Author's Note: This chapter is PG-13 for indirect mentions of the you-know-what that goes on when a witch and a wizard love each other very much and . . . well, I'm not your Health teacher so, you know, this isn't going to be like a textbook description but it's not going to be racy or anything or have lemons because this is rated T and not M and . . . yeah, I'm rambling. Let's just say Harry and Ginny are in their late teens in this chapter, so they are definitely two crazy, hormonal people.

Of Holly Wood and Phoenix

We're standing in London-Heathrow Airport when you finally tell me what's going on. You look around furtively to see if there are Muggles paying us any attention, and once you deem the coast is clear, you pull two miniature trunks out of your pocket and then un-shrink them so they are life-size. Then, with the biggest smile imaginable, you hand me an airplane ticket.

My jaw drops down. I can't help it. You've really outdone yourself, Superman.

"Harry!" I exclaim excitedly, eyes shining with the most happiness I have ever felt. I take the ticket out of your hand and stare at it in wonder.

You bite your lip to prevent the cocky self-assured smile from appearing. "Cheers for graduating Hogwarts, Gin," you congratulate me. "Thought you might want to get out of the country this summer; explore the world a bit, you know?"

I nod my head animatedly. "Oh my Merlin!" I breathe and pull you into a fierce hug. "Godric, this is perfect, Harry! America! You bought me a trip to America!"

You hug me back graciously. "Yeah, I was thinking West Coast this time: San Francisco, Los Angeles, Hollywood, Vegas, Phoenix . . . we'll have come back some other time to hit the East Coast."

"You're coming with me on my trip?" I ask hopefully.

Laughing, you gesture towards the two trunks. "Yeah. Hope you don't mind. Hermione packed yours before graduation. And I have to come with you – I can't have those American blokes flirting with you now, can I?"

I arch an eyebrow coyly. "Who says they won't flirt with me even with you tagging along?"

You let out this adorable little growl and whisper possessively in my ear: "You're mine, Ginny, and those blokes will damn well know it since I am never letting you out of arm's reach."

"Not even when I'm in the bathroom and showering?" I ask innocently.

"Definitely not then," you reply with your eyes smouldering.

Our plane number is called to board just then, but I already feel like I am flying from the looks and kisses you are giving me. This trip to America – I checked the dates on the tickets and we don't have to come back to Britain for four whole months! – is going to be the best time of my life of just you and me without my nosey parents or my insensitive brothers who cannot decide between wanting to beat you up or congratulate you for dating me. It's simply you and me for four whole months. Merlin, I am so glad to have graduated.

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"Aah! We're gonna die! We're gonna die!" I chant loudly, squeezing my eyes shut in horror.

"Relax, Gin," you chuckle, although you are pretty tense yourself.

I moan dreadfully. You and I are stuck in some Godric-awful banana-yellow vehicle you call a 'taxi'. Apparently Muggles in America use this thing to get from place-to-place. The only Muggle taxis I have glimpsed in my life are the classy black ones in England with the simple yet elegant numbers printed neatly on the license plates which are fastened to the boot; not these tacky license plates with colourful cartoon images (that stay still!) and have slogans as well as the states' name in the gaudiest colours imaginable. Anaesthetically appealing appearance aside, the taxi also happened to drive on the wrong side of the road, hence my screaming of our impending doom.

Then again, I might be over-reacting just a teeny bit because this taxi thing isn't going faster than a Flobberworm being chased by a Blast-Ended Skrewt. It seems to be traffic around the Los Angeles airport, LAX, merely crawls on a Sunday afternoon. However, jet lag is catching up to me (the excitement of this trip hindered me from sleeping on that overnight plane ride from Heathrow) and since it is currently quarter past ten in England, my sleep schedule is sufficiently all screwed up.

"How much longer to our bed-and-breakfast?" you lean forward and ask the chauffer.

The chauffer shrugs his shoulders unhelpfully. "Mebbe half an hour . . . or so," he replies vaguely.

"Thanks," you tell him and scoot back next to me. "It's going to be awhile, Ginny. Here, just use my shoulder as a pillow. It won't help with the jet lag but you look like death," you say.

"Well that's nice to know," I remark dryly. I guess Hermione didn't teach you about the tactfulness with which a guy needs to use to speak to a girl. But at the moment, I cannot find it in myself to reprimand you or start an argument. Within seconds, I am cuddling up to you and drifting off away from reality.

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It's a jean short-shorts and tank top sort of day in California. I've got my hair pulled up into the messiest bun imaginable, and my Ray Bans are re-colouring the world into a monochromatic rosy-sepia. The Hollywood sign in the hills is behind me and there is not a single puff of white dotting the crystal clear blue sky making this scene the perfect postcard background I have ever seen in real life.

You snap some pictures of me posing like the photogenic person that I am. I try out the whole pout-with-duck-lips trend that I've seen some other American girls do whenever they photograph themselves but I find out that I feel completely ridiculous and simply unbeautiful. I revert back to a more innate pose and blow the camera a kiss. You laugh and reach out to grab my air-kiss while you click away on your camera. Then I make some ugly faces just to get you to laugh and smile as much as I am. It works.

A tourist group comes and encroaches upon our little spot. I can tell by their flickering insincere eyes that they are impatient for us to leave so they can get their tourist-memoirs. You tell them hello politely and then make for the motorcycle you have borrowed. I tug on your arm gently, though. Before we leave, I want a picture of you and me.

Shadows start forming across the rocky outcrop we are standing on as the sun travels a little higher in the sky and clouds start billowing in. You catch the attention of one of the tourists who flirts with you amiably ("I'm Holly," I hear her giggle to you while she twirls a strand of her raven-black hair on her finger. She oddly reminds me of Cho. . . .) until you gesture over in my direction. I give Holly a little finger-wave and she pouts a bit, strengthening the similarity between Cho and her. I then see her nod to you and she takes the camera from your hands. You walk over to me and tell me that "Miss Holly is going to take our picture in front of the Hollywood hills for us" – as if I hadn't heard you two. I tell myself to calm down on the jealousy, though. I know you are just naturally polite and such a gentleman to every female on the planet. It's endearing when you use that charm on me, Superman, but when you do it to other girls, I want to hit you with a Bludger or something.

"Ready?" Holly asks with a cheery smile.

You grin at me and reach over to move my Ray Bans off my eyes and onto the top of my head. I squint at the sudden bright light and glare at you for blinding my vision.

"One . . . two . . . –"

And then the sun comes shining through the clouds, creating the prettiest natural-filter I have ever seen. You whisper in my ear how much you love me and how happy you are to share this experience with me. Your lips have just touched mine when I hear the shutter of your camera go off in Holly's hands, capturing our kiss and our love for forever.

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I feel like such a Cali girl by the time our three weeks in California are over with. My pale skin – a curse of being a redhead – hasn't freckled or sunburned (yet). For now, my skin is being tinted a warm, honey golden shade which compliments my hair nicely. The red hue of my hair is fading from its typical vibrant colour as it is slowly being sun-bleached into a strawberry blonde. I've gotten some Godric-awful tan lines – but that's only because I have spent most of this summer vacation soaking up the sun in my bikini on these gorgeous Californian beaches.

Malibu definitely remains my favourite place so far. We went there last week. You received some surfing lessons while I tanned and lounged about in the cool Pacific waters and sand. I wasn't one to try surfing despite whatever claims about me makes anyone think I'll do anything sporty (which is true for the most part). Sharks really freak me out and I refused to get on a surfboard because of my fear of them. I was quite alright with staying on the beach, playing a few rounds of volleyball, and watching you wipe out a few times on the board. You turned out to be a pretty decent surfer – must be due to your natural apt of flying and your skill on a broomstick – so I wonder how you'll do if you try that Muggle sport called snowboarding. Either way, I think you'll look damn sexy as you do right now with the sun in your hair and that glowing tan showcased since your shirt is off which exposes your defined abs and that glorious, tantalising spattering of hair beneath your belly button which leads to . . . well. Is it just me or is it a little hot out here? I fan myself gently with a travel brochure and lean back as I pull my Ray Bans down to cover my eyes while I appreciate you and your body from behind the tinted lenses. Mmm. By Merlin, I am definitely the lucky one to be the girl you've fallen in love with.

But back to last week and why Malibu Beach is my absolute favourite. Despite the ridiculous amount of Muggles you seemed to attract on the beach (it's like I was invisible to those simpering bimbos or something) and those couple of Muggles who wanted me to become a modelling client for them (like hell I would do that. It was flattering but I don't need any more fame) and the few and far between mishaps as we toured around the nightlife and city life of San Francisco, Los Angeles, and San Diego, California was the prettiest place for paradise that I had ever been to. Palm trees don't exist in England. Neither do all the tropical concoctions and laid-back beach-y clubs. I was only seventeen going on eighteen, so Muggle law dictated that I was unable to drink alcoholic beverages (you too, for the matter) but since we were legal in the Wizarding world, we took the liberty of applying our legality to our Muggle vacation.

And let me tell you, I thought Firewhiskey was strong but that is nothing compared to how smashed tequila shots, rum-and-Coke, and Vodka straight-up or mixed cocktails, can make a person act absolutely mental.

You're adorable when you are drunk, by the way. And completely horny. And you also talk about things like marriage and babies and the future, but you've always discussed that so I don't run screaming for the Hollywood hills when you ambush me with all of that heavy stuff. Did I mention you are the horniest person ever when you're drunk? It's like you've got this thing hard-wired into your brain: Must procreate. Must have sex. Must hump every female thing in sight – especially Ginny. I push you away teasingly, of course. Mum would have my head on a stick if I lost my virginity before my wedding night. But Merlin I can't wait for our wedding night now that you've given me all of these previews of what is to come.

San Francisco was fun to visit. It's a big city with its trendiness and A-listers walking around town like it is not a big deal to see that Muggle celebrity Jennifer Aniston jog around downtown in nothing but a sports bra and spandex shorts. I don't care much for 'Cisco what with all the fake peroxide blondes and cone boobs practically stabbing at me while they try to bat their clumpy drugstore-bought eyelashes at you. The earthquake memorial was pretty impressive and sad to see – all those lives affected by that tragedy is mind-blowing and a sincere eye-opener to how much a natural disaster can impact human life.

San Diego is pretty too with all those palm trees lining every street and the sky visible from every point in the city. The zoo is the highlight of that city, though. I could spend hours making faces at the animals or swimming with the dolphins with you. I make sure to avoid the sharks, of course. Oh, and petting the sting rays! Now, I know I could do all of this at the London Zoo but it definitely is not the same. London doesn't have dolphins you can swim with, now do they? (And if they did, they were hiding from me when I went there last summer.)

And of course, Hollywood. You and I walked up and down Hollywood Boulevard and went over to swim at Laguna Beach and picked out our dreamhouse/mansion out on the coast of California. We snapped selfie photos with candid celebrity shots in the background. I learned quite a lot about you and your preferences from this little excursion: who knew you had a thing for that British actress Emma Wats-her-name. Don't think that I didn't see those glazed eyes when you watched her perky ass leave the fast-food restaurant when we stopped by the local In-N-Out for a couple of burgers.

But Malibu remains my favourite part of California. Sure, the zoo and sight-seeing celebrities and famous landmarks was great, but on this trip I've found out that the beach is my new home and summer is my new favourite season. And that you, Mr Potter, are horny as fuck. Literally.

You're driving a rental car down to Phoenix, Arizona now. The sun is setting and a new chapter of our life is beginning. And I can sound like a cliché all that I want to because you're my Superman who has made my life a wonderful sort of a fairytale.

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Phoenix is a pretty well-known city but there is nothing tourist-y and extravagant about it. It's murderously hot down here, though, and the damn air-conditioning is not working in this piece-of-shit rental car. I'm irritable and insufferably cranky and you are starting to get a helluva annoying. You are way too fucking patient with me and you're not taking my bait and getting into an argument with me like I want you to because I am as bored as a class in Divination and verbally fighting with you is the only thing that will pass the hours in this over-heated, rusted-up, junky-ass rental car.

"I'm tired," I whine at you.

"Take a nap then," you reply unwearyingly.

"I can't. This shitty Muggle music is playing and I can't sleep with it on."

This elicits a teeny frown from you but other than that, your calm façade stays in place. "Don't disrespect the Beatles, Gin. Or Def Leppard." You reach over and shut the car stereo off, though.

Now it's too quiet and I hate being able to hear my thoughts. "Hairrr-eeeee," I complain loudly.

"What?"

"I'm bored."

"Count some sheep and then go to sleep."

"There's not a damn sheep in sight for me to count."

"Sucks to suck."

I scowl. I want to make some sort of inappropriate remark about something else I could suck on (and no, I'm not talking about a lollie) but then you'll get all horny and I don't want to put in the effort or whatever. Like I said, I'm tired and bored. And lazy, too.

"Are we there yet?" I complain.

Your knuckles tighten on the steering wheel infinitesimally. I see you also clench your jaw in my left peripheral vision. It is rather odd for me to be sitting in the driver's side of the car but technically in America, this is the passenger seat. By the way, you're quite good at driving on the wrong side of the road. You have managed not to get us in an accident so far.

"Ginny, please go to sleep."

I pout. "But I'm not tired," I lie.

"Didn't you just say you were?"

I shake my head. "No."

"Yes, you did."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Did not."

All of the sudden, you let out a big belly laugh. "Look at us," you chuckle with mirth, glancing over at me where I've got my shades on, arms crossed over my chest, and defiant pout gracing my lips. "We're arguing like an old married couple."

"But we're not," I say belligerently. "We're not old and we're not married. So your analogy sucks."

You roll your eyes at me. "Whatever. Same difference."

"Admit it," I crow gleefully. "You're wrong and I'm right."

"Are not."

"Am too."

"Are not."

"Yes, I am!"

"Alright, alright," you say in defeat. "You're wrong and I'm right."

"Yes, exactly –" I pause as your words register in my brain. "Hey! Take that back, Harry!"

"I absolutely will not."

"Yes you absolutely will!"

"Will not."

"Will too!"

"Will not."

"Will t –" My words are suddenly cut off as you swerve off the highway and onto the dusty red earth of the Arizona desert. I look at you in indignant shock – you just ruined a perfectly good argument, you know – but unexpectedly you unclip your seatbelt and are climbing over the console before you grab my face in my hands and snog me senseless.

"Shut up, Ginny," you tell me breathlessly.

"Alright," I concede happily as your lips swallow my words into your mouth.

The ride to Phoenix is then interrupted with many much needed kissing breaks. It helps me stop quarrelling with you, and the car ride across the Arizona desert is much quieter and pleasant. I don't even complain about the lack of air-conditioning anymore.

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We cruise on through the downtown area of Phoenix. The city is rather large and grandiose but it's nothing spectacular. I mean, it's a spectacular city but when you think of America and the West Coast, you do not think of Phoenix or the bloody hot desert and the prickly pear cacti. I was under the impression that this America trip was supposed to highlight the key points of the West side of America – and a key point Phoenix was not.

"We're just spending a few days here, nothing major," you tell me once again when I voice my thoughts questioning our reasons for travelling here.

"A few days that we could've spent in Malibu? Or in Honolulu?"

"Oh, Merlin," you fake groan. "I've created a bloody monster here who is now afflicted with wanderlust!"

I burst into giggles. "My lust isn't wandering," I smirk.

Your eyes widen, and the green irises darken until I can almost no longer distinguish your pupil from the once-bright green irises. You lean over and nip lovingly at my neck while you growl out playfully: "You, Mrs Potter, are one big tease." Then you proceed to tickle me mercilessly in the spots that weaken my knees and stutter my breathing.

Through my laughing and my irregular breathing, I almost miss the fact that you called me Mrs Potter. But my mind isn't completely clouded with trying to swat your tickling hands away, and I hear you loud and clear when you label me your future wife. And that's when I realise that I wouldn't mind being the Lois Lane to your Superman.

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"Where are we going?" I ask as we head into a cosy little French café on our third day in Phoenix.

"We're meeting Wood for lunch," you smile.

"Wood?" I say, looking around the lamp-lit restaurant. I immediately spy the Puddlemere Keeper sitting over by the glass floor-to-ceiling window a couple hundred metres away. He's at a booth enclosed with crawling ivy and a tumbling waterfall bordering it on one side. "What is he doing here in America? And in Phoenix out of all places! There's nothing Quidditch-related here that would strike his fancy."

You arch any eyebrow at me but do not comment on my musings. At the podium, you tell the hostess that we're meeting a friend for brunch and that he is sitting over in that private little area. She smiles in understanding, but then her eyes widen in happy recognition. My eyes do the same but it is more in dread than happiness.

Our hostess just so happens to be that flirty tourist, Holly.

"Harry!" she squeals giddily and comes out from behind the hostess' podium to give you a big ol' hug which you (unfortunately) reciprocate with as much happiness as Holly is showing. "Wow! Never thought I would see you again!"

I roll my eyes at her. But then I remember that I'm not supposed to be jealous – but she's acting so much like Cho that I can't help myself! I swear, I am not even trying to act superior than Holly; her ditsy-ness and incessant need to giggle and say 'like' every five seconds automatically makes me look loads more intelligent than her.

"Er, yeah," you say as she smooshes her (fake) boobs against your chest. "Hi, again."

I grab your wrist and lead you away from the obvious boyfriend-stealer. "I think we can find where our friend is sitting, thanks. There's no need for your assistance." Then I haul ass to get away from this Holly chick so we can escape over to Wood.

You frown at me. "Ginny, there was no need to be so rude," you chastise me.

"Whatever," I mutter and wave at Oliver Wood. "Hey! Long time no see!" Wood gets up out of his seat politely and embraces me in a friendly fashion. "Do you play Quidditch?" I ask him, gearing up to a punch line of a joke I had recently heard. Wood raises his eyebrows at me in a duh sort-of look but obliges me and lets me finish the joke. "Because you look like a Keeper!" I say with a wide grin.

He chuckles. "Oh dear Merlin, don't let any of my groupies hear that one; they never stop flirting with me as is!"

You, on the other hand, scowl at me even more. "Ginny, that joke wasn't funny."

I huff at your ridiculousness. "Of course it was. I'm bloody hilarious, thank you very much. I bet Holly would've laughed. And I didn't mean it in the romantic sense to Wood – you know that. So lighten up, you Dementor of unhappiness." I punch your shoulder a little harder than I would have if I were messing around with you and turn back to Wood so we can catch up and talk about his Quidditch career. I need a few pointers on the business since I am now the Holyhead Harpies' newest Chaser. Which reminds me, I haven't broken the news to anyone else but you so far.

You're glowering at me as we take our seats, obviously regretting your decision to meet up with Wood. Oh, well. You can just deal.

Minutes than turn into hours pass by as we order brunch and chat with Wood about everything and nothing. Sometime during a conversation about the newest broom models and pro-Quidditch and Krum's flying statistics, you and I make up from our little fight. It helps that Holly isn't hovering around us or substituting in as our waitress anymore once her boss yells at her to get back to her podium. I can't help but aim a Stinging Hex at her ass as she stomps sullenly away. She yelps and grabs her ass, causing a scene. What can I say? Flirting with you would only come back to bite her in the ass. And since I'm a witch, well, I meant that little phrase literally.

At the end of our brunch, Wood surreptitiously slips you a little package which you not-so-sneakily slide into your coat pocket. You would make the worst James Bond ever. You may be Superman but please, do not ever consider registering with MI6 anytime soon. Your ass would be kicked to the curb faster than a Thestral taking flight.

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There seems to be a lot of casinos in Phoenix. Gambling has never seemed interesting to me, but a person only lives once and I kind of want to try betting money sometime on this trip. You grin wickedly at me and tell me that if I want to play in the big leagues, I'd have to go to Vegas.

So, of course, that's where we go next.

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Las Vegas is legendary. The casinos, the martinis and shots, the nightlife and all the clubbing, The Strip lit up in all its neon-glory at night, a replica of the Eiffel Tower, Caesar's Palace and the naked statues, the little churches where Elvis Presley impersonators act as ministers, Las Vegas Boulevard, the M&M store . . . it's like a party zone twenty-four seven and yes, I find it all so perfect. I never, ever want to leave.

But one night, when we're on some cheesy tourist attraction that provides a gondola ride to the 'Forbidden City', you ask the Italian gondola driver to stop steering the boat and stop his awful singing (sorry, not all Italians are as glamorous as they seem, apparently). Then, you kneel down on one knee and withdraw the little box that I saw Wood give to you in Phoenix. Fireworks – yes, real live fireworks – splatter the sky and the stars as you ask the question:

"Ginny, will you marry me?"

And I say yes because, well, I'm Ginny Weasley and you're Harry Potter and I've loved you since the very first day that I met you.

After you slip the ring on my fourth finger and we share the best kiss of our lives, I snort at the cheesiness of the way you proposed. I mean, seriously, fireworks? And a gondola ride? You laugh along with me and explain that you had a more elaborate plan to ask me – something about this whole trip and your hints at calling me your wife and mentioning the future and babies and marriage all the damn time and meeting Wood because he had to get the ring hand-delivered from Manchester because it was Goblin-and-custom-made and that he could only meet up with us in Phoenix since he has a Quidditch tournament there this week and so much stuff depended on the stars aligning and the precise angle of the sun's rays hitting the Earth's ozone layer and my father had given you his blessing a couple years ago (I really wasn't paying attention to your explanation in case you haven't noticed. I'm sure that I messed up a bunch on relating whatever you just rambled to me) – but that right now the moment felt right.

I couldn't agree with you more.

Author's Note: Yes, this chapter title is a play on words. One translation could be: Holly (the person), Wood (the person), and Phoenix (the city). Another translation could be: Hollywood (the city) and Phoenix (the city). And yet another translation could be: holly wood and phoenix [feathers] just like what Harry's wand is made out of.

And yes, more details of the wedding and Ginny's ring and all of that insanely girly shit coming up in the next chapter ;)