Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the immediate plot!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It is now February 4. Still no reply from Harry. I have nine days to find a date to Hermione and Ron's wedding. Yes, the lovebirds are getting married on Valentine's Day. I don't know what Hermione was thinking – Ron will combine her anniversary and St. Valentine's present into one, and she will receive one less present each year! Just kidding.

I sit at my desk in my small office and try to concentrate on reviewing the blueprint for the new bell tower to be built in the center of Hogsmeade. The whole thing was rather narrow for my tastes, but Jordan, my boss, insisted that I not exceed the parameters he had set for its width and height. Call it my artistic obstinacy, but I don't appreciate his dictating my blueprints.

Peck. Peck.

My head snaps toward my office window to see my faithful owl hovering outside with a letter on her leg.

"Belle!" I cry as I open the window. She hoots at me; I see that she's forgiven her owner.

I untie the letter, which is addressed to Ms. Carrot in rather scribbly handwriting. I smile at Bachelor #3's adoption of my pseudonym. I see that Harry has managed to retain his sense of humor even after the second war.

Dear Ms. Carrot,

First things first: I'm sorry I didn't reply promptly, but I was in Norway playing Quidditch until yesterday.

And not to worry – I didn't find your greeting rude at all. In fact, I find it quite amusing. Please don't hesitate to continue using Bachelor #3 as my name.

You're right – we probably do know each other because we were in the same house and only a year apart. I must say that I feel the same way you do – I won't tell you my name because it takes the fun out of this whole deal.

From what I've read in your letter, you seem like a pretty nice person. An architect, huh? We should get along just fine, because I'm thinking about giving up professional Quidditch and just living as a freelance artist (if there is such a thing?). I'm rather tired of traveling here and there without time to relax and enjoy the countries I'm visiting. I guess I'm also tired of the high-profile life Quidditch players live. I've had my share of wacky media, and I hate not being able to go to a party without Rita Skeeter the Younger telling the whole world that I was making eyes at some brunette.

Food for thought: give me one word that describes your personality. As for myself, I'd have to say… "searching." My life has not been the easiest life to live, and I'm searching for a lot of things now. A normal life, for one. Stability. A down-to-earth girl, which Ms. Blackburn pointed out in my ad. Oh – is it just me, or is she a bit, well, loony?

As you can tell, I decided not to toss your letter. I think that there is potential, which is surprising, since I never expected anything to come of my ad in TheDaily Prophet

Sincerely,

Mr. Bachelor #3

P.S. – I think your owl has made friends with mine!

Squeal. Squeal. Squeal! I call this divine intervention – even our owls like each other! I always thought Hedwig was rather pretty…

All right, maybe I shouldn't move so quickly, but it's tempting to fall for Harry. I suppose I never really knew him. I mean, he was a family friend, but I never knew him personally – I was too busy sending singing dwarfs after The-Boy-Who-Lived to notice plain Harry Potter.

I grab a quill and begin scribbling my reply.

Goodbye, single life. Hello, dating life!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I really am a little girl at heart. I think it's both pathetic and unique that I can't stand to keep secrets from my mum. And so I decide to come clean with Mum. I am going to tell her just how my "relationship" with Harry is developing from a simple newspaper ad. I will, of course, swear her to secrecy.

"The Burrow!" I call as I step into the fireplace.

"Ginny!" Mum cries as she drops the pan she's holding and runs to the fireplace to embrace me. Ah, the feeling of being squeezed half to death by my dearest mother is something no one can ever replace. But it's not like I never come home; I actually go at least once a week.

Mum finally lets go of me, and she begins jabbering away about the wedding.

"… and Hermione bought her gown already. Oh! Did she tell you that Madame Milkin wants you to go in for a final fitting?"

I force a smile on my face and nod – really, how can I dampen Mum's excitement by telling her that I didn't particularly want to visit that thin-mouthed, tape-measure-brandishing villain again?

"Mum, I have to tell you something," I say, my voice completely grave – so much so that Mum immediately becomes worried.

I pull her over to the couch and sit her down.

"Mum, I have a date to the wedding," I begin. I really do plan to tell her about how I came across my date, and that my date would be Harry. It's too bad she decides to smother me again.

"Oh, my baby girl has a date!" Mum cries as she hugs the life out of me. She makes it sound as if I've never dated before! I'm not a nun; I simply take my time and pick out the best men to date. I snort at myself. Yes, I take my time to pick, which is exactly why I am currently contacting "strangers" through The Daily Prophet.

"Tell me about him, Ginny!" Mum orders.

"Well, his name is Bach-" Oh sweet Merlin. I almost slipped.

"Um… his name is Bachetar. Bachetar… Mussolini!" Oh sweet sweet Merlin! What was I thinking? Mussolini? Great, now I'm dating the descendant of a bloody dictator.

This was going to be harder than I thought. Now that I think about it, Mum will probably force me to confront Harry right away. But I can't do that – it would ruin everything! If I tell Harry that Ms. Carrot, the witty, mysterious architect, is really just his best friend's little sister, he will never speak to me again!

A puzzled look comes over Mum's face, and her brow furrows.

"Bach- what?" she asks.

"Bachetan. I mean, Bachetar! Bachetar Mussolini," I sputter. I really am horrid at this lying thing, aren't I? First I come up with stupid names for people when I didn't really have to lie, then I forget my own fabrications.

Mum gives me an odd look before she smiles.

"Well, tell me what he's like."

She really is making this lying thing hard for me. I scour my brain, trying to recall bits and pieces of the ad.

"Um… well, Bachetag is a Quidditch player, and he likes sculpting. He's from Italy, you know. That's why his last name is Mussolini. But he's not related to Mussolini or anything." I'm babbling now. Obvious, isn't it?

I'm really going to have trouble keeping up with my own story. It would be nice if I could told Mum that Bachetab – or whatever I said his name was – attended Hogwarts, but then she would probably realize that none of my classmates had the last name Mussolini.

Mum mistakes my nervous prattle for excitement about my new "boyfriend" and nods happily.

"Well, he certainly sounds like a nice young man. Tell him I can't wait to meet him at the wedding."

I smile half-heartedly and agree.

Maybe telling Mum about my date wasn't such a great idea. Actually, it probably wouldn't have been so bad if I'd just told the truth instead of creating fictional characters.

At this moment, I have seven days, six hours, and twenty-four minutes to make Harry fall in love with Ms. Carrot because of her amazing wit and charm. Then I have to shatter his image of Ms. Carrot as a drop-dead sexy woman by telling him who I am – plain old Ginny Weasley who has ridiculous red hair and a rather nonexistent sanity.

Brilliant.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dear Bachelor #3,

Norway. Tell me, how well do most Norwegians speak English? One of my (many) uncles was born in Norway, and he has trouble pronouncing words properly. Once, I swear I heard him say, "I went to the hospital to die." It turns out that he was trying to say, "I went to the hospital today." Obviously, communication with him is a bit stunted.

Indeed, I am an architect – a rather stubborn one. Call me rebellious, but I'm always trying to find a way to not follow my boss's directions, because I can't stand having him tower over me. In other words, I completely understand why you want to work as a freelance artist. To be able to plan buildings the way I want to is an amazing feeling, but the few times I've submitted my personal work to my boss, it's been rejected.

I've always liked Quidditch as well. Flying still gives me an amazing feeling, but I haven't had the chance to do much of it lately. My guess is that you love Quidditch more than you ever have, but you don't want the constraints of playing on a professional team. It's a pity that jobs take all the fun out of life – most jobs, anyway.

To describe myself in one word, I'd have to say… free. (I think you already figured that out from my rant about my job.) I grew up in a huge family, and even though I love them to death, being by myself has always been a thrill. I've also always gotten a kick out of rebelling against authority, but I've never done anything crazy or immoral. I just like to have my share of fun. And I have to say, Dungbombs are the best invention ever.

Until next time,

Ms. Carrot

P.S. – Is your owl female or male? Just curious – I wonder if our owls will, you know, fall for each other. Or do animals even have set mates? I'd like to think so… (Mine's female, by the way.)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

AN: It might be a little longer until the next update, because this was the last chapter I had already written. Now I have to wait for divine inspiration and some spare time to write the next chapter, but I will try my best!