Ginny Weasley had the perfect life. She'd lived through You-Know-Who's abortive rise to power and the chaos that followed, she'd gotten Harry Potter to chase her like a lovestruck rabbit, and now, six months before her wedding, she was contemplating what kind of dress she would look best in. A smug smile curved her mouth as she gazed at her reflection in the prism of mirrors, turning this way and that to see the full effect. She'd wanted Harry Potter since she was eleven years old, and now he would be hers.

"This one," she told the deferential sales-witch, who nodded and waved her wand once, recording all of Ginny's measurements and the details of the dress. This boutique had come highly recommended, and Ginny was not disappointed. It was quite a coup for a Weasley, used to scrounging at second-hand shoppes for everything, and still coming up short. Then again, Harry was loaded, was he not? She hopped off the stool and laughed, the sound of a delighted bride-to-be. Nothing could spoil this. Nothing.

Well, nothing except for slipping out of the boutique as she fastened her cloak at her throat and seeing her fiance ducking into an alley with a frizzy-haired Muggle girl in a too-short skirt and showing quite a bit of skin. For an instant, red-hot rage flooded her body and her fingers tightened so hard around her wand, it was a miracle it didn't snap in half.

"How dare he," she hissed to herself, sounding more like a snake than anything human. She started to march over there, more than willing to give Harry a dose of her temper and a piece of her mind, but then some bit of her urged caution.

So instead, she eased up to the wall and peeked around the corner. Harry, her Harry, leaned against the wall with his trousers undone, and the girl on her knees in front of him, bobbing her head up and down. It was more than obvious what they were doing, and a flush of shame coloured Ginny's cheeks to think of her husband-to-be cavorting in public like this, with someone that wasn't her. Was obviously not her. It was absolutely mortifying and she wondered if anyone else knew.

Harry groaned, a sound that carried even to her ears, and emptied himself in the girl's mouth. She spluttered a bit and gracefully stood, pressing her slick, stained lips to his. Ginny felt her gag reflex make itself known and hurried away, Apparating home and feeling grateful that Harry wasn't due back for another several hours. She was going to be sick at any moment.

"All right, Ginevra," she told herself after the bout of illness had passed, gazing at herself critically in the mirror. "What are you going to do about this? You're not married...yet. Youthful indiscretion? Stupidity? Cheating bastard?"

Personally, she was leaning toward cheating bastard, but she had to admit that being the Boy Who Lived and knowing you could have any slag you wanted must have been more than a bit heady. And it was only the once. A quick shag in an alleyway. Perhaps it was a one-off.

Or so she thought until she followed him around for the next week and saw him with five other girls. Each time, they kissed and felt each other up and disappeared into some dim, musty alley.

"Enough," Ginny said. More than enough. But still, she pinned a smile on her face, pretended to be the happy bride-to-be, until their wedding. She said "I do" and felt her heart crack at the deceit. Until he smiled at her, green eyes brimming with supposed love, and said "I do" right back.

Lying, cheating arse, she thought and kissed him obediently. At the reception, she slipped away, fixing each of them a glass of wine. His glass deserved a little...extra, and she handed it to him with a special reverence, the shy, blushing bride. He grinned at her and took a long sip.

It was a shame, Ginny thought, as he fell at her feet and began to convulse. She'd never met a fellow who could actually hold his arsenic.