whose grasp on her hand was vicelike and utterly inescapable.
They reached the Burrow’s rickety staircase; Ginny’s free hand gripped the bannister for dear life. She descended, willing herself to remain steady on the unfamiliarly high heels that had seemed the perfect compliment to the gown in her bedroom, and now seemed like a death trap designed to bring about her public humiliation.
Thankfully, mostly due to Fleur’s graceful lead, she made it to the bottom of the stairs still upright.
“Wait there,” Fleur commanded, finally dropping Ginny’s hand. “You will make a grand entrance.”
“I don’t want to make a –” But Ginny may as well have made her protests to the wall. Fleur had already pushed open the kitchen door and peeked her head around it.
“She is ready,” Fleur announced.
And then, without further delay, she opened the door fully, and stood aside, gesturing for Ginny to proceed.
“It’s just me,” Ginny said, shaking her head as she stumbled into the kitchen. “There’s no need for all the –”
Her mother’s loud gasp drowned out the rest of her sentence. It was quickly followed by a general murmur of surprise from the rest of her family assembled in the kitchen.
Briefly, she was aware of Mum’s hands covering her mouth, and her eyes widening in silent shock, and Ron’s quietly muttered ‘bloody hell’ but none of it really registered; Ginny’s eyes had bypassed them entirely, falling immediately on Harry.
He was sitting in the chair beside Ron’s at the kitchen table, both of them were already outfitted in sharp black dressrobes, and Harry had made some attempt to tame his hair, though disobedient tendrils were already starting to escape, begging Ginny to run her hands through them.
“Wow,” he said, stopping Ginny in her tracks before she could follow that particular urge. His eyebrows lifted high over his glasses and his mouth was slightly agape. The way his eyes roved over her made her previously frantic heart stutter and fail. “You look… wow.”
At least she could assure herself that the burning in her cheeks had surely turned them a festive shade of red. “Is that a good wow or..?”
“It’s a really good wow.”
A smile that had not felt anywhere close to surfacing for most of the afternoon broke free on Ginny’s face, and even Ron’s obnoxious voice couldn’t hope to banish it. “All right,” he nudged Harry on the shoulder. “Stop looking at her like that.”
But Harry’s eyes remained glued to Ginny, not even flinching as though Ron was nothing more than a mildly annoying fly. “Like what?”
“Like your eyes have been replaced with love hearts,” Ron replied. “No offense mate, but it’s disgusting.”
“Don’t stop looking at me like that,” Ginny disagreed.
She couldn’t argue with Ron’s assessment of Harry’s current expression, but, far from finding it as revolting as her brother did, Ginny’s nerves seemed to be melting beneath the warmth of Harry’s adoring gaze.
His mouth curved into a smile that set her heart racing once more. “I wasn’t going to.”
“I want photographs!” Mum declared, already bustling into the living room, evidently to fetch both Ginny’s father and the ancient camera housed in the cabinet.
“I will help with the lighting,” Fleur declared haughtily, following after Mum.
“I’m going to pick Hermione up,” Ron said, giving Harry another shove as he stood from the table. “I’ll see you at the Ministry – try to wipe that expression off your face before then; you’re going to put me off my dinner.”
“Nothing has ever put you off your dinner,” Harry replied, standing and lightly returning Ron’s shove.
“And you’ll be too busy looking at Hermione to care what we’re doing,” Ginny added.
Ron had no reply to this, most likely because of the accuracy of the statement. He merely shrugged, giving the pair of them a silent wave before slinking out of the backdoor.
Alone now, Harry crossed the kitchen to her side.
“You really do look beautiful,” he said earnestly, his hands falling to Ginny’s waist to pull her closer.
At that moment, she suspected she was capable of glowing without the aid of Fleur’s enchantment.
She shrugged as she lifted her arms, letting them come to rest around Harry’s neck. “Well, you know, Christmases in recent years have just been so magical, I knew topping them would be a challenge, but I decided to rise to it.”
Harry huffed in dry amusement. “You really didn’t have to do anything to beat the freezing cold tent, or the really festive Christmas at Grimmauld Place complete with depressing hospital visit.”
Ginny shook her head, biting her lip against a smile that broke through anyway. “Ah, but what about the year you got in a fight with the Minister for Magic? I know that was a personal highlight for you.”
Harry’s forehead came to rest against hers, so that his lips almost brushed Ginny’s when he spoke. “I’m not really sure it’s a compliment, but this dress even tops that.”
She was still smiling as his mouth found hers. The warmth spreading in her chest was caused by much more than Harry’s kiss. It had nothing to do with their inappropriate jokes, or their finery. It was simply that they were both here, wrapped in one another’s embrace, with a lifetime of happy but uneventful Christmases stretched out before them.
The very prospect had seemed so impossible just a few short months ago, that the certainty of it now made Ginny’s head spin.
As was usual, she had no opportunity to find balance before they were interrupted.
“Ginny! Harry!” Mum’s voice called from the living room. “Come in here, your father is going to take pictures in front of the Christmas tree!”
Reluctantly, Ginny pulled her head away. Harry’s grip tightened on her waist, silently confirming that he too recognised this was to be their last moment of peaceful solitude for several long hours.
“Ready?” Harry asked, one of his hands slipped from her waist and entwined with hers.
Ginny nodded, keeping her eyes locked with his to combat the nerves threatening to resurface within her. Everything would be fine, she knew, as long as he was there. “Just don’t let go of my hand.”
“With you looking like that?” Harry shook his head incredulously. “Don’t worry, I plan on keeping you firmly beside me all night.”
