Hi. Hello. Welcome. This is complete and utter crack, it makes entirely no sense what so ever, but I thought it would be amusing to write something after not sleeping for three days and this is the result. I am also in the mood for pancakes and redheads now but that has nothing to do with this story at all. So.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything. That is all JK Rowling, my Queen.

I'm sorry if this hurts your brain. Yes.

Harry never stood a chance.

Being known as the boy who suppressed his libido for twenty-three years was bound to attract attention from the Higher Power's Above especially since said HPA's had a habit of meddling in the lives of those who were fine the way they are, thanks.

Harry didn't care that he was a virgin much to the chagrin of Ron, all around pyromaniac and sex addict, and the thought of sticking his dick anywhere was enough to make him push his plate of pancakes away.

Which… if you knew Harry was a big deal.

When his friends would announce that they were 'getting some'-while staring pointedly at him- Harry had the right mind to think of Voldemort, because nothing made a boner go down faster than Voldemort hissing. He had every right to think this way too. Fucking—because that's what it was, not making love, not a night of passion, just fucking—was only a function to reproduce and gloat over.

And besides, only loners pleasured themselves (Ron would squawk indignantly now).

Hell, he even made the prostitute Ron called in for his eighteenth fall asleep when he explained to her (in detail) why he wouldn't sleep with her. His friends were excited when he announced he'd slept with her, only to see a fully clothed woman snoring in his beanbag chair and Harry's unmade bed; he'd fallen asleep studying notes from the office at his desk. Harry still doesn't understand why they paid her extra when she didn't do anything—Ron's snort aside.

So when she showed up it was only natural that Harry would fall flat on his face in lust.

There was no way he loved Ginny in the beginning. For days, all he saw in his dreams was Ginny's ass, not Ginny's personality (the woman was an a complete mystery to him) or Ginny's influence (Harry would never really admit that he gave up smoking after he learned how much she hated smokers—at least a smidge, anyway). It was purely physical. Something about Ginny's eyes (ass) or her lips (ass) or her…

Aw, hell. Or her ass.

Harry believed in fate. Fate was fickle—convenient enough for humans to grasp when things were going right and just as elusive when things were going wrong.

Coincidences, Harry also believed in; were more likely to happen. It was a coincidence Harry ran out of syrup the same morning he was going to eat (read: inhale) four layers of pancakes. It was a coincidence that his usual grocery was closed forcing him to enter the 24 hour store on the corner, which, he would like to note, smelled extraordinarily like old cabbages and cats. It was also a complete coincidence that of the two employees' he asked for assistance, it would be Ginny.

Or, if he was going to be more precise, Ginny's ass.

Now, Harry was a man who didn't like trouble. Harry would look for the best way to approach the situation (Groping her is likely to get you punched, damn you!) which was clearly the dilemma here. Just what do you tell someone's ass? (Hello, I want to touch you.) It was especially hard to concentrate when the worker wouldn't stop shaking said ass.

"Um…" Oh, Merlin, he was going to have to tap it, wasn't he? "Umm…" (You want to anyway, no harm done.) If it would get him in syrup faster…

"Can I help you, sir?" Turning sharply to look at 'HELLO MY NAME IS: Dean', Harry realized his hand was still four (agonizing) inches away from the other workers ass. Harry opened his mouth to answer to give some absurd excuse as to why he was almost sexually harassing a worker but was cut off again.

"Ginny, you have a customer!" The shaking ass stopped shaking and stood up, pulling earphones out of her ears.

"Hmm… Dean?"

"You have a customer." Her—Ginny's—mouth shaped in an embarrassed 'O' before breaking into a grin.

"How may I help you?" Ginny asked enthusiastically. She ignored Dean's eye roll and distasteful muttering.

Harry, for all his smart genes and good intuition, simply just forgot everything. His eyes widened, his mouth gaped open and his request died on his lips.

"Sir?"

How could someone be so… so… beautiful? And that ass!

"Uh… sir?"

It was inconceivable!

"Sir!" A slap! reverberated around the small store.

Harry snapped to, a hand moving towards his slowly reddening cheek. Looking from Ginny to Dean, Harry tried to regain whatever dignity and manhood he still had. The task was a lot harder then it looked, especially when Harry brain insisted on telling Ginny he wanted her, doing dirty, dirty things on his unused bed.

Definitely lust.

"Syrup." The word slipped from his lips, his voice cracking halfway between the two syllables. "I need Syrup. Syrup."

Never missing a beat, Ginny ignored her customer's odd habits. "Coming right up!" Walking dutifully towards the next aisle, Ginny tripped over an empty box and landed face first into a shelf of cleaning products.

A pregnant silence followed as the other employee and the costumer stared at the woman. One dumbfounded, the other bemused.

"Dean," Ginny whined. "That box wasn't there before!"

It made sense he would fall for an imbecile.

It just made sense.

The Weasley family consisted of a way too many redheads in one place, and sometimes Harry, who somehow managed to avoid calling Arthur Weasley 'Dad'.

The Weasley family was known for being big and redheaded. Also poor. But nice, definitely nice. Oh, and they had the best homemade treacle fudge Harry had ever tasted. O.K., so most of this was just Harry's personal biases, but there were a few things Harry did not know about the Weasley family, things that Harry would have loved to know years and years ago, or possibly two days ago, when he was in the corner store staring at a redheaded woman's ass and fighting temptations to slather her in syrup and eat her up.

For as long as Harry Potter knew Ron Weasley, he was aware, at a distance, that Ron was one ginger in a long line of gingers who didn't seem to end. Of course, Harry couldn't exactly name all of the siblings (Ron had jealousy issues, as it was, so Harry was never allowed with in hearing or seeing distance of his siblings). As such, Harry was also pitifully unaware that the girl he was currently lusting over had a close relationship with Ronald Bilius Weasley. This became fairly apparent when they were walking around the streets and Harry saw her.

Managing not to hit Ron repeatedly on the arm like a 15 year old girl, Harry pointed her out to him, a fantastic, over the top, sort of overwhelming grin coming over his face.

"Look, that's here. Look at that ass."

Ron didn't even look remotely pleased with Harry, which offended the Boy-Who-Lived, especially since he lived for months with Ron's obsession with a woman who Ron claimed did not have troll blood in her with a smile and a canister of bleach with in reaching distance.

Suddenly, Ron began furiously yelling at Harry with a bunch of American expletives because the author was lazy and didn't feel like looking up British slang.

"What? Whaaaaaaaaaat?" Harry yelled back defensively.

"That's my SISTER." Ron was looking more and more like a bull about to run over the nearest person, and much to Harry's alarm, he appeared to be the closest person.

Speaking of sisters, said sister heard the commotion and saw her brother. Walking over to see what the problem was, Harry decided it was an opportune moment to ask out the redhead (whose name he still didn't actually know—Gonny? Virginia? Donny? Who knew) and, by Merlin's left foot, he was sure he heard her say yes before Ron stunned him with a spell in broad daylight, in front of muggles.

Harry Potter succeeds again.