She was a closet romantic. You'd have to have known her when she was younger to realize it. She always fantasized about the Boy-Who-Lived, dreaming he would come at her doorstep and ignore her house, and her family. That Harry Potter would only see her "beauty." Then it seemed like her fairytale romance was becoming tangible. Every moment in her life seemed to bring her closer to her dream. He had asked her family for help with Platform 9 ¾. He was best friends with her older brother, and they would get into all sorts of dangerous adventures, furthering her belief that he was a real-life hero.

And then he finally did arrive on her doorstep. But he didn't come for her. In fact, he probably thought she was only a silly little girl, because she was a silly little girl around him. And he did care about her house, thinking it was the coziest, warmest, friendliest house he had ever seen. And he did care about her family, thinking they were funny, caring, and extremely entertaining. But he didn't really see her.

Ginny sighed, and looked over at her sleeping husband. Neville Longbottom. He was safe, and he loved her. And she loved him. But not in that racing in your heart, pulsing in your nerves, butterflies in your stomach kind of love. Not the kind of love that fairytale romances described. Not the dramatic swept off your feet when he enters the room kind of love. And sometimes, she convinced herself that what she had now, with Neville, was what she really wanted. Because now, relationships and love were practical. It seemed as though she had forgotten all about the messy haired hero, or the way her body reacted whenever he kissed her in Hogwarts.

No. To everyone, it seemed as though she was happy with being practical and rational when it came to love.

But she knew. She was still a romantic deep inside. She still wanted his entrance into the room to make her heart stop. She still thought about him, even though Harry Potter had been missing for 9 years and declared dead. She thought about him at night, awake and sitting up in bed while her sleeping husband dreamed without notice.

It was simple and complicated at the same time.

There was a small knock and her door, and Ginny got up from bed. It was probably Ron, who had had two fights with Hermione in the last week and came to her house to crash for the night. They had a kind of fairytale romance, Ginny thought. They were madly in love with each other, but bickered constantly. But that passion was always there, and would always be there, and Hermione and Ron's love was too strong to be broken by their petty fights.

Ginny was still a romantic, thinking about the dramatic relationships of other people she knew. It was simple, she thought, because there was that one person that you loved and that you should be with. But it was complicated too, when you knew who you were supposed to be with but still found them slightly insufferable.

Ginny opened the door, and her heart stopped. Harry Potter, the man missing and supposed to be dead, was making his grand entrance.

"Is it Ron again?" Neville asked, woken up by the knocking on the door.

"Erm, hello," Harry said.

It was complicated. Fairytale romances were complicated. Grand entrances were complicated.

There the three of them were. It wasn't simple anymore, because even though Ginny knew she was meant to be with Harry, life was more than a fairytale romance, and her life was more than just printed words on thin paper.