Someone one said that you never fall in love with who you think you'll fall in love. With. Whatever. You know.

The theory goes like this: you always have an image of the one, but in the end, it's not someone's gorgeous, exotic older cousin from Italy who is a super model and also drives a black Ferrari.

It's your best friend's kid sister, who you've seen just about every day for most of your life, who's seen you at your worst, your hair a mess, sweaty from playing football, or shouting like an idiot, or hungover after a night down the pub.

If you're Harry Potter, then it's Ginny Weasley.

Who, it had to be admitted, had seen Harry at his absolute worst, seen him fighting Tom Riddle's ghost of a memory- or memory of a ghost- in the Chamber of Secrets; seen him when he'd brought Cedric Diggory's body back from that damned graveyard; seen him hounded by the press and hunted by Death Eaters. Even followed him back into Hogwarts and fought that madwoman Bellatrix Letrange, because Harry needed people he could trust.

Harry had seen Ginny at her worst, too, of course. See "The Chamber of Secrets," once more, when she was controlled by Riddle.

He'd seen her temper, too, but somehow, that never really bothered him.

It made him run, certainly, but it never really bothered him.

Now Harry stood in front of a mirror in a hotel room, stared at his freshly-trimmed hair and his rented tuxedo and his bowtie and wasn't sure he was ready.

"OK, I admit, mate," Dudley Dursley said, "you don't look too bad. Not too bad."

Harry glared at him and said, "I look like a fool."

"But a really well-dressed fool," Ron Weasley said. "Good call on the waistcoats, though, thanks for that. Those cumberbund things are a health hazard. Not to mention weird." He smoothed his hands down the front of his own tuxedo, made sure the shirt and waistcoat and jacket were all straight.

"You forgot your trousers," Dudley muttered to Ron.

Ron paled, looked down and said, "Bloody…!" He looked back at Dudley. "Haha, very funny, really had me thinking I'd forgotten to put on my trousers for a second, there."

The rest of the group- Neville, Piers, all the rest, Harry's friends from Hogwarts and Little Whinging- called out from the vicinity of the mini-bar. Over the chorus of griping, Neville Longbottom said, "Come on, you three, quit doing your hair, and come over for a drink."

"It's actually good Scotch," Piers Polkiss yelled. "See?" he asked, at Gordon Charles' grunt, "Even Gordon likes it!"

"You wouldn't believe," Neville told them as the trio came over, "how much Muggles charge for this stuff." He grinned. "Though given the price of gold, the amount you get from having Gringotts convert even a handful of Galleons into pounds is enough for a lot of good Scotch."

He poured for everyone, a laird in his castle. Harry had to admit that Neville had really bloomed since they first met on the Hogwarts Express. Killing Nagini had finally destroyed the last vestige of his nervousness, just as years in the wizarding world had finally gotten Harry used to living in two societies.

They toasted: "To Harry James Bloody Potter," Dudley said, "Brother, friend, rich ponce."

There was laughter as they drank, then Ron said "Oh, right, I have something I've got to tell you," he told Harry.

"Eh?" Harry asked.

Ron took out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. "One, you better make my sister happy. Seriously, you know what she's like when she's angry." Amid chuckles, he added, "Two, you'd better be an awesome brother-in-law; we Weasleys have a reputation to maintain."

"I don't think it's a reputation for 'awesome,' Ron," Neville said.

Ron steamrolled on: "Three, you'd better give mum lots of grandkids."

"You what, mate?" Harry asked with a laugh.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Look, she's been going on and on about it. The rest of us can't carry all the pressure. You're going to have to do your part." He paused. "Though I really don't want to think too deeply about that."

"You've got…" Harry paused and cleared his throat. "Four brothers, all looking to get married if they aren't already. Why do Ginny and I have to make the running?"

"It's a hard life," Ron assured him.

"Oy," Dudley said, with a glance at his wristwatch, "We'd better move. Like, now." He knocked back the last of the Scotch in his glass, gritted his teeth, and said, "That really is good stuff, Nev'."

The others finished their drinks and then the group of them left the room, down the hallway like they were in formation, the dual-best men, Dudley and Ron, in the lead, then Harry, then his groomsmen, both wizard and Muggle. They reached the banquet room, temporarily converted into a church- and hadn't it surprised Harry when he found out wizards did get married in churches, or other holy sites, even though they didn't seem to have religion?- and then they were lined up at the front of the room, where the priest waited.

Harry blinked around the crowded room and thought, God, how many people do we know between us?

It seemed like hundreds of people were there, though there couldn't possibly be. They'd made sure spells got put up that would exclude anyone not on the guest list or serving as a plus one, so no reporters could sneak in, or remnant Death Eaters, or even lollygaggers, as Vernon Dursley termed them.

Harry rocked back and forth on his heels, then tried to relax at Ron's muttered, "Don't lock your knees, mate, you'll pass out. Seriously, Bill…"

Harry tried to relax and listen to Ron's truly enjoyable story about his older brother nearly passing out and falling off the stage at his own wedding. The fact Harry had been there to witness the event did nothing to subtract from the entertainment value.

Then music began, and Harry turned as the doors opened and a line of young women filed in to stand across from the groom's party. He had to admit every single one of them looked lovely, but then his eye was caught by a veiled figure in a white dress, escorted in by a smiling Arthur Weasley. He stared, wide-eyed and barely breathing, and they arrived at the front and Harry lifted the veil and…

The…

Whole…

World…

Stood.

Still.

Someone one said that you never fall in love with who you think you'll fall in love. With. Whatever. You know.

In the end, it's your best friend's kid sister, who you've seen just about every day for most of your life, who's seen you at your worst, your hair a mess, sweaty from playing football, or shouting like an idiot, or hungover after a night down the pub.

If you're Harry Potter, it's Ginny Weasley.