She wears blue at their wedding, because she only has one shirt that isn't too patched and because she's tired of symbols and hidden meanings. Her hair's cut short with a Severing Charm to fit under a helmet and goggles. He needs a haircut and a shave and a few weeks of sleep. Maybe in a decade or so some little boy with black hair and brown eyes will look at the pictures and wonder why everything looks so haphazard. If she's still around she'll tell him why.
It feels like people expected something different from her. There's Ginny the porcelain doll with plaited hair and petticoats and there's Ginny who came out of the Chamber with blood-red writing on her soul, and she wants to scream that she's none of these things. She is Quidditch and mud and too many brothers, and she is noise and she is chaos and she survives because this is who she is and she is not letting those constructs get the best of her.
So she goes to her wedding with her helmet on, in case her flying patrol is called up in the middle of the ceremony, and he's limping from his latest wounds and she wishes he would take off that damned sword just for five minutes. The little porcelain doll watches her with a perfect smile and empty eyes, the poor little victim huddles in her corner and the writing creeps across her skin -- and she wonders if they've ever set off a dungbomb or caught a Snitch or told Harry Potter that he's not the only one who's ever been hurt. She wonders if they know how to speak at all.
She'd be out of her mind to say this is what she wanted, but the truth is that she never knew what she wanted at all. She never thought that far ahead, because she was a child and children are inherently selfish creatures. And now it's her wedding in a safehouse in Dublin, with fire and light and the end of the world, and she marvels that Harry's hand in hers is all that's real for the time being. It's on her own terms, Ginny Weasley instead of Tom Riddle's Marionette or Harry Potter's Helpmate. Porcelain breaks and writing fades and there's just her, flesh and blood and forever.
In another hour there's a kiss and they're gone in two different directions, because they're soldiers and this is war. She yanks her goggles over her eyes and weighs the comforting heft of her wand against the ring on her finger. There's a smile, crooked and boyish, and she knows this is what it means to be alive.