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“Try it.”
“I really don’t think—“
“C’mon, Harry, I dare you.”
Harry Potter, who was feeling a giddy, fizzing sort of happiness, hardened his features with no small amount of effort. “I’m the oldest, remember? I don’t take the dates, I give them.” This was only the truth, as most Gryffindor Quidditch players knew: he had once dared his little brother Michael to show up in the match against Hufflepuff starkers but for pants and a sash. Michael, as the next youngest Potter, had done it without even a breath of hesitation.
The Howler Lily Potter had sent had been for Harry, of course.
“Oh, are you calling me a baby now?” Ginny challenged, grin wide and eyes shining. This was not generally her reaction when someone hinted that she, the youngest Weasley, was in any way still in nappies. But there under the bright skies and crowded streets of Hogsmeade, on one of those rare winter days that produced sun rather than snow, there was a brilliant cord stretching between them, pulling them closer and closer. And Harry didn’t quite mean physically, though he could smell the honeysuckle and lavender rising from the red strands of her hair. It was her shampoo, the recipe she’d once shared with Harry’s little sisters, mixing it up for them in the cauldron outside their cottage.
That had been the first time Ginny had ever come over without Ron, and it was a vivid memory. Jane and Daisy had been ecstatic, but Harry had been stricken. He’d wandered into his own kitchen, just wearing pajama bottoms, holding a soggy Ellen — his parents’ last surprise, he hoped — in his arms, and found Ginny there, standing in a splinter of sunlight, beaming. Something in his heart had constricted, and it had had nothing to do with the way Ellen’s pudgy little fingers had just found his nipple and twisted it. Hard.
“No,” Harry said firmly. “I would never call you a baby, I’d rather not have bats coming out of my nose until our next Quidditch match.”
Her laughter was a quick, silvery thing, washing over him. The streets of Hogsmeade were decorated with crystalline snowflakes, hanging in the air, and sparking in the sunlight, catching on Ginny’s hair.
“Ginny…”
“Harry…”
Harry realized that their eyes had not left one another’s for quite some time, and they really were standing quite close.
Ginny waved the bag under his nose.
It was a new thing, this. Some bloke and his family had come over from Mexico and opened a business that sold both meals and food stuff, most of which had been unfamiliar to Harry. Quite a lot of it was good, especially everything that was wrapped in a tortilla, but Harry had not ventured further into that world in which nearly everyone but him had done. His parents were not particularly adventurous when it came to food, and Harry followed their lead.
“I can’t tempt you?” Ginny asked softly.
“It’s called a ghost pepper,” Harry pointed out. “It even made Nearly Headless Nick’s face turn red.”
Her laughter rang out again. “It did not,” she retorted.
“What if it kills me?” asked Harry. They were wandering now, eyes still on each other. Harry ignored Cormac McLaggen’s muttered “watch it, tosser,” and finally led them to a bench. Ginny did not seem to feel the need to put any sort of distance between them. Their thighs brushed together and then — to Harry’s immense delight — stayed pressed firmly together. His body warmed with both sensation and humor.
“I would never harm you,” said Ginny. Then her grin blossomed again. “Just try it, Harry!”
Harry gave her hair a gentle tug, then let his fingers idle with the bright strands. They were standing at the edge of an entirely different path, he and Ginny, Harry realized. They’d been meandering toward it that summer, when she’d started coming over without Ron. Even Michael had noticed. But Ginny was more popular than her own good, and Harry did not want to do so much as hold her hand if it made her pull away from their friendship altogether. But now, here in Hogsmeade at Christmas, with snowflakes hung magically in the air, and the truly enormous tree with baubles and an entire family of fairies inhabiting the branches and making them glow, Harry thought his worries might perhaps be ludicrous.
At least there’s no mistletoe where we go, thought Harry. Madame Puddifoot’s was covered in the stuff, but neither he nor Ginny would be caught dead there.
“It’ll burn,” he protested, but it was half-hearted.
“Don’t you trust me?” Ginny asked.
And suddenly, there they were, stepping off together on a path Harry had wanted to travel for quite some time. In fact, in his dreams, asleep or awake, he and Ginny had got quite a bit far down that path. Heat climbed in his cheeks.
“I do trust you,” Harry said quietly. Her head ducked, and their mutual gaze was broken. Her pale skin flushed.
“Well,” she said brightly, after a moment, “then you’ll try it.”
Harry sighed. “I will, but honestly, I tried that man’s Jalapeño Hexwich, and it made me cry.”
“I know,” Ginny said soothingly. “Michael took pictures. Jane and Daisy gave me one.”
Harry groaned, shutting his eyes. Little siblings, Harry thought with amused disgust.
“You do the same to them,” she pointed out, “if not worse.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time I put Ellen in with Jane—“
“Don’t change the subject, Harry. Now close your eyes. You just said you trust me.”
Harry relaxed his shoulders. “All right,” he said. “But I’m warning you, Weasley…”
“I’m warning you, Potter…” Ginny said, smirking.
Someone, who sounded suspiciously like Michael, shouted somewhere in the background for unknown persons to ‘get a room’. “Just do it, then,” said Harry. He closed his eyes, but there she was, still emblazoned upon his lids. Ginny’s thumb brushed against his bottom lip; as though she was now the one to give his body commands, his mouth fell open. Then, something was put gently in his mouth. Harry squeezed his eyes shut even more tightly, bracing himself for the spice that all the boys in the dorm bragged about, this ghost pepper imported from the Americas by the nutters who lived there. He really had found the jalapeño nearly unbearable, and this was going to be so much worse. It was—
—sweet. It was sweet and crumbling in his mouth, and it was quite possibly the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He grunted. It wasn’t a treacle tart, not quite, but it was similar enough that his tastebuds were standing up and cheering as though bystanders at the Quidditch World Cup.
“Wha…”
“I told you you should trust me.” There was smugness in her tone, but there was a breathy quality to it, too. Harry cracked his eyes open. Ginny was very close, her hair veiling them from the crowds in Hogsmeade. “They make desserts there, too—“
“You told me it was a pepper—“
“I did no such thing, you just assumed—“
“Well, you let me—“
“It was pretty funny,” Ginny admitted. “They said it was a surprise dessert, what did it taste like?”
And then, as though a lightning bolt flung itself out of the clear, cold sky and slammed into Harry, he knew he had to kiss her. “It tastes,” he said, leaning forward, giving her plenty of time to move away from him if she so chose, “like this.”
And he kissed her. It was a long, slow Christmas morning of a kiss. Their breaths mingled, their tongues danced. Harry tasted the sweetness of all her own. His hand slid up to cup the back of her head; hers went to his heart, which drummed a heavy beat in his chest. There was nothing else real, in the world, Ginny, not even his brother’s loud mouth — this time, there was no doubt who he was telling to get a room — or the hooting Hogwarts students nearby. Just her, and how her lips felt sliding against his, and how suddenly this ordinary day in December had become anything but.
When they finally drew apart, Harry making a rather rude gesture at Michael behind his back, it was then his turn to rub his thumb against her bottom lip. It was shiny and beestung. She was perfect, Ginny.
“You know,” he said, very quietly, “I might just take one of your dares… I like your kind of spice