My Best Friend's Wedding

A/N: This story has been in the works for about three years now, but I finally think it's time to share it with you. Inspired by deadwoodpecker, who told me years ago I needed to get over my obsession with Draco/Hermione and write some Harry/Ginny lemon. Thanks, Ella. :)

When Hermione planned her wedding, she just knew she'd thought of everything. It would be June, and the lawn outside the Burrow would do quite nicely. She'd make sure that she cast foolproof charms on everything so George couldn't interfere with an exploding cake or flying dance floor. She'd have lilies, her favorite flower, her dress would be perfect, crafted by the very best robes designers in Diagon Alley, and she was even cutting back the calories and jogging every day to make sure her figure was slimmed down by the wedding.

Even Ron, the one variable in her plan, seemed to have been properly subdued. The day after he'd proposed she'd sat him down and explained to him that like every other young girl, she'd spent years planning every detail of her wedding and he was not to mess it up. After all, the bargain Hermione had made was irresistible: She planned the wedding, and he got to plan the honeymoon—from where they went and what sort of clothing she brought, to what sort activities they engaged in. Men were so easily won over sometimes.

Even their maid of honor and best man were perfect. Harry and Ginny were the epitome of a dream couple. Harry was just beginning his career in the Auror department while Ginny was halfway through the Auror academy, having finished Hogwarts a year later. There were rumours circulating that he was planning on proposing soon, and good riddance, Hermione thought. She'd never in a thousand years imagined herself being the first one to get married. Ron was . . . well, Ron. He did things slowly. He didn't like change. He was a git sometimes. But he was her git, and that's what mattered. And when he proposed, it was perfect.

They'd just been walking one evening, walking back to her flat after she'd spent a long day at the Ministry, slaving over years of backed up appeals and cases. Walking in the moonlight, because she hadn't wanted to take the Knight Bus and to that day she wasn't entirely confident in Ron's Apparating skills. And eventually they'd decided to take a break on a cozy little park bench, and Ron had just looked over and said, "Hermione, I really don't know how I ever got so lucky." And he'd pulled out a ring and got down on one knee. It had been just like Ron. No fluff. No fancy dinner or decked out limousine (though she doubted he knew what a limousine was). Just raw, honest love, shining out of his eyes, and the way he kissed her when she accepted. Yes, her wedding would be just as perfect.

But it seemed that there was one thing Hermione could not control as she discovered one month, two days, and four hours before her wedding.

"I was thinking if we charm it right, we can put the third layer on top of a tier . . . rather like this . . . and float the enchanted flowers around the first cake layer. It'll look lovely in the evening light." Molly Weasley's face shined as she bustled about, scratching notes on a parchment and flipping through a large book of brightly coloured and intricately designed wedding cakes.

"As long as it's simple," insisted Hermione, considering the options, her brow furrowed in concentration as she bent over the book. She loved wedding cakes, but elaborate ones often made it appear that the bride and groom were trying too hard. On the other hand, sometimes an overly simple cake design could be really tacky.

Not that she'd been to many magical weddings since graduating from Hogwarts—Bill and Fleur's had been her first. Then came the surprising announcement that Dean and Lavender were getting married, just a year after Voldemort's defeat. Their wedding had been hastily thrown together but still very tasteful. Percy and Audrey had been next, their wedding just last spring. On the other hand, when she was younger, she'd attended plenty of Muggle weddings with her parents. Although she was an only child, her mother's family was extensive. Every year it seemed a different cousin was getting married (sometimes for the second or third time).

Hermione noted a particularly appealing cake design and opened her mouth to point it out to Mrs. Weasley, when suddenly a flash of blue light sailed over their heads and shattered the cookie jar on the mantle.

Stunned beyond words, Hermione stared, open mouthed, because she recognised the curse. Evidently Mrs. Weasley did too, because she opened her mouth to scream Ginny's name, but was drowned out by a yelp as Harry burst into the room, ducking for cover behind the kitchen chairs.

"COWARD!" screamed Ginny, right behind him, her wand aloft, her hair flying along behind. "Now you're going to hide? You faced Voldemort, you wanker. Come out and take it like a man!"

She shot a curse at the spot where Harry cowered, but he used his chair as a shield and it splintered into pieces. Mrs. Weasley let out a shriek, and Hermione stood, frozen as she watched the battle. But Harry's Auror training was finally kicking in and he rolled, flinging himself behind the counter as another spell shattered the kitchen tiles where he'd just stood. Then he leaned out and fired off three spells in rapid succession. Ginny dodged, just barely making it out of the way in time. One of her sleeves was smoking.

"Oh, you're going to pay for that, Potter!" she cried, hair standing on end. Her wand slashed the air and a flash of indigo forced Harry to pull up a hasty shield. Harry prepared to retaliate, but then . . .

"ENOUGH!"

Hermione froze. So did Harry and Ginny, stopped mid-fight by Mrs. Weasley's fury.

"No more fighting!" she shrieked. "Look what you're doing to my house! That cookie jar was my grandmother's! You two ought to be ashamed of what you've done. Throwing dangerous spells around like child's play, honestly. You're adults, for Merlin's sake!"

No one spoke. Harry still crouched behind the counter, wand outstretched, and Ginny remained motionless in the doorway, eyes fixed on her mother. Mrs. Weasley's face had turned a dangerous shade of crimson.

Hermione suddenly felt nervous for her own safety, and she hadn't done anything wrong.

"However mad you are there is no reason for engaging in all-out warfare in MY HOME! Now put those wands away. NOW."

Ginny gritted her teeth, but obeyed. Harry stashed his wand in his pocket, but Hermione could see that his fingers were twitching just inches away from the wand as if he thought he might need it again in a moment's notice.

Molly Weasley rose to her full five-foot-four height and drew in a long breath. "If you so much as raise a wand at each other again, so help me I will banish you both from my house for a month!"

Ginny glowered. Harry was wide-eyed; Hermione figured he'd probably never been yelled at by Mrs. Weasley before.

There was a long moment of silence before she spoke again. "Now, do you two have something to say to each other?"

Harry opened his mouth, then seemed to reconsider. He clamped his lips together and glared.

Suddenly, Ginny exploded. "NO!" she screamed. "I have nothing to say to him! But you can tell him to get his rubbish out of my flat, or else I'm burning every last sock!"

Then she spun around and nearly bolted for the stairway. Long after she'd disappeared from view, Hermione could hear the stomp stomp stomp of footsteps. Finally, a door slammed shut, shaking even the table Hermione was steadying herself on.

Harry was silent.

Mrs. Weasley took a cautious step toward him. "Harry, dear, whatever was that about?"

When he didn't answer, she continued, "I'm sure she'll cool off in a little while, Harry. Ginny's got a dangerous temper, but she's usually rational once she calms down."

Still, nothing. Hermione wanted to stop Mrs. Weasley; she knew Harry well enough by now to know that he wasn't hurt or sorry or upset or anything like that.

He was angry. She could tell by the way his fists were clenched, a vein bulging above his left eyebrow. Maybe angry wasn't the right word here. Harry was furious.

"Do you want some custard?" said Mrs. Weasley, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder.

If possible, Harry because even stiffer. "No, thank you," he grated out. "I've got to—"

"Got to what, Harry?"

But Harry was already striding toward the door, stomping nearly as loudly as Ginny had. When he slammed the door, the whole house shuddered.

Mrs. Weasley and Hermione rushed to the door and flung it open, watching him tramp across the overgrown lawn.

"It's over, Potter! Don't ever talk to me again!" Ginny's voice was distant, and Hermione knew she must be shouting out at Harry from a window.

"Don't worry, that will be easy," Harry shouted back, spinning around and glaring up at what Hermione assumed was Ginny's window, "seeing that I never want to talk to you ever again."

"And don't you show up on my doorstep drunk and wanting some, because you'd be wasting your time!" Ginny spat, her voice high and lofty above them.

"I won't need to," Harry replied nastily. "Plenty of . . . more skilled witches are practically beating down my door every day . . ."

Mrs. Weasley gasped. Hermione clapped her hand over her mouth. That was way, way below the belt in her opinion—and apparently Ginny thought so too. A scream of outrage split the air, and a second later, a yellow crackling spell appeared out of nowhere. Harry wasted no time turning on his heels and bolting toward the garden gate, dodging spells and occasionally shooting back a few of his own. The second he was beyond the gate, Harry twisted, disapparating with a loud crack.

At last, there was silence.

An hour earlier . . .

When Harry arrived at the Burrow to meet up with Ron for their weekly bloke night, he was already planning on avoiding Ginny, but she was right there at the door the moment he knocked.

"Upstairs," she said tightly, and Harry knew there was no use arguing.

"Ron will be waiting . . ." he attempted anyway.

"I've already told Ron that you'll meet up with him later at the Hog's Head," said Ginny. "You and I have matters to discuss."

It had only been an hour since he'd last seen her. The trainees in the Auror program had been let out a bit early for the weekend, but Harry had stayed late to finish up some paperwork on a case of two nutcases who'd been stalking teenage Muggle girls and scaring them by making things move or voices sound whenever they were home alone.

Harry followed Ginny upstairs, feeling as if he were marching to his own execution. Finally, they reached her room. Ginny let him step inside first, then shut the door behind her.

"What was that?" she said, her voice low and furious.

Harry looked up. And gulped. "What are you talking about?"

"You chose Olsen to go on that reconnaissance mission with you," she said bluntly, and Harry noticed that her fingers had curled into small fists.

"Olsen performed well on the last training sequence . . . Shacklebolt and I felt that he was ready for work in the field." He was repeating the words he'd rehearsed in his head a dozen times at least, but now they sounded hollow.

"Bollocks," said Ginny, eyes blazing. "I was the best out there and you know it. I scored perfect O's on every one of those fucking tests. I've been at the top of my class since day one. It should've been me who was picked. But you had something to do with that, didn't you, Potter?"

Uh oh. She'd called him "Potter," definitely a bad sign. Kingsley's words came back to Harry. She'll figure it out, Potter. She's smarter than you. Don't be an idiot.

Kingsley had been right.

"Olsen was just as prepared to go into the field as you were!" said Harry, trying to sound convinced. Even I wouldn't believe me. He decided to switch tactics. "Listen, Ginny, just because we're going out doesn't mean I can allow you the first chance at everything. There are rules against having favorites—"

"Don't talk to me about favorites!" shrieked Ginny, cutting him off. "You've never favored me over the other cadets, and neither has Shacklebolt! Every damn award I've received, every top grade, I've deserved it. If I ever got special treatment it was because I worked my arse off so I could be the best. Don't give me shite about favoritism. That first mission was rightfully mine, and you know it. The Auror Academy has always been built on the principles of excellence in every aspect of education, and one of those principles is rewarding excellence displayed by the trainees."

She has the bloody handbook memorised!

He was screwed.

"Listen here," said Harry, angry now, "you may be good, but that mission was really dangerous! Shacklebolt was very nearly taken out by one of the thugs caught robbing Madame Malkin's—"

It was the wrong thing to say.

"What?" Eyes narrowed, Ginny took a step toward him. He could practically feel the heat radiating off her skin. "Are you seriously going to stand here and tell me that the mission was too dangerous for me—and yet you took that ponce Olsen along? He very nearly cost Archibald his left ball yesterday, and yet you felt that he was more competent than me?"

She moved closer. Harry fought the urge to run for his life.

Something flickered through Ginny's eyes, and if possible, her mouth got tighter. Her hands were trembling in rage. "Or did you keep me back because you wanted to keep me safe?"

Harry gaped at her.

"God, Harry! That's why, isn't it? You wanted to protect me from the big bad world again!"

"I didn't . . ."

"Don't even bother denying it! It's so like you. I've got news for you. I'm not eleven anymore. I don't need to be saved or protected, or whatever. I can take care of myself."

"There are still Death Eaters out there!" shouted Harry. "They'll target you because you're connected to me. If you . . . if ever . . . I couldn't handle it."

"Oh, please." Ginny snorted and rolled her eyes. "That was sweet the first time. Even made me swoon a little. But really? You're still claiming you need to 'protect' me from all the scary Death Eaters? Why do you think I joined the Aurors, anyway? Because I want to help make the world safer just as much as you do! I'll never be able to do that if you keep me cooped up here." She bounced a little on the balls of her feet, unable to keep still. Her fists kept clenching and unclenching, not unlike Harry's own stomach. "I thought you wanted me to become an Auror, Harry! Evidently, you feel differently, though."

"You've got it all wrong," said Harry. He had wanted her to join the Aurors. Well, until he realised that she'd be in the same lines of fire he faced every day. He liked the adventure, the thrill of fighting dark wizards, the risk of being in danger's way every day, but the idea of Ginny there too? Not so appealing.

"I never thought being an Auror would be safe, Harry," said Ginny. "I never thought it would be fun and games . . ."

"Well, it looked to me like you were having fun out there yesterday," snapped Harry. He was angry, really angry, and not completely sure why. She had no right to be upset at him for merely being protective. What was so wrong about wanting your girlfriend to stay alive?

"What the hell are you talking about?" demanded Ginny, frowning.

"The no-magic-allowed obstacle course?" Harry knew he shouldn't—this was way out of line—but he plunged on anyway, unable to suppress the anger anymore. "Hollins had his hands all over your bum and the worst part was, you looked as if you were enjoying it!"

She stared at him, mouth slightly open. "He only had his hands on my bum because we were scaling a bloody two-and-a-half-metre wall! I may be athletic, but in case you haven't noticed, the tall gene seems to have passed over me." Now she was twisting her ponytail. "Not that you would ever take that into consideration," she added bitterly, and, Harry thought, unfairly. "You only see what you want to."

Ginny stomped to the wardrobe and began to pull her robes off. "What if I did enjoy it, Harry?" she challenged, back still turned. "Would that be such a crime? We haven't had sex in three fucking months."

There. She'd finally come out and put into words the elephant in the room.

The realization hit him hard: something was very, very wrong. Harry suddenly felt as if he'd been pushed onto a downward spiraling slide, with no chance of saving himself.

Or his relationship.

"I'm not going to apologize for being career-oriented," said Harry tightly.

"No," said Ginny. "You should apologize for having your head stuck so far up your arse that you can't even see that this hasn't been working in a very long time."

"It's not like you come home every day and say, 'Alright, I want to have sex, so let's get at it,'" Harry defended himself. His voice was louder, he noticed.

"No, I haven't," conceded Ginny. "But only because when I did, you were always 'too busy' or 'too tired' or 'not in the mood.' Honestly! After a while I just stopped trying!"

"And whose fault is that?"

Ginny spun around. "Oh, no you don't. You do not get to put the blame on me! Not when I'm the only one who's actually been doing anything to salvage what's left of you and me, Harry."

Harry laughed harshly. "Really, Ginny? You're going to play that card? You're the only one who's been out doing god knows what with your buddies from Auror training—"

"While you're holed up in your office until unearthly hours in the morning, and you expect me to be doing more? God, Harry!"

"Well, if you're not happy with the way things are going, maybe you should leave."

A long, icy silence. There. He'd finally said it.

They looked at each other. Out the open window, the wind was winding through the orchard and birds were singing. The cheerful noises seemed unbearably inappropriate.

He examined her face, searching for something, he wasn't sure yet. He wanted her to say that no, she did not want things to end like this, no, she didn't mean all the things she'd just said . . .

A flicker of hesitation passed through her eyes, but it was gone before he could even seize the fragile hope that she'd changed her mind. In its place was cold, icy resolve.

"You're in my room, Potter. You leave."

"So that's it, huh?" He felt numb inside, but the words kept tumbling out of mouth, uncontrolled and irrational. "No parting words?"

"Yeah," shouted Ginny. "I do have some farewells, Harry. Fuck you!"

"Fuck you too," Harry yelled back. "But now that I think of it, you'll have Hollins for that, won't you?"

Ginny screamed in rage, fumbling blindly for her wand even as Harry drew his in self defense—

Then they simultaneously cast the first spells.

When Harry and Ginny broke up, Hermione was devastated.

Surprisingly enough, it was Ron who reassured her. "I wouldn't worry about it," he said as he gingerly unwrapped the bandage from his swollen knee. "They'll probably be back together in a week."

"You said that last week," she snapped, fishing around in her pocket for her wand. The gash looked pretty nasty, but she was confident she could heal it herself. "And the week before."

Ron winced as she cleaned the wound. Auror training was no walk in the park, but now that George was back on his feet with the joke shop, Ron was determined to join Harry in the Auror department. Hermione had at first been wholeheartedly supportive, but now she was becoming more and more skeptical as the injuries Ron came home with grew successively worse and worse. She wanted him to fight evil—not to kill himself in the process.

Ron surveyed his now-mended knee happily. "Thanks, 'Mione! You're the best." And if to prove his point, he jumped to his feet and swung her around the room. Only when she squealed "Stop, Ron!" did he set her down and kiss her thoroughly.

"But seriously," said Hermione, determined not to be distracted. "I'm worried about them. It's been weeks, and neither has budged."

"They've always been stubborn," said Ron fondly, apparently unconcerned.

"But our wedding is only a month away! If they haven't made up by then, it'll be a disaster!"

"Hermione, you worry too much." Ron contented himself with playing with her hair.

"You weren't at the Burrow when they broke up," said Hermione, unconvinced. "They hate each other now! Ginny's been dating other blokes just to get Harry all riled up, and I heard Harry completely destroyed all her clothes and stuff she'd left at his place . . ."

Ron kissed her again. "I'm off to shower," he declared. Then he looked her over and asked hopefully, "I don't suppose you want to join me?"

"Ron!"

"Oh, alright." He shrugged and headed for the door. There he stopped and said, "Hate and love aren't very far away from each other, Hermione. Not far at all."

"Miss Weasley. Miss Weasley?"

Ginny rubbed her eyes and glared blearily up at the man towering menacingly above her.

"Miss Weasley. If you can't turn in your reports in a timely fashion—need I remind you the importance of proper records?"

Auror John Dawlish was glaring down at her, his wiry hair standing more erect than usual. His open palm was about two centimetres from her nose and she felt herself go cross-eyed for a second staring at it.

Ginny looked down at the lengthy—and now smeared—report she'd been working on, or more recently sleeping on. Hastily rubbing a wet spot on the corner that looked suspiciously like drool, she seized the quill and scribbled a final concluding line ("No harm came to either party and measures will be taken to ensure that situations like this never again arise.") before blowing on the fresh ink and all but throwing the parchment at Dawlish.

He huffed, but accepted her offering as if he were a kid who'd just been handed an early-model Shooting Star rather than the expected Firebolt 5000. "And don't think I'll let you get away with any more stunts like this," he barked, then marched on to torment some other trainee.

Ginny groaned and rubbed her temples. I work for idiots, she mused. Rather, she was taught by idiots, which was only slightly more comforting. Somewhere up the line there were competent Aurors like Shacklebolt and Proudfoot and Andrea Bones (Susan's cousin) and—yes, she thought begrudgingly—even Harry. But the true idiots in the Ministry of Magic, well, evidently they got shipped to the cramped basement classrooms to train in the fresh young minds who would eventually run the place.

She'd already been there for thirteen hours, slaving over backed up "trainee" reports. She was at the point in Auror training where she was sent out on non-hazardous missions up to three times a week now, each time watching and learning firsthand from real Aurors in action. Dawlish then insisted on having the Aurors-in-training write lengthy reports detailing the events. Ginny didn't see the point, not when the genuine Aurors were writing up their own reports. Theirs were to be skimmed at best and trashed afterwards. Dawlish insisted, however.

Now came the quandary. Did she stay another hour or two to finish the remaining reports, or did she clear out now while Dawlish was distracted and hope he didn't notice?

There was a time when she would've been the first trainee to arrive, the last to leave, and the first to turn all her reports in, days before they were due. Now she was finding it hard to care.

This is bad, the voice in the back of her head nagged. Her life used to be centered around three things: her Family, her Boyfriend, and her Job. Now that the boyfriend had been eliminated, she found herself less and less motivated during her training classes. The horrible thought had crept up not a few times that perhaps she'd only wanted to be an Auror because Harry was an Auror.

Disturbed by this line of thought, Ginny made up her mind. She flung her things in her bag and glanced around furtively for Dawlish. Two desks over, Derek Holllins was nearly hidden by stacks of parchment. "You're safe," he said glumly when Ginny looked his way. "Dawlish went upstairs to speak to Shacklebolt. Probably won't be back for a bit."

"Thanks, Derek," said Ginny. "Sorry about…" She gestured at the pile of work.

He shrugged helplessly. "My girlfriend hasn't seen me in a week," he said, looking mournful. "Another month like the last one and she'll probably ditch me."

Ginny wasn't sure what to say to that. Hollins must have caught her deer-in-headlights look, because he waved her away. "Just go, Weasley. Didn't mean to get all ruddy emotional on you."

"Right," said Ginny. "Yeah. OK, I'll just be going then."

She had planned to meet Hermione at the Leaky Cauldron for a quick drink, but worried that her friend might have given up on her and left already. A quick scan of the bar and Ginny's hopes fell. Of course Hermione had already gone home. She and Ron were practically attached at the hip these days. They could scarcely bear to be out of each other's sight for more than a few hours at a time. Ginny would have found this endearing a month ago; now, she was slightly sickened by thought.

Just wait until they have a big fight, until Hermione's tolerance of Ron's bad habits finally breaks down, until Ron figures out how annoyingly bookish she really is…

She instantly felt ashamed of herself. It was so easy when you were happily in love to want the same for everyone else. But when love turned to hate, she found herself wishing nasty breakups on all of her friends as well.

What a horrible, bitter person I am. She truly deserved never to be happy again for thinking that about Ron and Hermione. Misery truly did desire company.

She signaled Tom for a drink. Just one, then she'd go home and collapse into bed. Tomorrow she had to be to the practice fields at six a.m. for dueling practice. Their end-of-quarter practical exam was just a week away.

Ginny was nearly at the bottom of her glass of mead when Hermione appeared at her side and threw herself into the next seat. She was out of breath and her cheeks were flushed.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're still here," she burst out. "Work was brutal today and I thought I'd never finish Avery's case, and his trial starts tomorrow—"

"I just got here," Ginny explained. All those resentful feelings gone, she leaned over and impulsively hugged her friend.

Hermione looked surprised. "Frankly, I was expecting you to be a bit miffed."

"Training today was ghastly, Dawlish is a first-class prat, and I'm having one of the worst months of my entire life."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "One of the worst?" she said, looking as if she thought Ginny's breakup with Harry should certainly make this month the very worst month of her life.

"Well, there was the Chamber of Secrets—"

The other girl winced and nodded.

"—and then of course that year with the Carrows…"

Hermione's stricken look clearly said she now wished she'd kept her mouth closed.

"Though that one wasn't as bad as everyone thought," continued Ginny. The drink had loosened her tongue a little and she was starting to feel better. "Everyone applauded us—the D.A., I mean—for being so brave, but I didn't feel brave, you know? I was scared witless most of the time, afraid that the Carrows would get too carried away and kill a first-year or something. But in a way, it was the best year of my life."

Tom appeared and slid two brimming glasses their way. Hermione reached for hers and took a sip. "What are you saying, Ginny? That whole year was hell."

"Yeah, it was." Ginny smiled fondly. "But at the same time everything made sense. Everything we did had a purpose. Each of us had a purpose, you know? I was needed. Important. I was, in my own way, making a difference. Keeping the younger kids from getting hurt. We all were fighting Voldemort.

"Not like now," she continued darkly. "I'm not even sure I want to be an Auror."

Hermione gaped at her. "But of course you do! That's all you've ever talked about—"

"That's all Harry's ever talked about," corrected Ginny, "but what if the only reason I ever wanted to join the force was because of him?"

"That's not true," Hermione said immediately. "You just told me that you were happiest fighting Voldemort with the D.A."

"It's different somehow! It's hard to explain. I feel like I'm stuck in a rut—like the Hogwarts Express, always on that one track, making the same trip over and over again . . . never actually getting anywhere or making anything of myself."

She didn't feel like she was making any sense at all, but fortunately Hermione knew her well. "I'm sure it's natural to feel this way," she said, patting Ginny's arm. "After all, writing reports on the continuing search for the last few pathetic Death Eaters still out there isn't exactly fulfilling work. It must seem a far cry from the active, front-lines parts we all played in the war. And yes, some of those Aurors are first class idiots, but you're going to be one of the good ones, Ginny, eventually, if you'll only keep at it."

"If I can keep at it . . . if . . . Right now I don't give a damn whether I ever graduate or not."

Ginny glumly reached for her drink and Hermione followed suit.

A minute passed before Hermione said, "Have you and Harry—"

"No!" Ginny instantly felt bad for snapping. "Sorry. No, we haven't made up. Just . . . stop asking me, OK?"

Hermione's face fell. "Don't you think that eventually . . ."

Ginny sighed. She knew how desperately Hermione wanted her best friends to get back together, and it made her feel sympathetic and infuriated all at the same time.

"Look, Hermione, I know you want—need—us to get back together but it's never going to happen. Just hearing his name makes me want to go break windows and strangle kittens. I'm never, ever going to forgive him for what he said . . ." Thinking about their colossal argument at the Burrow made her flush with anger all over again.

"But—"

"Give it a rest, OK?" Ginny tried to soften her tone. "Please?"

Hermione finally closed her mouth and nodded.

They sat in silence for a bit. Ginny studied her empty glass and debated having another. The bar was beginning to empty out.

"Sorry," said Hermione at last, not looking in Ginny's direction. "I shouldn't have pressed the issue."

"I shouldn't have snapped at you," said Ginny. "It's just . . . I don't know, Hermione. For a while there it seemed like my life was perfect—like living in a dream." Her stomach clenched as she remembered Harry's words to her when he'd ended things the first time, that summer day at Dumbledore's funeral . . . "It's been like something out of someone else's life." And that's how their relationship had been at first—she'd been so deliriously happy. She was Ginny Weasley—things never worked out for her, but this had. She'd loved him for so long and when Voldemort had been defeated she'd imagined that their life together would be long and wonderful and filled with every pleasure life could bring. "But now . . ."

Tom the Barman brought her another drink. "On the house," he said, shrugging. "You look like you've had yourself a rough week, miss."

"God, I hate this," said Ginny in a low voice when he'd gone. "I'm just miserable and I'm making everyone else miserable too. Does this ever stop, Hermione?"

Hermione made a face. "Can't say I really know what you're feeling. The only man who ever broke my heart is the one I happen to be marrying in a month. But he's apologized enough times for that whole Lavender fiasco, I finally figured I was better off forgiving him and moving on."

"Well, I doubt that will work for me," said Ginny bitterly. "I think Harry and I are far past the point of mere apologizing. Sometimes I doubt we'll ever be able to have a civil conversation again, much less be friends."

"Work must be awkward."

"You have no idea!" Ginny relaxed a bit. It was good to have a friend to vent to. "I don't see him all that much, but occasionally he has to help teach some of the defensive spell classes. Last week he hit me in the back with a Jelly-Legs Jinx and tried to pull some 'Constant vigilance' crap when I yelled at him. He keeps assigning me the boring cases too, like those exploding toilets in Darvoshire, and of course I can't say anything because that would look bad, like I'm not respecting the senior Aurors and stuff."

Hermione chuckled.

"How am I supposed to learn anything when he keeps me away from the good stuff? And you know he's just doing it to spite me."

"Oh, I'm sure he doesn't mean—"

Ginny silenced her with a look. "See here, Hermione, I know it must be difficult for you, being in the middle of all this and all, and I know I can't ask you to take sides, but just give me this one. He's being an arse."

Hermione sighed. "Yeah, maybe he has—Ron said something the other day when he came home from training about the way Harry was treating you. But," she continued before Ginny could chime in with another derogatory remark, "Ron also told me you went out with Peter Sliefberg last week. That poor boy is just a runner for the Daily Prophet and hasn't got a third of the brains you do, so my only conclusion is that you went out with him to get back at Harry."

"I . . . he . . ." Ginny sputtered.

Hermione managed a tiny smile. "Wasn't it pretty obvious? You two showed up at the same restaurant Harry and Kingsley were eating lunch at. It's the only logical conclusion, that you're doing it to get on his nerves."

Ginny sighed in defeat. "Did it work?" she asked hopefully, then dodged as Hermione threw her wadded up napkin in her direction.

The pub was emptying out, and Tom had sent the two girls more than a few warning glances. Hermione checked her watch. "I suppose I really should be getting home. I've got to be in court early tomorrow."

"Dueling practice at six a.m.," Ginny offered, and her friend winced. "Are you going to be alright?"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Ginny looked down. "Well, I know you're worried sick about your wedding—no, don't pretend that you're not, Hermione. I know you too well."

"I care about you and Harry more!"

"I know, but you have the right be concerned about your wedding too, it's only natural," Ginny continued. "And I know we've both given you ample reason, too. I just want to tell you that I'm sorry . . . and that I promise not to ruin your wedding."

Hermione fidgeted on her stool. "Are you sure—"

"That Harry and I will be able to be in the same room without trying to murder each other?" Ginny laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I'm really not. I can only promise you that I'll do my absolute best to make your wedding perfect."

Hermione smiled. "You don't know how much that means to me," she said softly. "That you'll at least try to get along for me and Ron."

They looked up to find Tom standing in front of them, arms crossed. He cleared his throat loudly. Both quickly fumbled in their purses for sickles to pay their tabs.

"See you this weekend," said Hermione as they exited the pub. "And Ginny? Try not to antagonize Harry too much, will you? He's having a rough time of this too, you know."

Ginny watched her friend disappear down the dark street and wished she didn't feel so pleased about the news that perhaps Harry was just as uncomfortable and miserable as she was.

Instantly she felt a twinge of regret. She really shouldn't wish him misery. But the memory of that fight at the Burrow and all the horrible things he'd said flashed through her mind again, and she felt the anger return.

She was really too tired to think about this now. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her destination, and a second later the crushing, consuming feeling of Apparation drowned out all other thoughts.

"I'm getting married in the morning," sang Lavender loudly as she pranced around on top of the tables in just her bra and knickers. "Ding dong the bells are going to chime . . ."

Ginny suddenly realized that two shots were not going to do it for her. She reached for the bottle and took a long swig. She didn't bother to remind Lavender that she already was married. Whoever's idea it'd been to invite Hermione's Hogwarts dormmates . . . Already Lavender had tortured her audience with a rendition of "Matchmaker, Matchmaker," "L-O-V-E," and even Celestina Warbeck's "Ride Me Like a Broom, Baby." Parvati Patil was also in her undergarments, making out with one of the male strippers originally intended for the bride-to-be. The bartender at Dragon's Breath didn't appear to be phased. Perhaps crazy bachelorette parties were thrown here on a regular basis.

Oh well. At least Hermione seemed to be having a good time, noted Ginny, taking another gulp of tequila and wincing as it burned her throat. It didn't help that the bride was a lightweight. Three shots of vodka, and Hermione was dancing wildly with Fleur (evidently the French did know how to have a good time) and Angelina (Ginny now understood why George liked the taller girl so much—she had the moves). This is going to make for some pretty nasty hangovers in the morning.

She surveyed the room, wishing she could will herself into a good mood and join the festivities. This was all somehow Harry's fault. She was out on a Saturday night, slightly drunk, and there wasn't a single decent-looking bloke in the bar. Well, there were the strippers, but Lavender had already snatched up that one for herself, and by the looks on Katie Bell and Alicia Spinnet's faces, the other two Quidditch champion-dressed strippers wouldn't be available for long.

And Ginny was horny.

"GINNY!" shouted Hermione, giggling insanely. The DJ, a bored-looking teen, changed the song and Hermione began to sway, partly because of the alcohol, but primarily because she appeared to be attempting to dance again. "Come 'n' dance with me! It'll be . . ." She stopped, searching for a word. "Fun! It'll be fun."

Ginny allowed herself to be dragged onto the dance floor. A drink was thrust into her hand. "You're definitely not drunk enough," said Luna brightly, when Ginny turned to see who the giver was. "I can tell. You don't have nearly enough Tipsy-ticks on you."

Rather than dare ask what a "Tipsy-tick" was, Ginny downed the drink. Her head was beginning to feel fuzzy and warm.

Yeah, warm and fuzzy. She sort of liked it. For just a moment in time, she could lose herself in the music and motions of dancing—and forget about the man who ruined her life.

It was three in the morning before Ginny finally apparated Hermione back to the Burrow. She would've taken Hermione to Ron's flat, except she was pretty sure that if she'd tried that, she would have splinched something—and she sure didn't want Hermione walking down the aisle in the morning with an incomplete number of fingers or toes . . . The Burrow was the one place she knew she could apparate to no matter how inebriated she was. Besides, at the Burrow, Mrs. Weasley would be there to force feed everyone hangover potions in the morning. As the two girls stumbled up the walk to the front door, Ginny kept having to shush Hermione, who was still finding everything hilarious. Hermione stumbled on the first step and sat down hard, holding her stomach and swaying from side to side.

"Shite," muttered Ginny. "Come on, Hermione, almost there. Just a few more steps." Actually, a whole flight, but she preferred not to think of that obstacle yet.

Somehow, she pulled Hermione up and then dragged her up the last step and into the entryway of the Burrow.

"But why are we here?" Hermione asked loudly, and Ginny clamped her hand over the other girl's mouth.

"Ssh! You've got to keep quiet. Quiet. Ssh." Ginny emphasized this by putting a finger to her lips.

Hermione tried to imitate her. "Ssh," she said, nodding emphatically. "But why are we here?"

"Because I couldn't Apparate you to your place. So I brought you here instead."

"But I can't be here. Because Ron's here," whispered Hermione.

"No, he isn't," said Ginny.

"Yup. He's here. Because Harry's here. And where Harry goes, Ron goes too." Hermione laughed as if she'd made a particularly funny joke.

Ginny let go of Hermione's arm and spun around, hardly caring that Hermione nearly lost her balance. Sure enough, there stood Harry, in the kitchen doorway. He looked only a little worse for the night's festivities—his hair was messed up and he had circles under his eyes, but he was standing steadily enough. On the other hand, he'd always been able to hold his alcohol. She knew him well enough to tell that he'd had his share of drinks tonight.

"What are you doing here?" she said after the longest, most awkward pause in the whole world's history of bad breakups.

"Had to bring Ron somewhere. He's pretty sloshed," muttered Harry, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking even more uncomfortable than she felt, were that possible. "You?"

"Friends don't let friends Apparate drunk," said Ginny. "Figured Mrs. Weasley would look after Hermione in the morning."

There was a thud, then a long, loud snore.

"Well, I'd better get her upstairs," said Ginny, and Harry stepped aside to move out of her way. But no matter how hard Ginny pushed, pulled, shoved, and yanked, she absolutely couldn't move Hermione up the bloody stairs. In the darkness, Harry was chuckling.

"Oh, you think this is funny, do you?"

But instead of snapping back, Harry took Hermione's other arm. Together, they managed to get Hermione up the two-flight stairway and into Ginny's old room without too much noise. Finally, Hermione was sprawled on the bed, snoring softly, her tiara askew.

"You can go," said Ginny, tugging at Hermione's shoes. "I'll put her to bed."

Behind her, there were footsteps, and then the door shut. Ginny felt strangely disappointed. But once Hermione was tucked safely beneath the blankets, Ginny turned to leave, pausing only to survey her childhood room. Greens and blues adorned the windows, bedspread, and homemade rug. Once upon a time, the room had been filled with frills and lace, pink and white. When she was eight, Fred and George had poked fun of her room, and Ginny had immediately thrown everything girly out the second story window, much to her mum's chagrin. But when you're the younger sister of six boys, "girly" is the worst insult possible.

She shut the door behind her and lit her wand with only a few failed attempts. The descent took a very long time; the stairway was reeling and plunging before her, and she clung to the railing for dear life.

Finally, however, she was back on even ground. She tiptoed to the front door, slipped through, and shut it quietly.

When she turned around, she ran straight into Harry. "Bugger," she gasped, and he clamped his hand over her mouth.

Harry only let her go when he seemed sure that she wasn't going to cry out again.

"What are you still doing here?" Ginny demanded in a whisper.

"Wanted to make sure you got home alright," he said, looking away.

"Well, I'm fine, so go on home." Ginny made a wide gesture in the general direction of Ottery St. Catchpole.

Still, Harry stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Or maybe he was swaying. "I can't apparate," he said miserably.

Ginny giggled. "Neither can I! I could manage the Burrow, but certainly not London . . ." She was exhausted. And still tipsy. And it was three in the bloody morning. The whole situation suddenly seemed very humorous.

"Why don't you just use the Floo?" asked Harry in a moment of wisdom.

"Our Floo is broken. George had some gargoyle saliva on his clothes when he used it last, and evidently gargoyle saliva reacts badly with Floo powder. Nearly blew up Mum's kitchen."

"I guess we're walking then."

"I guess we are. Wait—where are we going?"

"Isn't there a wizard bar in town? Maybe we can use the Floo."

She nodded, and because there wasn't anything else to be said, they set off across the garden and down the dirt road winding toward town.

The walking helped to clear Ginny's head. She sneaked a peak at Harry and noticed that he wasn't swaying anymore.

"How was the party?" she ventured at last, the lack of conversation finally becoming unbearable.

"Good, I guess," said Harry after a moment. "George hired dancers. Even brought in a stripper, but Ron didn't seem to enjoy that as much."

"Probably he was too scared that Hermione would find out," said Ginny.

"I won't tell her if you won't."

It was natural, talking like this. She suddenly missed him, but only for a moment. The next second, she was strong again. She didn't need Harry, not one bit.

"Hermione had strippers too," countered Ginny. "Of course she didn't see much of them, as Parvati and Katie snatched them right up.

Even in the darkness, she could tell that he was smiling. "I bet Hermione didn't have a keg at her party," said Harry.

Ginny wrinkled her nose. "Just like a bunch of men. We didn't need a keg to have a good party."

"Ron had to dance on a pole in his boxers."

"Oh yeah? Hermione had to tell her most embarrassing sex stories," said Ginny, "which was, I might add, much more embarrassing for me than her. I learned things about Ron I never wanted to know."

Harry winced.

"And we made Hermione wear a shirt that had Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans glued to it, and we had blokes pay money to eat the beans off of her."

"We had a keg."

"You already said that."

"A really big one," insisted Harry. "Enormous, in fact. At least this big."

He threw his hands out to indicate a very large keg indeed, and a moment too late, Ginny noticed the wand in his hand.

BANG!

The lights blinded her. She screamed and threw up both hands before realizing that she was not about to die by Death Eater curses. Instead, she was about to be flattened by a three-story, violently purple bus.

"WATCH OUT!" yelled Harry, and a second later, she was being jerked out of the way. Tripping, she sprawled—right on top of Harry.

For a moment, Ginny's head spun and lights flashed behind her eyelids. Then, from beneath her, she heard a grunt, and she realized exactly who she was crushing.

With some effort, Ginny was able to roll off of him and stagger to her feet. "Are you OK?"

"M'fine," said Harry. Ginny was in the process of searching for his glasses when the doors to the bus swung open.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus! For only a sickle more, you can ride in our first class third level and have first priority when it comes to when we drop you off at your destination! For every extra bag, we charge eight knuts for handling! Great scot, you're HARRY POTTER!"

Harry was blinking up at the chirpy middle-aged woman with mousy grey hair. "Yeah, that's me," he said, after a moment.

In a moment, the woman had bounded off the step. She seized Harry's hand and shook it vigorously. "Such a pleasure, Mr. Potter! Such a pleasure! I'm Daisy DeLime! Such an honor to have you here, such an honor!"

When Daisy DeLime pulled out a couple of ticket stubs to collect signatures for herself and all her friends, poor Harry looked so mortified that Ginny took pity on him. "Excuse me," she said, pushing past Harry. "Can we get on, or are we going to have to apparate ourselves home?"

The woman's expression turned cold, but she stepped away to let them by. "That'll be ten sickles for you," she said, glaring at Ginny, who seethed as she felt around in her pockets for the change.

"Oh, no, not for you, Mr. Potter! You ride free!"

Ginny looked up to see Harry, hand outstretched, holding the bus fare. He gawked at the woman for just a moment, then calmly dropped the money back into his pocket. Out came a galleon. The woman's eyes widened.

"This is for her bus fare," said Harry firmly, nodding in Ginny's direction. "Keep the change. The extra is yours if you'll give us some privacy."

Then he held out a hand for Ginny, and dumfounded, she accepted his boost onto the first step of the bus. Once she was safely inside, Harry joined her, pointedly ignoring Daisy DeLime.

They collapsed onto a bed at the very back of the bus.

"You didn't have to pay for me," said Ginny. "I'll pay you back."

Harry scowled. "That woman was an Umbridge-class bitch"

Ginny almost smiled. She'd forgotten how bad Harry's language got when he was under the influence. Instead, she sighed. "You shouldn't have."

He shrugged, clearly wanting to drop the subject.

Ginny lay back and tried to stay on the bed as the bus tumbled and jerked and raced through the districts.

When they finally reached Ginny's flat, her buzz was nearly gone, but she felt wide awake. Hermione's bachelorette party had been so exhausting that she should've felt like sleeping for two days straight—but somehow, she had caught her second wind.

With only a little trouble, she managed to unlock the door to her flat. She stumbled inside, still dizzy from the bus ride, and fumbled for the light switch. Blinking, she looked back at Harry, who was still lingering outside the door. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Aren't you coming in?" she demanded.

"Didn't realize I was invited."

"I need a good, stiff drink, and I don't like drinking alone," said Ginny. "And I guess I owe you the use of my Floo for paying my fare."

Harry looked like he would protest, but then he closed his mouth and walked through the threshold. Ginny locked the door behind him, then led the way to the kitchen, Harry trailing hesitantly behind. A moment too late, Ginny realized that this was the first time he'd been here since the day they'd ended things.

A very stiff drink sounded marvelous.

Without thinking, she poured him Firewhiskey on the rocks, herself vodka and juice.

"Thanks," said Harry, accepting the drink. He was still standing awkwardly in the doorway, and only when Ginny plopped down on the sofa in the adjoining room did he take a seat in the armchair facing her.

"Merlin, I'm glad that's over," Ginny said. "Now all we've got is a wedding to get through." She shuddered at the thought and took a long draught of her drink.

Harry, who looked just as horrified to be reminded that they still had the ceremony to face the following day, drank too.

"At least Hermione didn't collapse in tears tonight, half-hysterical that she was marrying the wrong man," said Ginny. "Remember how Audrey was? I thought I'd have to march up that aisle myself and give Percy the news that she'd taken the next Portkey to China or something."

"They seem happy now, though," Harry pointed out. "Everything worked out fine."

"And Michael right before he and Padma got married . . ." Ginny shook her head. "It took four of his classmates to keep him from bolting!"

"I guess Ron and Hermione have just always known."

Ginny laughed. "Not always! Do you remember . . . well, I don't have to remind you. You were there your sixth year." She immediately regretted bringing it up. So many memories . . . her first kiss with Harry, all those wonderful springtime afternoons on the grounds, the whispered conversations and sweet moments . . . back when they were young and clueless. When they were together, it seemed as if no one and nothing existed outside their sphere. It would take a year of finding Horcruxes and two more years of picking up the pieces of their shattered lives to discover that all good things must come to an end. "You know, when Ron was an ass and Hermione was doing everything she could to get back at him," she clarified quickly, but one look at Harry's face, and she knew that he wasn't just remembering Ron and Hermione's fluctuating relationship that year.

"Once they got together, I guess things just fell into place," Harry mumbled. "I mean, they still fight, but never about their relationship. They just know."

"I thought I knew too, once," said Ginny softly, keeping her gaze pointedly focused on the Weasley family picture that hung next to a less crowded portrait of Hermione and her parents.

There was a long silence. The clock on the mantle ticked, and outside, a car horn blared, uncommon at this time of the morning. Then Harry said, "Gin, what went down between us?"

When she didn't reply, he rushed on, stumbling over some of his words. "I mean, we were so fucking happy, all the time. You were . . . we were . . . I don't understand how things could've just blown up like that . . ."

"Voldemort ruined everything," whispered Ginny.

But Harry shook his head. "It wasn't Voldemort. I think . . . I kind of think it was us."

Ginny ground her teeth. "I was doing everything I possibly could—"

"I was too," said Harry defensively, "but it wasn't enough, y'know? We've both changed."

"I'm exactly the same as I was," Ginny retorted, but when Harry didn't respond to this, she deflated. Usually, this fight would've blossomed into an all-out World War Thirty-Nine (Ron and Hermione were not the only couple famous for their epic rows), but the alcohol was making her tired now, just a little, but enough to feel exhausted just thinking about the measures she'd have to take to win. Well, that, and part of her knew that he was right. Damn it all, she hated when he was right.

She tried to turn the conversation back to lighter subjects. "We just did everything wrong, didn't we? I mean, we even split the wrong way."

"What d'you mean?"

"We're adults, but we couldn't even be mature about a break-up," Ginny said. "You threw a lot of things, I did a lot of cursing, we both ended up with substantial injuries. Then, we ignored each other for months, making the weekly Weasley dinner living hell for my poor family. To make matters worse, I dated as many blokes as possible, just to get a raise out of you, while you made my life at Auror Academy as miserable as you could without being bluntly obvious. And sometimes you didn't even succeed at that . . ."

"What, making your life as hellish as possible?"

"The not being bluntly obvious part," said Ginny, a smile tugging at her lips. Harry was grinning too, and it was really, really hard to remember why she was so pissed at him earlier . . .

"If you thought the dating around was making me jealous, you were wrong," said Harry.

"Dragonshite," cried Ginny, sitting up straighter. "God, Harry, you were as pathetic as a puppy, sulking around whenever you got wind of my latest conquests."

"Was not!" Harry insisted. "I never needed to be jealous! Just look at some of the losers you went out with: Uriah Douglas is Cormac McClaggan's cousin, did you know that? And Peter Sliefberg flunked out of his fourth year at Hogwarts. Twice. But Quentin Hayes was the worst—he spent his summer holidays last year in Paris, painting nude portraits of women, all because some perverted Muggle in the eighteenth century decided that pictures of naked women is art—"

"Wait just a second," said Ginny, holding out her hand. "You did research?"

Harry's expression of dismay that slowly slid into a guilty expression made her clap her hands over her mouth in uncontrollable laughter. Finally, Harry cracked. "I guess I was a little jealous," he admitted, grinning lopsidedly.

"You stalked my dates!" she exclaimed, and the very thought sent her into another fit of laughter.

"What else did we do wrong?" said Harry, who seemed to be getting caught up in this nostalgic moment.

Ginny thought for a moment. "I know! We didn't ever have a good break-up shag."

Harry frowned. "What?"

"You know, when you break up for good, you're allowed one last chance to rip each other's clothes off and do it one last time. It doesn't count. It's just break-up sex."

"Like make-up sex, just not as mushy?"

Ginny scowled. "I was never mushy about make-up sex!"

But Harry was past that. He had a thoughtful expression on his face. "It's not a horrible idea."

"What, make-up sex?"

"No, a break-up shag."

Ginny snorted. "You blokes are all the same."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Don't try that with me, Gin. At times, you can be hornier than all of your brothers put together."

She made a face. "Thanks for the disturbing mental image. And for your information, I am not!"

Harry chuckled, but didn't reply to her rebuttal.

"I'm not horny right now."

To this, Harry burst out in outright laugher. "Please. I know you better than any of those other blokes you dated ever did, and I can tell when you're horny."

She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled. "How?" The alcohol made her head feel fuzzy and warm.

"Well, you get this look in your eyes."

"Well, you lick your lips."

Harry nearly knocked over his glass of firewhiskey, which he'd been sipping on the entire time. "I do not!"

She nodded. "Yeah, you do. Back when we were dating"—she hated that phrase, hated having to say it in front of him—"you used to look at me like I was a gourmet meal and lick your lips when you got really horny." Not that she really minded. She loved that look.

Harry sighed. "You know how long it's been since I had a good shag?"

"Five months, thirteen days," said Ginny.

He stared at her. "You counted?"

"It's been that long for me too," said Ginny glumly. She tipped her drink up and emptied the contents into her throat. The liquid burned slightly on the way down.

A long silence. Ginny looked up and caught Harry watching her—and she knew she was looking at him the exact same way. In that instant, she knew they were thinking the same thing too—and this was bad, bad, bad, but she couldn't help it, just like she couldn't help it that they were all alone in an empty flat, and that Hermione and Ron were getting married tomorrow and for that she felt jealous, resentful, and remorseful all at the same time . . . just like she couldn't help the nagging feeling that this was a mistake, that tomorrow, she'd regret this . . .

But he was staring at her, and something burned in his eyes, that look that she used to love and was trying desperately to hate.

Then Harry leaned forward and said, "Gin, let's do it."

"Do what?" said Ginny slowly, knowing exactly what he meant.

"The break-up shag we missed."

Just hearing him say it brought the realization back to her. A mistake—this was a mistake.

Harry must have seen her hesitation. "It's four in the morning, we're both sloshed and horny—don't give me that look, I told you, I know you well enough to know—and nobody has to find out," he rushed on.

"God, Harry! Have you even thought about what a bad idea this is? We can't just fuck each other and expect everything to go back to normal the next day!"

Harry met her eyes. "I can be mature about it if you can," he challenged.

"I can be plenty mature!" sputtered Ginny. "I'm just . . . worried, that's all. It might get awkward, you know? We've got a wedding to run tomorrow!"

"You just proved my point," said Harry, faking a saddened expression. "You have changed. The old Ginny was up for anything."

"I am up for anything! Just not this ridiculous idea."

But as she thought about it, the idea became less and less ridiculous, and more and more appealing.

Across the room, Harry sighed, then pushed himself to his feet. "I guess I'd better get going, then." He paused to look around one more time, as if memorizing the layout of her flat in his mind. Then he reached for the Floo powder and prepared to drop a handful in the fireplace.

"Wait," said Ginny. She was on her feet without knowing how or when she'd left the chair.

He paused and turned to face her, eyes unreadable.

"Two more shots," she said, rushing through the humiliating speech. "Two more shots, and I'll shag you, one last time. But only because I'm about to tear the clothes off my own doorman if I don't get laid soon. And tomorrow, we act as if nothing happened. No one can know. Not Ron, not Hermione, not anyone. You have to keep your big mouth shut, or else I'll make some very vague remarks to Witch Weekly about the size of your . . ."

"Deal," Harry nearly shouted, bounding back across the room. Floo powder showered all over her rug.

"And you'll clean that up!" cried Ginny, but he had already met her in the middle of the room. Harry seized her shoulders, with a delighted, goofy grin that made warning bells go off in her head.

She shook herself free. "Alcohol first," she reminded him shakily. Harry looked only slightly put off. Hopefully he couldn't see how she was trying not to jump him right here and now…and yet, there was that horrible gut feeling that this was a mistake that would never be rectified, were they to go through with this mind-boggling, insane plan.

She definitely needed a moment to compose herself.

Ginny almost ran to the kitchen, stumbling over piles of objects strewn on the floor. She'd never been the most attentive housekeeper. She reached the counter first, but Harry got to the alcohol. He reached for the tequila bottle, and before she remembered that he had dated her for a year and known her much longer than that, Ginny wondered for a split second how he knew what she wanted. Handing her the glass, Harry turned to pour himself some more Firewhiskey. "Ready?" he said, beaming.

"You're entirely too excited about this!" she scolded, but his enthusiasm was contagious. "Cheers."

"To break-up sex," prompted Harry.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "To break-up sex." She lifted the glass, clinked it against his, and then downed the entire thing. She squeezed her eyes shut and made a face at the burning sensation in her throat, but when she recovered, she couldn't help but notice that Harry hadn't had much of his Firewhiskey at all.

Harry was watching her eagerly. Ginny took a breath, looked at him, then pressed her hands to her face. "One more," she begged. "Just one more shot."

Harry chuckled. "You don't need another shot," he said, taking her arm and pulling her back toward the couches.

She stopped in the middle of the room, awkwardly shifting from one foot to another. "So, should we do it here, or in the bedroom? But my bed's covered in clothes, and my whole room's a mess—but the couches have never been very comfortable . . ."

Harry clapped a hand over her mouth. "Stop, Ginny."

There was a second where they stood, looking at each other, a moment of awkward hesitation, like neither knew how exactly to begin. For a split second, she was seized by the horrible thought that perhaps they didn't even know how to have sex anymore, that they'd grown so far apart that he wasn't even attracted to her anymore.

Then, the moment was over, and she flew at him at the exact moment he dove at her. Their lips crashed together, elbows and knees and noses colliding painfully as she tried desperately to wrap herself around his body. It was an open-mouthed, wet, sloppy kiss, perfect in every way. Lips, tongues, and teeth collided. She hardly noticed that he'd wrapped his arms around her middle, one hand venturing down to her bum, the other sliding upwards under her shirt. Ginny flung her arms over his neck and buried one hand in his hair—Merlin, the hair. She'd forgotten how much she'd missed his impossibly messy hair.

Hardly aware that she was being pushed backward, Ginny was jerked out of her blissful reverie when she slammed against the wall. Harry slid his hands under her bum and boosted her up. Ginny wrapped her legs around his waist and arched her neck when he began to suck and nibble at her exposed skin.

"God, Harry!" she groaned when he moved further down, massaging her breasts through the fabric of her shirt with his mouth.

"Are you . . . sure . . . absolutely sure?" Harry panted, raising his head to meet her lips again. "I can stop . . ."

Ginny tangled her hands in his hair and deepened the kiss. "Don't . . . don't stop . . ." she gasped.

Apparently frustrated that his hands were tied up, Harry lifted her up and spun her around. Ginny hung on, relieved at last as she felt herself being settled on the back of the couch. As Harry fumbled for the ties of her black halter top, Ginny closed her eyes. She was giddy. Giddy, terrified, and angry all at the same time, but there was no way she could stop now. Bad, bad, BAD idea, her conscience chanted, but the roar of blood in her ears when Harry finally loosened the ties and slid her shirt down to bunch up around her waist drowned out the voice. Suddenly she was felt herself slipping backwards, and with a startled cry, she and Harry tumbled over the couch. He hit the rug first, and Ginny found herself, once again, sprawled on top of him.

For a second, she lay there; then the unmistakable bubble of laughter began to rise in her throat. She choked it back—but then she began to shake involuntarily. Raising her head, she saw that Harry was chuckling. "Not again," he managed to say before Ginny gave in to her own unstoppable laughter.

"At least this time we won't get interrupted by the president of your fan club," said Ginny, starting to untangle herself. She looked down, suddenly becoming very aware of her naked chest. Instinctively she started to cross her arms, but slender fingers closed around her wrists. She looked up.

Harry was smirking, and pulling the look off quite well in her opinion. "Now, now, Ginny, that won't do. It's your turn." He gestured at his shirt.

She suddenly felt stubborn. He was enjoying this far too much.

But then he pushed her back into the rug and rolled on top of her. "You know you want to," Harry murmured, bending down and kissing her. Then he kissed her neck, his mouth working its way down. When he took her nipple in his mouth, her back arched of its own accord.

"Harry," she gasped.

"Ready to admit defeat?" he said, grinning impishly. She loved that look, but it still made her impatient and strangely annoyed. She wanted to wipe the smirk off his face.

Ginny pushed him off her, only to straddle him again. "Now that's a view I like," said Harry, gazing appreciatively up at her, but instead of going for the shirt buttons, she dove for his belt instead. Harry's eyes widened.

Men's trousers weren't very complicated, but getting them off in the frenzy of passion sure could be. She didn't bother trying to slide them down. Once the zipper and buttons had been attended to, Ginny slipped her hand into his boxers and relished in the stunned look on Harry's face. Triumphant, she began to pump her hand around his length, teasing, rubbing, and stroking all the places he liked best. Harry's breathing was ragged. Apparently, she'd finally succeeded in shutting him up.

"Not so smug now, are you?" she couldn't resist saying.

With a grunt, Harry raised himself up on his elbows. She scooted back so he could sit up, never removing her hand, but suddenly her own cotton skirt was being pushed up to join her top around her waist, and Harry's own hands were slipping into her knickers.

Ginny jerked, nearly losing her rhythm, when his fingers found the right place. "You . . . like that," panted Harry. He knew how to play this game too.

She nodded, biting down hard on her lip and tasting blood in her mouth.

His fingers pressed hard into her. She gasped.

"Your shirt," she mumbled. He started to remove his hand. "NO! I mean, I'll get it."

Harry made an incoherent noise of disappointment when she pulled her own hands up to fumble with the fabric. But she had plenty of practice getting his clothes off. Her fingers flew down the buttons, and she wondered how she could even concentrate on the simple task when his own fingers were doing such wonderful things in her knickers. She whimpered when he had to lift his arms to slide the shirt off. Then both of their hands found their destinations again, and Harry bent down to catch her lips in a frenzied kiss.

"I'm going to . . . can't hold out . . . are we going to . . .?"

She really hadn't had this in mind. "Yeah. Pants," grunted Ginny. She pulled away, frantically tugging her skirt, shirt, and knickers off as Harry attended to his own trousers.

Before she'd completed the task, Harry was there again, helping her slide the last scraps of clothing down her legs. She kicked them off, and then he was over her again and there was nothing but hot, sweaty skin on skin and the rough carpet pressing into her back and her body was on fire from head to toe. His rough hands were massaging her thighs, working her legs apart, and he was positioning himself, smoothing her hair, kissing her once more before he pushed himself fully inside . . .

Ginny's fingernails dug into the palms of her hands for a long moment as her stomach lurched and her heart throbbed and her skin tingled. Harry had his eyes tightly closed, his face scrunched up in concentration. "Fuck," he groaned.

"Don't you dare . . ." she managed to squeak, her fuzzy, spinning mind landing on the thought that maybe he was a little too close. "Shite, Harry . . . waited so . . . long . . ." It was hard to form coherent sentences. "Five . . . months . . ."

"Won't," he panted. And then he started to move and without realizing it she was lifting her hips to meet him and the pressure was building. He leaned down to give her a searing kiss and she moaned his name when his free hand found its way between them to rub her in just the right place. Her head was going to fly off, she just knew it, and it didn't matter that they hadn't spoken in months or that they hated each other because suddenly she didn't hate him anymore, couldn't imagine hating Harry . . . And suddenly she wondered if he'd forget and tell that he loved her like he used to right before they . . . She couldn't finish the thought. Harry started to move faster and his breaths were coming in short bursts and he was grunting just as she remembered. She knew before he stammered, "Ginny, I . . . Merlin, Ginny . . ." that he was close.

She met his eyes and then they let go and fell together, and then she really did explode as the wave of pleasure came crashing down on her and her whimpers and his groans filled the room.

Then, just like he used to, he buried his face in her neck and hair and she rubbed his back lightly just like she used to. Ginny couldn't help wondering if he's been about to tell her that he loved her and had stopped, or if he'd forgotten altogether. She realized that if he had forgotten, she would be shattered, and this scared her more than she was willing to admit.

When their breathing returned to normal, Harry rolled off her but kept his arm around her waist. He grinned boyishly at her, and Ginny felt like smacking him, but his grin was contagious and she found herself smiling too. Then his grin faded and he leaned in to kiss her gently, and she knew without a doubt that she wanted to have him again—and needed no extra shot of tequila this time around.

Not much later, they were on their feet, Ginny's legs still shaky, and they were kissing and stumbling all the way to the bedroom. Then they were beginning again, but this time it was slow and sweet, almost languid as Harry kissed every inch of her body before at last sliding into her and mumbling her name into her hair.

She woke with the sun in her eyes, a nasty furry taste in her mouth, and the disconcerting feeling of nakedness. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to let her mind float back into dreamless oblivion. Someone called her name. The voice sounded distant, dreamlike, but at that moment, something close to her let out a soft snore.

Ginny bolted upright in bed, clutching the sheet to her chest. Green curtains, check. White queen-sized bed, check. Oak dresser, check. Clothes thrown haphazardly around the room from her frenzied search to find something to wear the night before, check. This was definitely her apartment. Then why was she . . . she glanced down, saw the man next to her, blanket mostly covering his skinny form and his black hair falling into his closed eyes, and remembered.

Just then, "Ginny?" echoed from the living room, and a feeling of panic seized her throat. What time was it? She had no idea. Had they missed the wedding? Who on earth was in the living room?

She leapt out of bed, and frantically searched for a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to throw on. Harry didn't stir. She rushed to the door, cracked it open just enough to fit her frame through, and slid out into the living room.

"Ginny?" said George, looking bewildered, though the corners of his mouth twitched as if he knew a secret and was intentionally keeping it from her. "What's going on? You were supposed to be there a half hour ago."

"Forgot to charm my alarm clock," she said honestly, her voice raspy from sleep. "What time is it, anyway?"

He didn't answer. He was looking down. "Ginny," he said slowly, "why exactly are there men's boxers in your living room?"

She froze and looked at where he was standing, right in front of a hasty pile of both distinctively men's and women's attire. She took in the whole room's appearance, the empty glasses on the side tables, the crooked rug, and the rumpled couch cover. He'd probably already seen the kitchen, the open bottles of firewhiskey and tequila on the counter.

She couldn't look at George. Her face flushed hot. It would hardly be worse if he'd walked in on her naked or even in the middle of the act. She tried to think of any way this could possibly be any more horrific. Wait, there was always Percy. It could've been Percy. This really didn't offer much comfort, though. What must he think of her? Broken up for two months, and already taking random men home . . . he didn't know it was Harry, did he? That would be ten million times worse. No, George couldn't possibly know. No one had seen them leave the Burrow together. Their secret was safe.

Then she heard a low rumble and looked up. George's shoulders were shaking—George, who hadn't hardly smiled in two years now, was laughing.

"Someone had a little too much fun last night," he observed, nudging the boxer shorts with his foot.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Ginny squeaked. "Didn't I lock up?"

"Aw, Gin," said George, smirking at her, "you know me well enough to know that locks and spells mean nothing. And don't change the topic."

She threw her hands over her face. "God. This has to be the most embarrassing moment of my entire life. Why are you here? Couldn't you just floo in?" Then she remembered the broken Floo at the Burrow.

"Floo's broke," George said unnecessarily. "I broke it," he added proudly.

"So you decided to just pop by instead."

"Mum made me. She was about to murder some garden gnomes when you didn't show up at eleven. You'd better hurry."

Ginny felt all the blood drain from her face. "What time is it?"

"Eleven-thirty."

She sighed, then looked down at the pile of clothes and flushed again.

George cleared his throat. "So," he said wryly. "Who's the bloke?"

"None of your business," she snapped back. "Anyway, no one you know."

Ginny didn't like the gleam in her brother's eye. "Funny," he said slowly, "that shirt looks a lot like the one Harry was wearing last night. I swear I'd recognize that plaid anywhere."

She suddenly couldn't breathe, and her heart, perhaps in sympathy of her non-functioning lungs, began to thump wildly.

"You'd better wake him up," George continued. "Mum sent Percy to Harry's flat to fetch him. I'm sure she'll be relieved when I tell her he spent the night here . . ."

Panic curled around her chest and squeezed. "I swear to god, George," she practically shouted, "if you tell a soul, I will make your life living hell, and only if I don't drag you off to Romania and feed you to a dragon first!"

He opened his mouth.

"Don't!" she commanded. "Don't say a word, George, not one single word, or so help me . . ." She was furious, and blood was pounding painfully in her head. "Just—just leave. Tell Mum I overslept—alone. Go!"

He was still grinning, but he raised his hands in defeat and backed toward the door. She followed him and slammed it behind him. Slumping against the door, Ginny took a deep breath and listened for sounds from the other room. Nothing. Not surprising. Harry could sleep through a giant invasion.

She gathered up his clothes and wrapped them into a tight ball. Stomping over to the bedroom door, she launched her carefully constructed missile at Harry's head. He started, then pulled the remaining covers over his head with a groan.

"Up. Get up. We're late." Ginny started rummaging through her cupboards for a clean pair of knickers and that strapless bra that she needed for her maid-of-honor gown.

He didn't move.

"Harry!" she bellowed, and finally he rolled over and blinked blearily at her. He took in the room, Ginny's appearance, and his own state of undress, and his eyes widened.

"Get up," said Ginny again. "Hurry." She resumed her search, now for a clean towel.

"What time is—?"

"Eleven-thirty."

He stretched lazily and began to pull on his crumpled clothing. Ginny gave up searching her drawers and started to look through the dirty laundry.

"Alright if I use your coffee maker?" said Harry, yawning.

Ginny paused from her search and clenched her jaw.

"Ginny?"

"No. No, Harry, you can go home and use your own bloody coffee maker."

He looked uncertain. "What's wrong?"

"This!" She gestured at him. "You. Me. This. We should have never—"

"You didn't seem to think it was such a bad idea last night," said Harry, watching her.

"That was when I thought we could actually pull it off and pretend nothing happened the next day. You want to know who just walked out of that door? George. Mum sent George to get me when I was late. And you want to know what he saw as soon as he walked in? Your bloody boxers, plain as day on the floor. Now everyone will know."

Harry's mouth was gaping open. "G-george? Here? How did he—"

"Recognised your shirt." She ran her hands through her unwashed hair. "God, Harry. How could we possibly think this was a good idea?"

He stared dolefully at the floor. "Ginny—"

"Don't 'Ginny' me," she snapped. "Just…just go, Harry."

"Ginny—"

"I mean it," she said quietly. "When I get out of the shower, you'd better not be here."

And she marched determinedly out of the room wishing she didn't feel as though she'd just lost when she should've felt some sort of triumph for having the last word.

There was only one word to describe the Burrow—chaotic.

Ginny slipped through the front door, hair still damp, heels in hand, but dressed in the strapless peach ensemble Hermione had forced upon her bridesmaids. She immediately noticed Teddy sitting on the countertop, his finger poised over a section of cake that already had multiple gouges in the frosting. His hair immediately turned Ginny's own shade of red, as it always did when he was without a doubt guilty, but he flashed her a grin.

"Theodore Remus Tonks, you get down off that countertop right now or it will be no desert for you!" Ginny's mother was calling as she swooped in and lifted the toddler off the counter. It was a family joke that Teddy had learned to climb before he'd learned to walk. Cabinets, beds, counters, even the sturdy grandfather clock on the second floor landing—nothing was safe. If there was way up it, Teddy would be at the top in less time than you could say holy hopping hippogriffs.

Mum returned into the kitchen from depositing Teddy in the sitting room. "Ginny, where have you been?" she asked, her voice a note higher than usual. Something on the stove was bubbling over. "Uncle Billius's hairdresser was here an hour to get started, and here you're missing in action and Hermione's still throwing up in the bathroom from whatever you girls put her through last night. Honestly! I don't know why—"

"You didn't make her a hangover potion?"

Mum's lips tightened. "All four of you know my rules—drunken behavior will not be tolerated. And I'm certainly not going to encourage it by providing hangover potions!"

"Honestly, Mum! You couldn't make an exception this once? It's her wedding day, for Merlin's sake."

Ginny stomped to the cupboards and started scrounging for ingredients. Tomatoes, garlic, bulbous root, ground wildgundry petals…

A hand on her arm stopped her. "Don't be ridiculous, Ginny," Mum said quickly, looking slightly ashamed. "I'll make it. You go get ready. But this is the very last time."

Ginny felt a smile creeping over her face. She kissed her mother's cheek. "Make enough for Ron."

"Drunkenness, debauchery, gambling, where did I go wrong in raising you children? What did I do to deserve this?" Mum was muttering, but Ginny was already halfway out the door. She scrambled up the stairway.

The first floor was even more hectic than the kitchen. Penelope, Percy's oldest ex-girlfriend and Hermione's closest friend at the Department of Magical Law, Fleur Weasley, and Hannah Abbot were all dressed and looking extremely fresh and bright-eyed considering all they'd had to drink the night before. At the end of the bachelorette party Bill had even had to come pick up Fleur who had claimed she hadn't had a proper night out since before Victorie was born and had decided to celebrate by downing an entire bottle of French wine herself. At the present, Fleur was frantically searching for her makeup kit, Hannah was squeaking in pain as an elderly lady in horn-rimmed glasses tugged her hair into an intricate weave, and Penelope was trying to get her dress done up.

"Here, let me help you," said Ginny, quickly tossing her belongings in a corner.

"Ginny! You're 'ere!" exclaimed Fleur, pausing her search. "You are veery late."

"I know, I know," said Ginny wearily as Penelope sucked her breath in. Ginny struggled with the dozens of pearl buttons. "Want me to try a spell?" she finally offered, stumped.

Penelope collapsed in a chair miserably. "I knew it," she wailed. "I knew that five pounds would come back to haunt me! Oh, I am going to murder Kevin."

"What does he 'ave to do with eet?" asked Fleur from the corner.

"He was the one who talked me into getting pregnant three months before a wedding. 'Three months won't matter,'" mimicked Penelope. "'You'll still be thin. You won't start gaining until at least month four.' I should shove his skinny arse into this gown and make him march down that aisle."

"Er, congratulations?"

Hannah smothered a laugh, then squeaked again as her hair was pulled. Ginny winced.

"Let me try one more time, Penny. Here, flatten your chest and suck in all at once."

At last, the final three buttons were secured. Poor Penelope looked as if she might pass out. "If I faint halfway down the aisle and make a scene, I'm filing for a divorce," she threatened, stomping over to the mirror to begin makeup.

Ginny suddenly realised she'd temporarily forgotten about the most important person—the bride. "Where's Hermione?"

"The loo. Still! She cannot tolerate 'er liquor at all," said Fleur dismissively. Ginny bit back a biting remark about Fleur's own performance the night before.

She found Hermione on the bathroom floor, clutching her knees to her chest. "Ginny," the older girl moaned. "I will never drink again. I swear it, I will never even go near alcohol ever again."

Ginny chuckled. "Marrying into this family? I doubt it." She found a cloth, wet it, and dabbed the sweat off of Hermione's forehead. "I talked Mum into fixing you a hangover potion."

"You're an angel. Why did you let me get that drunk anyway?"

Ginny didn't think this was the time to bring up the fact that it had been Hermione who'd made her promise that last night was their night to let loose.

Ginny's mother appeared in the doorway holding two steaming glasses. The smell sent Hermione into convulsions all over again. Ginny held her own stomach and thanked her lucky stars that she'd awoken hangover-free.

"Hold your nose. It'll help with the taste."

Looking green, Hermione bravely downed the potion. She shuddered but instantly looked better.

"I didn't know those worked so well," she said, wide-eyed. "I mean, I've read about them…"

"Yeah, no time, Hermione! Quick, into the shower. We've still got hair and makeup to do before three o'clock."

Back on the landing, Ginny heard a crash from below.

"Oh, no—I bet Teddy got to the cake," said Mum, shoving the second glass at Ginny. "Be a dear and take this to Ron, won't you? And tell him that there's plenty still to do when he's finished dressing." Then she flew down the stairs.

Reluctantly, Ginny plodded up to the second floor. Bill's room had been turned into a dressing room for the groomsmen.

Although Ron had a whole slew of brothers to choose from, only Bill and George were selected to be groomsmen. "Can't have them all standing up there," Ron had joked. "I've got to at least have the satisfaction of making Percy walk the old ladies to their seats—like he made me do for his blasted wedding."

Harry, obviously, was the best man, and to Ginny's surprise, Neville had been given the remaining spot. "Why Neville?" she'd asked when Ron had first announced his decision.

Then Harry and Ron had explained that the three of them often met up for drinks after work at their respective places of employment. Ginny was glad Neville would be in the wedding. She knew Ron was eternally grateful to him for watching out for her at Hogwarts, that last horrible year under the Carrows' rule. Neville had saved her from a lot of blame, and as a result a lot of beatings. He'd been a big brother to her when she hadn't had one around.

Now Neville was standing at the mirror, fumbling with a necktie when she poked her head into the room. Bill was shining his shoes and trying to keep Victorie from eating the polish.

"Hi, Ginny!" A grin spread over Neville's round face when he saw her. "You look nice!"

"Thanks, but this is definitely not the finished product," said Ginny, smiling. "Have you seen Ron?"

"Next room," said Neville, gesturing across the hall.

Ginny set the glass down. "Here, let me," she said and reached for his tie.

"Er, thanks, Ginny." The older boy was a little pink around the ears, but he looked truly grateful.

The door to George's room was closed tightly. Ginny knocked, called "Ron?", then stuck her head in.

Ron was sprawled on George's bed, still in his pyjamas and looking green. He'd had what looked like a towel full of ice cubes pressed to his face, but removed it when he heard his name. She glanced over and saw Harry there, leaning against the closet doors. He was already dressed, though his tie was still hanging loosely around his neck and the first few buttons of his shirt were undone.

"I brought you a hangover potion," she said to Ron, marching determinedly across the room. The heat was rising up her neck.

Ron grabbed the potion and downed it in one gulp. "I'm nominating you for the Sister of the Year Award," he announced as the proper color returned to his face. "If there is such a thing."

"You're not as bad off as I thought you'd be," Ginny observed.

"I can hold my alcohol better than Hermione," said Ron proudly.

"Then you saw—"

"Heard, more like," said Ron, pulling a face. "Heard her retching all morning. She better now?"

"Marvelous. Don't worry, I'll have her brush her teeth twice before letting her down that aisle."

"You do that, and I'll get you a bloody Order of Merlin," vowed Ron fervently.

Ginny finally allowed herself a glance at the room's other occupant.

"Ginny," he said stiffly, nodding at her.

"Harry," she returned, searching his face for…for something, exactly what she wasn't quite sure. The words exchanged just an hour previously were still fresh, and she felt suddenly ashamed of what had been said.

Ron was looking back and forth between the two of them. Ginny's stomach clenched—did he know? Then her brother grinned. "There, that's better! See, you lot can act like adults, amazingly enough. No spellfire, no cursing…"

"If you don't shut your big, fat mouth, I'm about to shove your bloody wand up your—"

"Ron, you'd probably better keep your nose out of other people's business, at least when your sister is around," said Harry mildly, effectively cutting Ginny off. He was only looking at Ron, though. "Come on, mate, we've got to get you dressed. You can't go marching down the aisle wearing that."

Ginny seized her cue to leave and fled the room.

When the wall clock chimed a quarter to three, predictably, no one was ready. "Where 'es my bouquet?" Fleur was shrieking, as Penelope held her chest and took long, slow breaths. She was looking a little pale, probably due to the corset-like quality of the too-small dress. Teddy, inevitably the ring-bearer, had lost his trousers and was enjoying the chase that ensured as Mrs. Weasley tried to capture the child and put them back on.

"Don't let him swallow the ring!" Hermione shouted after her. "You know how he likes to swallow things…"

She had the train of her dress bunched up under her arm as she scrambled around looking for her shoes. "I thought I left them here, I swear they were right here, Ginny!" she called, an unmistakable note of hysteria in her voice.

Ginny gave up trying to pin a stray curl up into the carefully crafted pile of hair on the top of her head. "They were there, Hermione. Are you positive Hannah didn't put them on by mistake?"

"Ooh, I'll bet she did. I'll just run downstairs and check…"

"No! I'll get them!" cried Ginny, but Hermione was already out the bedroom door and clamoring down the stairs, two at a time. Ginny raced after her—if Hermione messed up her dress, well, Ginny didn't want to think about that possibility…

Hermione skidded to a halt in the living room of the Burrow and Ginny nearly toppled into her in the process of slowing her own rapid descent down the stairs.

"Ron," said Hermione faintly, releasing the bunched up train, her eyes as wide as saucers.

Ron had just rushed in the opposite door, apparently on some other urgent pre-ceremony errand, and he too had stopped so quickly he was still holding onto the doorframe for support. He looked Hermione over. "Wow," he breathed. "You look . . . amazing."

Then Hermione burst into tears.

In the stunned silence that followed, Ginny and Ron stared at each other, completely bewildered. Ginny finally gathered her wits and rushed to her friend's side.

"Hermione, what is it? What's wrong?"

Hermione, whose face was buried in her hands, shook her head violently and merely sobbed louder. Harry appeared in the doorway and surveyed the scene, looking taken aback.

Ginny reached for Hermione, intent on putting an arm around her shoulder, but Ron stopped her with a gesture and strode across the room.

Upon reaching his bride-to-be, Ron seized her hands. "'Mione, what's the matter?"

But she pulled away. "Oh, I've ruined everything," she hiccupped. "You're n-not supposed to see me before the ceremony, and n-now I've jinxed us, and . . ."

"He's not supposed to see you before the ceremony?" Ginny echoed, still completely confused. "What—"

"It's bad luck!" Hermione moaned, mopping her face with the handkerchief Ron had so gallantly thrust upon her.

Ginny was still trying to puzzle out the logic in Hermione's rather incomplete explanation when Ron, seeming to arrive at the answer first, began to laugh.

Incensed, Hermione dropped the handkerchief and stared at him. "You t-think this is funny?" she cried.

Ron stopped, mid-guffaw. "No!" he said hastily, then admitted, "and yeah, just a bit, but I'm not laughing at you, Hermione!"

This didn't appear to calm Hermione down in the slightest. In fact, she looked even angrier than before, her cheeks and nose turning a shade of scarlet usually only achieved by those with Weasley blood.

"It's a Muggle tradition, isn't it? This not seeing the bride before the wedding rubbish, right?" Ron grasped her hands again and grinned at her. "Hermione, you've got to believe me. I'd never even heard of that sort of thing before. Wizard-folk have a different view, I think. They reckon it tends to be a good thing if the bride and groom can get together right before the ceremony, maybe reassure each other and relieve some of the pre-wedding nerves. Mum always said it cut down on the 'floo-flighty grooms' or 'disapparating brides.'"

Hermione sniffled, but at least she was listening.

"So I'm actually really glad I ran into you," Ron continued, smiling fondly at her. "When you started bawling I thought for sure you were going to hop a Portkey to South America or something—"

"Oh, Ron," Hermione finally squeaked, and she flung her arms around him.

Finally, the tension melted away and for a brief second Ginny beamed happily at Harry over her brother's head. He grinned back for just an instant, then froze, looked slightly confused, and looked away. Ginny felt her face colour.

At that moment Mum came barreling into the room. "Ronald Weasley, you are supposed to be outside with Bill and George—and you too, Harry! Oh, for heaven's sake, where is Neville?"

Ron leaned over and kissed his glowing bride on the forehead. He gently brushed the tears away. "There. Didn't even mess up your makeup. See you in a bit."

Hermione looked like she might cry all over again, but she squeezed his hands and smiled shakily at him before Ginny's mother shepherded the boys out of the room.

Before she knew it, Ginny was standing at the back of the large, airy tent twisting the ribbon holding her bouquet together around her fingers. Hannah, Fleur, and Penelope were already making their way down the aisle as a small band of witches played a waltz on various orchestral instruments.

"Your turn, dear," said Polera Perkins, the wedding coordinator, a short plump witch wearing shimmery green robes and an enormous orange hat with a live parrot perched on the brim. The parrot kept squawking things like, "Here comes the bride," and "Something borrowed, something blue."

Ginny took a breath and began the long march. The tent was packed with people. It seemed like everyone she'd ever met, even briefly, was there. The front two rows were packed with Weasleys and Grangers (despite being an only child, Hermione had quite a lot of aunts, uncles, and cousins). The next few contained various Hogwarts classmates and friends (Demelza Robins and Dennis Creevy waved merrily to Ginny as she passed. Then there were the Ministry of Magic employees, the Hogwarts professors, the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix, and even old Ollivander and Rosmerta, who was already wiping tears from her round cheeks. Flitwick straining his neck to see over the heads of the crowd, and next to him McGonagall sat, rigid as ever, in a lavender dress that looked like it had spent most of its far-too-long life in a mothball infested trunk.

Behind Ginny came a wave of ahs. She turned briefly to smile at Victorie, clad in a shimmering white ensemble and soaking up the attention like a sponge. The tiny girl was scarcely old enough to toddle down the aisle, but she beamed at everyone and tossed her flower petals at her adorers. Teddy followed along behind her, looking sullen that most of the admiration was being directed at Victorie instead of him. At least he still had his pants on and both rings appeared to still be intact.

Ginny found her way to the designated spot and turned to watch Hermione enter. The music changed, now playing something classical by Handel (at Hermione's insistence, of course). The curtains of the tent opened, and Hermione stepped through, looking dazzling. No trace of the recent tears remained. She smiled beautifully and glided down the aisle like royalty, her shimmering dress flowing behind her. Ginny turned to glance at her brother. Ron's mouth was open, and he stared at his bride like a man who'd just been hit over the head. He kept bringing his hand up to rub his eyes disbelievingly.

Ginny felt a rush of happiness—and at the same time, a horrible weight on her chest. She watched Ron meet Hermione at the front row and take her hands. She listened as the little old wizard cleared his throat and began the bonding ceremony. She waited for her cues to step in and take Hermione's bouquet, to arrange Hermione's train, to pass the happy couple the rings Teddy had been holding.

Finally, when she thought she might actually cry, she contented herself with glaring at the best man. Just looking at him made her angry all over again. Don't think about last night . . . just don't . . . All morning long Ginny had trying not to remember what had happened, afraid she'd start overanalyzing it, or even worse, get nostalgic. He's just a great git, thinking he could sleep with me and it'd make everything better. Or maybe he just did it to get back at me. Not even a hint of apology. He took advantage of me because I'd had too much to drink. I definitely wasn't thinking properly. At least, that's how she desperately wanted to believe things had been last night, even though her conscious was prickling uncomfortably.

Harry, who was watching the bride and groom intently, finally felt her gaze. His eyes widened for a moment. Then he pursed his lips and shook his head angrily. The look clearly said, Not now. Ginny just continued to glare.

He ruined everything. I was actually starting to think we could be friends again.

Ron and Hermione exchanged their vows, hands clasped and faces shining.

He was being so nice at the Burrow, and then on the Knight Bus, and even at my house . . . It felt just like old times . . .

Ginny closed her eyes. No, she mustn't think about it. This line of thought wasn't helping her suppress her tears.

She tried now to pointedly avoid Harry's eyes. Her eyes locked instead with George's. To her surprise he was watching her, not the couple, and he had a very knowing expression on his face.

Dear Merlin. Nowhere was safe to look. She decided to stare instead at the silky ceiling.

So intent was Ginny at not looking in the wrong directions that she nearly missed the officiating wizard's pronouncement. "You may now kiss the bride."

Ron stepped forward and swept Hermione into an enthusiastic kiss—so enthusiastic, in fact, that people in the audience began to whistle and clap. Then the music began again and Ginny remembered just in time to toss Hermione her bouquet before the happy couple swept back down the aisle.

She and Harry were next. He stepped forward and offered her his arm, just like they'd done in rehearsals, and Ginny gritted her teeth and took it. She sped between the rows as fast as she could on her teetering heels, anxious to get to the back of the tent and away from Harry—after last night, half a kilometer would probably still be an uncomfortable proximity—when suddenly her left foot connected with something solid and she was flying comically through the air.

Her fall seemed to take forever, as if in slow motion. Finally, Ginny hit the ground with an oomph as all the air was knocked out of her. She stared dizzily at the white carpet pressing into her nose. The whole world was out of focus.

There was a collective gasp, then a moment where the only thing Ginny heard was Teddy's unabashed giggles and that damn parrot's exclamation of "Left at the altar, left at the altar."

Slowly, she pushed herself up onto her elbows, then twisted around to look at Harry. He was standing, frozen, with a look of abject horror on his face.

In a fit of rage, Ginny scrambled to her feet, shoving away the hand Harry offered her with such force that he had to take a step back.

"You bastard," she hissed, straightening her dress. The strapless gown had gotten twisted around, and the front now had the unmistakable stains of crushed rose pedals in the chifon.

Ginny tried to take a step toward Harry—oh how she wanted to murder him, right here in now—she was already fumbling for her wand which she'd tucked in a thigh holster before the ceremony—but her arms were seized by George, who had wisely abandoned Penelope. He hustled her the remaining few steps to the door. "Ginny. Not now. Not here. Ginny, are you listening to me?"

"Let me go," Ginny demanded as soon as they were outside the tent. "Let me go, I'm going to kill him, I swear I will—"

"Not a chance." George kept pushing her to the house.

"Did you see that?" she raged, still fighting George's grip. "He TRIPPED me. Purposefully! That low, good-for-nothing son of a—"

"No." Her brother marched her into entry of the Burrow, then let her go. She immediately tried to push past him, but he blocked the door.

"So help me, I will jinx you if you don't let me go back—"

"Ginny, he didn't mean to trip you!"

"Of course he did! He's been trying to ruin my life ever since—" She surprised herself, and George, by suddenly bursting into tears.

A moment later her favorite brother had his arms around her and she was sobbing into his chest.

"Aw, Ginny," muttered George. "Don't cry."

Ginny tried to stop, she really did, but found she honest-to-goodness couldn't. Damn Harry for being such a git, damn Ron and Hermione for making me be in their stupid wedding, damn George for walking in on us this morning . . .

"Shite," said her brother fervently. "He really did a number on you, didn't he?"

She was guided to the couch and George hastily conjured up some handkerchiefs. After some time, the stream of tears began to lessen. Ginny alternated between dabbing her cheeks and crumpling the handkerchief in her fists.

"They must all think I'm a nutter, huh?"

"They wouldn't be wrong," countered George, then grinned. "You know I'm just messing with you, Gin." He paused. "You alright?"

"No," she said honestly, staring at her lap.

"Is this about last night? Or rather, this morning?" George wasn't smirking, or even smiling. For once, he was serious.

Still, her face suddenly felt hot. "God, I'm such an idiot. And no, I am not talking about this with you! It's completely humiliating that I let it happen in the first place, not to mention that I got walked in on by my very own brother . . ."

George was quiet for a bit. "You know that if Ron and I ever thought Harry was deliberately trying to hurt you we'd take him out in an alley and permanently disfigure his bits, right? I bet Perce and Bill and Charlie would want to participate too. In fact, it took all of Mum's threats and Dad's pleading to keep us from doing it when you two first ended things."

Ginny couldn't help smiling. It was always nice to know she had six—no, five, now, she remembered with a pang—older brothers to watch out for her.

George cleared his throat. "But this time around, he's actually got me convinced that he still cares for you."

She stared at him, dubious.

"Trust me, Ginny, if he's still trying to get even with you, and that's all last night was about, I'll personally shove him in a Vanishing Cabinet and shove Filibuster Firecrackers up his—"

"OK, OK! I get it!" said Ginny. Although she tried to conceal it, a smile was tugging at the corner of her mouth.

George tousled her hair. "You're going to be fine. All you need now is a good stiff drink."

Ginny sighed. "I don't know—it certainly couldn't hurt at this point. That was the single most humiliating moment of my entire life."

When she looked over, George was smirking.

Ginny buried her head in her hands. "Aside from this morning! That was undoubtedly the most embarrassing of all . . . and you're never going to let me live it down . . ."

The smirk grew wider.

She exhaled. "I'm still going to kill him for tripping me, you know."

"Just do me a favor, and wait until after Ron's wedding is finished?" said George. "I mean, don't get me wrong, it'd be a great headline. 'Chosen One Who Defeated the Dark Lord Gets Offed by an Angry Ex at His Best Mate's Wedding.' "

Ginny giggled.

"But wait to do it till later, for Ron's sake," George suggested. "Besides, later you'll have fewer witnesses. I'd be pretty bummed if you were caught in the act and I had to visit you in Azkaban for the rest of your life."

"As long as you'll bring me Chocolate Frogs," returned Ginny, smiling. "Then Azkaban wouldn't be so bad."

"Deal," said her brother, holding out his hand. Instead of shaking it, Ginny leaned over and hugged him.

"Thanks," she whispered.

George shrugged. "It's nothing, really. Now go powder your nose or something. We've still got to make it through the whole blasted reception."

The chairs had vanished from the tent. A large dance floor had appeared, surrounded by smaller tables and chairs. Floating trays of drinks drifted from guest to guest as the witches who'd played at the wedding struck up a lively ballad.

Ginny slid into her chair at the wedding party table, scanning the tent for Harry. He was across the room, talking to Neville and Dean Thomas. Thankfully, his back was turned.

"Ginny, you alright?" Hermione plopped herself down in the adjoining seat. "Penelope told me what happened. Are you hurt?"

"Just my pride," said Ginny. "The wedding was beautiful, by the way," she continued, wanting to change the subject. Dwelling on her humiliation would only make her angrier.

Hermione beamed. "I thought for sure with my luck something big was certain to go wrong—like the tent collapsing or Victorie eating the rings—but everything was perfect. Well, except for . . ." She grimaced apologetically.

The band struck up another song. Ginny saw Ron heading in their direction. "I think that's your cue," she said, nudging Hermione.

Hermione leapt to her feet and Ron caught her hand and pulled her to the middle for the first dance. They spun in a slow circle, but even though the dance was simple enough, Ginny could tell that somehow Hermione had persuaded Ron into taking dance lessons.

The song changed. Ron and Hermione simultaneously looked over in her direction, and with a jolt Ginny remembered what they'd agreed upon at the rehearsal. After the first song, Harry and Ginny were supposed to join the newlyweds on the dance floor to signal the rest that it was alright to dance as well. Ginny looked past Ron and Hermione to where Harry was standing. He took a few steps in her direction, then stopped uncertainly, waiting.

How could she have forgotten something this important? It's for Ron and Hermione, just do it for them . . . You can dance with the man you despise for three minutes . . . It's for Ron and Hermione . . .

Ginny forced herself to stand and marched out to the dance floor. Harry met her in the middle and they both paused.

"Ginny," said Harry stiffly, and it dawned upon her that he might be angry that she called him a bastard in front of two hundred wedding guests. But he deserved it.

Ginny put her hand on his shoulder and let him take her waist. They started to move awkwardly in a small circle. Harry had never been talented at dancing, but neither had she, and the tension was making matters ten times worse.

To Ginny's relief, Neville and Hannah were dancing now, and a few other couples were making their way to the floor. Maybe if enough people start dancing, Ron and Hermione won't notice if I slip away halfway through the song.

She concentrated on the steps, staring pointedly over Harry's right shoulder.

"Nice wedding," said Harry in her ear.

"Small talk? Really?" Ginny shot back almost instantly. "Alright, I'll play along . . . Sure, it was a nice wedding, until you purposefully humiliated me in front of everyone—"

"I did not—"

She cut him off with a sharp laugh. "You didn't mean to?"

"Of course I didn't," hissed Harry. "I would never—"

"But you were angry at me, weren't you?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Feeling a rush of satisfaction, she barreled on. "Of course you were, after I kicked you out this morning."

"Well, who wouldn't have been angry, Ginny? Of course I was angry. No bloke wants to get thrown out after a night like . . . that."

"A night like what?" she shot back.

But he pressed his lips together and shook his head.

Ginny knew she was being childish, but the words came anyway. "How would you feel if I stuck out my foot and tripped you, right here and now? In front of everyone, even that reporter from the Daily Prophet who's hiding in the corner?"

Harry looked like he wanted to laugh for a split second. "Noticed her, did you? Just as long as Hermione doesn't, I guess." His smile vanished when he caught Ginny's glare. "This isn't really about you tripping in the aisle, is it?"

"Of course it is!"

"Obviously it's not, and you're being ridiculously stubborn—" She almost didn't catch his last words, but they were out before he could stop himself. "—just like always."

"Just like always? You're calling me stubborn? Isn't that a little like the teakettle calling the fryingpan black?"

"The pot calling the kettle black?"

"Whatever! Just don't do it!"

"You're the one who was all insistent about us being mature about it all today," Harry challenged. "What happened to that?"

Ginny laughed harshly. "You certainly can't talk about maturity after you tripped me in front of everyone."

"Damn it all, Ginny, I told you I didn't mean to! Just let it go!"

She suddenly realised that he'd let go of her and they were no longer dancing. No one else was, either. Evidently their raised voices had drawn attention.

She chanced a quick glance around and saw Ron's red face, Hermione's stricken one—and then her view was obstructed by two redheaded figures.

Bill seized Ginny's arms and Charlie grabbed Harry's. Ginny looked down at her hands to discover that they'd been balled into fists.

"You two can fight all you want, but I'm certainly not letting your petty arguments ruin my little brother's wedding." Bill's grip tightened on her shoulders, and Ginny felt a sudden rush of shame as she was marched from the tent, the onlookers staring disapprovingly at her as she passed.

They were deposited a good ten metres away from the lighted tent. Bill and Charlie stepped back, both with crossed arms and sporting scowls.

"You two are going to stay out here until you can resolve things like responsible adults, or at least until you can be civil to each other," said Bill, his voice deathly calm. "Merlin, Ginny, what are you thinking? Picking a fight in front of everyone. Harry, you're no better, retaliating like that."

Charlie chimed in. "Yeah, if I see either of you back in the tent picking fights with each other again, I will personally Banish you, and I won't be discreet, either. Now stay out here and sort this shite out before you ruin the whole wedding."

Charlie had plenty of experience separating quarreling dragons. He'd have no problem dealing with her and Harry, thought Ginny. She hung her head.

The Weasley brothers glanced at each other. With one last warning look, they departed.

Aside from the muffled sounds of celebration coming from the tent, the night was still. Standing there, arms crossed across her chest, all the fight knocked out of her, Ginny felt out of place, like her very presence was disturbing the formerly peaceful atmosphere. The moon was not quite full, shining serenely above, although it was still battling for dominance with the remains of what must have been a beautiful sunset an hour before. In the western sky, streaks of purple and grey and indigo still stretched their reluctant fingers out before finally melding into the inky blackness.

Sighing deeply, she reached for her wand. Before her fingers even closed on the handle, though, Harry leapt away, an alarmed expression on his face.

"I'm just conjuring up a chair, you wanker," she said irritably, although under different circumstances she might have actually laughed. "My feet aren't too fond of these heels."

Harry turned his back on her wordlessly.

Ginny sank into her conjured chair and rubbed her eyes. What a long, torturous day she'd had, and it wasn't even finished yet. It was hard not to feel sorry for herself. She absolutely did not want to talk to him. Maybe she could travel to another universe where he didn't exist, where she could live out the rest of her life in Harry Potter-free bliss . . . Well, even if that idea was a bit implausible, she could at least consider relocating to the other side of the planet. I've got to remember to ask Hermione if Australia is nice this time of year.

But as badly as she wanted to be somewhere else, Ginny knew she really did need to at least try and resolve things with Harry—if not for herself, for Ron and Hermione. Besides, her life would be pretty miserable if she stayed mad at him indefinitely. It was pretty hard to avoid your ex-boyfriend when he was the bloody Boy-who-Lived, hero of the Wizarding world. To make things worse, the Ministry of Magic was talking about erecting a statue in his honor and putting his face on a new line of galleons.

Why couldn't I have just been happy dating Dean Thomas? He's a perfectly decent bloke, with a good job and a nice flat . . . But she knew that question had been rhetorical. Harry was . . . Harry. She'd loved him since she was ten. Even when she wanted to hate him, like that time he'd ended things at Dumbledore's funeral, she couldn't help loving him. Maybe she still loved him right now. That thought lingered, but she pushed it out of her mind. That's ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. Not after everything he's done.

The minutes were lengthening.

"This really isn't about the accident in the aisle," she said quietly.

"I know," came the reply.

There was an outbreak of clapping and whistling from the tent as the celebrations continued. Had they cut the cake? Was she missing Hermione's insisted-upon Muggle tradition of tossing the bouquet?

"I just . . . I guess I didn't know how to react, about last night . . ."

"Neither did I."

"It was such a stupid mistake," Ginny continued, staring at her hands. "We had both been drinking and were clearly not thinking straight . . . I guess I didn't realise what I'd done until George barged in this morning and threatened to tell everyone, and I went a little nutters."

"You think it was a mistake?"

"Of course it was," she said, looking up, but Harry was still staring off into the remnants of the sunset. When he didn't immediately reply, Ginny bit her bottom lip. "I mean, come on, Harry. Sleeping with you was foolish, and I'm usually smarter than that—you've always been a bad influence on me."

Harry was still silent.

"I'm sure you thought it was a perfect situation, though," Ginny said bitterly. So he was going to be difficult. Two could play this game. "I was pretty damn tipsy. If I hadn't had so much to drink I would've never agreed to—"

Harry spun around, and even in the dim light Ginny could his face was contorted in anger. "Excuse me? If I remember correctly, you were practically begging me to fuck you last night."

"I did no such thing, you git!" Ginny screamed, jumping to her feet. Before she realised what she was doing, she had one of her heels in her hand and had hurled it at him.

Harry snatched her shoe out of the air. Damn those Seeker reflexes.

For a long moment the two just stared at each other.

Harry reached for his wand and Ginny jumped back, every fiber of her being on guard . . . but he just raised it and said, "Muffliato." Then he turned and casually sent her shoe sailing into the shrubbery.

Wordlessly, Ginny gaped at him as he turned back to her.

"You're pretty loud," Harry explained icily. "In fact, if I remember correctly, you were even louder last night—"

"I did not beg you!"

"You were the first one to bring up a breakup shag."

"But you suggested actually doing it! And there was no begging."

"Oh, really?" Harry raised his voice and mimicked her. "'Oh, Harry, don't you dare stop!'"

"Well, I sure wish I'd stopped you there," Ginny hissed. "It wasn't even that good."

She'd dealt a pretty low blow, taking a jab at his performance in the sack. It was also a dreadful lie, and they both knew it.

Ginny felt her face crumple. She took an uneven step back, almost knocked off balance by the absence of one shoe. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "That was . . . uncalled for."

An outbreak of laughter and cheers from the tent. Had the toasts already begun? She was supposed to say something. She had a speech prepared, but now it appeared she wouldn't be able to give it. How angry were Ron and Hermione going to be?

Harry passed a hand over his eyes. Was he still furious? She couldn't tell for sure.

"Ginny," he said at last, sounding tired. "What do you want from me?"

What did she want? The question was a rather harsh slap in the face. "Nothing," said Ginny quickly, but she knew it wasn't true. Something had been awakened last night, something she'd been suppressing for a long time now.

She missed him.

She'd spent months trying to make herself believe that she was fine, that she was strong, that she didn't need him, that she could move on . . . but one night had destroyed that illusion.

"No, that's not entirely true," said Ginny, summoning up all the courage she had left—which wasn't much. "I know it's stupid, but last night . . . I actually enjoyed it, the talking bit. Well, the shagging bit wasn't bad either, even if I apparently did beg you for it . . ."

"You didn't beg me to sleep with you," said Harry quietly, not looking at her. "I came pretty damn close to begging you, actually."

"Pretty desperate for a shag, were you?" Ginny said before she could stop herself.

Harry looked at her. "You know me better than that."

What in Merlin's name did that mean?

"Harry, what do you want?" she finally asked, searching his face.

"I want," he said immediately, "to never fight with you again. It's stupid and childish . . ."

"And exhausting," Ginny chimed in, and she felt a rush of shame as she thought of everything she'd said and done in the last two months. "God, Harry, I'm sorry, I've been so immature . . ." To her surprise, the apology slipped effortlessly from her lips, and what's more, she found that she actually meant it.

"And I haven't? I just tossed your shoe into the shrubbery, didn't I?"

Ginny felt her face breaking into a smile. "Yeah, but that was only after I'd thrown it at your head."

They stood there, smiling awkwardly at each other.

She was still confused, though. Was he just trying to patch things up with her so they could be civil to each other again? What on earth had last night been about, then? Just some stupid mistake between two people who would never again be anything than just friends?

As if reading her mind, Harry began to examine his shoes. "You're right," he said. "Last night was a mistake."

Ginny felt her heart skip a beat, then thud painfully in her chest. He regretted last night. He wished it'd had never happened. He didn't feel the same way she did, and nothing would never be right again . . .

But then Harry crossed the short distance between them and seized her shoulders. "I should've told you how much you still mean to me first. I should've told you that life is absolutely miserable without you." He drew a breath, ran one hand through his hair. "And most of all I should've apologised for being a first-rate git and begged you to take me back."

She hadn't thought her heart could beat any faster, but it did, and the fluttering that sprung up in her stomach had nothing to do with the glass of wine she'd had earlier.

"And then I would've slept with you."

"Such a typical bloke," Ginny managed to say, rolling her eyes. The effect was destroyed, though, because the next moment she was grinning idiotically up at him.

"You really want me back?" she said, slipping her arms around his neck. "Even after I burned all your stuff and dated all those morons and insulted you in front of an entire tent of people?"

"I think the real question is whether you want me back," said Harry. "Even after I tried to sabotage your career with the Aurors and practically took advantage of you last night and tripped you in front of an entire tent of people."

Ginny's eyebrows shot up. "Is that a confession?" she asked slyly.

Harry grinned now. "Absolutely not. It was purely accidental, you falling like that. But now I'm sort of glad it happened."

"So that's it?" asked Ginny, still slightly skeptical. She wanted so badly for all this to be true, but she couldn't quite accept it yet. "No more dueling, no more insults, no more fights?"

"I told you, I'm tired of fighting," he replied. His eyes were dark as he studied her face with an intensity that sent shivers through her body. "I'd rather do this."

Then he leaned down and kissed her.

Ginny instantly felt her knees weaken as his warm lips closed on hers, as one hand buried in her hair, the other sliding around her waist. She kissed him back, and her brain stuttered to a delighted halt. A single thought drifted through her head that maybe, just maybe, her life was going to get better, that everything was going to make sense again . . .

"You're right," she said when they paused to catch their breaths. "That's much better than fighting."

What seemed like hours later, though it might have only been a few minutes, the thought ran through Ginny's head that they were missing the whole wedding.

Harry seemed to be thinking the same thing. "We should probably—you know—"

Ginny reluctantly pulled away. "Yeah. Hermione's already got enough reasons to be angry at me. I don't want her to add 'Missing the whole damn reception' to the list."

Harry smiled and reached up to tuck an escaped curl behind her ear. "So, how are we going to spin this?"

"Spin what?"

He gestured at the two of them. "This. Leaving the reception as hell-bent enemies, and coming back . . . well, together."

Ginny arched her eyebrows. "Together?"

Harry looked confused for a moment, but then understanding flooded his face. "Alright, alright. Ginny Weasley, will you be my girlfriend again? And this time I'll promise never to try to curse you again and also to make sure you get the most dangerous assignments in your Auror classes."

Before she could reply, he jumped in again. "Oh, and we can shag whenever you want."

"You're such a dork." She planted a kiss on his cheek. "Yes, I'll be your girlfriend, and I'll solemnly swear never to try to cause you bodily harm or date any other blokes ever again."

Harry grinned. "Good, 'cause that last one was a deal-breaker for me."

She linked arms with him and they started back toward the tent.

"You know," said Ginny, "if I wasn't absolutely sure that it'd be the end of our friendship with Ron and Hermione, I'd suggest that we go back in there, stage another colossal row, and just when Bill and Charlie are about to drag us outside again, grab each other and start to snog. That'd shut them up."

Despite Harry's wholehearted approval of her idea, it was decided that they would not make an entrance, seeing that their previous exit had been less than appropriate. The festivities had continued, so they weren't noticed as they ducked back into the canopy tent. Harry gave her hand a quick squeeze and whispered, "Later," before disappearing in the direction of the punch bowl. Ginny made her way back to the designated wedding party table. She sank back into the chair and fumbled for a glass of champagne. Ron and Hermione were dancing again—or maybe they hadn't ever stopped.

She tried to suppress the smile. Everyone was going to think she really was nutters, sitting here grinning like an idiot. Had it all been a dream? She and Harry. Back together. It seemed too good to be true.

Searching the crowd, she spotted him, speaking to Bill. Probably apologizing for the both of them. Good. Harry must have felt her gaze, because he looked up and met her eyes. One corner of his mouth twitched into a smile and he winked at her. Ginny had to turn away and cough into her napkin to hide the blush that reddened her cheeks.

She wiggled around in her chair to face the other direction, hoping to regain her composure, and found herself face to face with George.

His bowtie was loosened and he had the unmistakable look of someone who'd already had at least three glasses of mead. George grinned conspiratorially at her and wiggled his eyebrows. "Looks like you've either just performed a really good Cheering Charm or you and the Boy-Who-Lived-and-Saved-All-Our-Arses are no longer trying to kill each other."

This only made Ginny want to blush deeper, but instead she lifted her chin. "And it looks like you've had a bit too much to drink already, George. Why, did some girl turn you down for a dance?"

"Spot on," said George, unconcerned. "I'll make her see reason eventually. No one could possibly resist all of this charm and manliness."

Ginny laughed, then reached for her champagne glass again.

"No, seriously, Ginny," George continued. "You going to be alright?"

Ginny considered the question. "Eventually," she said at last. "I will. I think we both will."

And somehow, she knew it was the truth. It might take time, repairing the relationship she and Harry and spent the last few months destroying, but eventually all would be right again.

"We're going to be just fine," she said softly, smiling.

A few hours later, the bride and groom departed in an expected whirlwind of good wishes, rice, and even a few firecrackers, courtesy of George. The celebrations continued, but more leisurely than before as slowly people drifted away, back to their homes.

The music had slowed, the fairy lights were shimmering, and the floor was emptying. Neville and Hannah spun slowly on the dance floor, completely oblivious that they were not on time with the music. Over by the open bar, George was sitting with Angelina, listening to her relate a Quidditch tale and looking happier than he had in a long while. As long as he forgets about this morning, Ginny thought ruefully. On the other side of the room, Penelope sat with her head on a tall dark-haired man's shoulder—Ginny could only conclude that this was Kevin Chambers. In the centre of the room, her own parents were dancing clumsily, something that only happened when her father had consumed too much wine.

"Want to dance?"

Harry stood there, hand outstretched.

"More than anything," said Ginny, meaning it.

He led her to the middle of the floor and she put her arms around his neck. His hands settled on her waist.

"Don't step on my feet," Ginny warned. "I'm barefoot, thanks to you." She had abandoned the remaining shoe soon after returning to the tent. She could dance better barefoot anyway. Except for the disastrous dance with Neville, everyone had avoided bruising her toes so far.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

They revolved slowly to the music and Ginny thought that this might be the first time she'd really felt happy in months.

Over Harry's shoulder—she could only see a little over his shoulder, him being a good head taller—George was watching them now and gave Ginny two thumbs up when he caught her eye. Other people were noticing them now too. Her mother and father glanced Ginny's way and then smiled at each other knowingly.

She looked up to see that Harry's ears were red. He must have noticed all the attention they were drawing. He cleared his throat. "I guess I can't really blame them for staring after everything that happened."

"We at least owe them a good show."

"I was thinking more about running for the closest exit," Harry admitted.

"You're too uptight," Ginny told him, grinning. "Let's give them something to really talk about." She stood on her toes and kissed him.

The low buzz of conversation became instantly louder.

She could feel him grinning before he moved his lips against hers and it suddenly seemed that her surroundings had completely vanished. Or rather, her surroundings were irrelevant.

After what seemed like forever, Harry pulled back, looking slightly flustered. "You, um, want to get out of here?"

"Absolutely," she said, almost before the question was out of his mouth.

George actually had the audacity to whistle at them as they passed him on the way out.

"Where are we going?" she asked, as she and Harry dashed across the lawn past the anti-disapparation wards.

"My flat," said Harry. "It's the only place I'm completely positive George can't break into." He shot Ginny a burning look that turned her insides to mush. "I'd rather we not be disturbed tonight. Although . . ." He looked a little worried. "I don't have any tequila."

She grinned up at him. "None necessary tonight, I promise."

Maybe her luck wasn't as bad as she'd thought, Ginny mused as Harry grabbed her hand and prepared to Apparate. The night was beautiful, the stars bright, and life suddenly wasn't looking so bad after all.

fin.