Harry was drunk—tremendously, outrageously, hilariously drunk—and Ginny didn’t quite know what to do about it.
“Sfffpiffing weddin’,” he slurred, bumbling around the folding chair she’d snatched from the reception tent and stashed on the far side of her parents’ garden where hopefully no wedding guests would spot The Chosen One falling all over himself in a drunken daze. “You think, Gin? G’d wedding? Gin?”
“It was a lovely wedding,” Ginny agreed, attempting to maneuver some of his flopping limbs into the unaccommodating chair. An errant elbow nearly poked out her eye. “Hey—ooph—oh, for Merlin’s sake, Harry, just sit down!”
“T’Audrey and Percy!” he crowed, but did indeed throw himself down into the chair as ordered, though so enthusiastically that the momentum caused him to slip right off again, toppling inelegantly to the hard ground. He lay prone on his back upon the grass, his legs still hanging crookedly off the chair seat. He snorted and giggled. “Oops.”
“I’m going to kill Charlie,” Ginny muttered, watching her boyfriend continue to squirm about the grass like a ruddy flobberworm. “What the bloody hell did he give you to drink?”
“Ginny,” Harry said, in a whisper that was not even remotely close to a whisper. “C'mere.”