Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of J. K. Rowling. This story was written for fun, not profit.
Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger are getting married.
It's very, very likely they're getting married, anyway. Even though no one really knows who asked what or where the rings came from or exactly how long the engagement's lasted.
But still, Fred and George are already plotting ways to spike the punch, and Percy is wondering if he can get away with some kind of suitably long-winded toast. So they're probably getting married.
"Hermione, why do we have to have this planned out? It's just a bloody reception!"
"Because I am not eloping. Honestly."
Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived To See His Friends Argue About Floral Arrangements, has taken to locking himself in his flat.
Not at all hours, of course, because that's a bit daft and he values his reputation as a well-adjusted, contributing member of magical society. But his friends are driving him up the wall, and he feels perfectly justified in pretending no one's home when one or the other comes by to lament that their future spouse has all the sense/tact/communication skills of an overcooked turnip.
It's enough to make any decent wizard go Dark. Really it is.
Unfortunately he's nowhere near his flat at the moment. He's trapped at a family dinner and Ron's second cousin Gertrude is peering at him drunkenly over her fifth glass of sherry, and he thinks that this would be an excellent time to go heroically save someone.
Er. Someone besides Cousin Gertrude, anyway. Possibly one of the Patil sisters needs rescuing somewhere.
"A goblin rebellion," someone says by his elbow.
He looks over at Ginny, who's propped her chin on one hand and acquired the glazed look of the trapped and underdressed. "Huh?"
"A goblin rebellion. We could stage one."
"Because then we could leave this damn dinner," she says. "And when everyone's panicking, we could go through Bill's luggage and take his firewhiskey."
Harry decides she's the most brilliant person in the world. Or maybe that's the desperation talking.
"How do we stage a goblin rebellion?" he asks. "Don't have any goblins."
She considers. "How about we just throw biscuits at the lovebirds?"
"Good point," Harry concedes. "Also, we don't have any biscuits left."
Ginny makes a face. "Bugger. George must've eaten them all." She tugs absently on the end of her ponytail, which seems to be held up with a rubber band.
He glances at Cousin Gertrude, and then at Ginny. "Want to steal Bill's firewhiskey anyway?"
"He'll kill us."
"Then we won't have to listen to Percy's toasts."
"My hero," Ginny says, and leads the escape.
Barring undead Dark wizards, meddling in-laws, and last-minute jitters, Ron and Hermione are almost certainly getting married.
This is probably why Ginny shows up at Harry's flat around lunchtime with a crazed, hunted look on her face.
"Hermione's trying to have me fitted for robes," she says when he opens the door. "They're environmentally friendly. And puce."
Harry lets her in and locks the door. She turns right around and wards it. One can never be too careful with puce at stake.
They spend the evening playing poker and drinking pilfered firewhiskey. Bill is going to kill them later.
"So how are you going to get out of wearing those robes?" asks the Boy Who Doesn't Actually Know What Color Puce Is, But Suspects It's Quite Bad.
Ginny scowls. "I don't know, but unless you help me come up with an idea, you're going to be stuck with them too."
Nothing like incentives to get the mind working.
"We could feed them to Charlie's dragons," he says after a moment's deep, serious thought.
Ginny shakes her head. "We don't have time to Apparate to Romania." Then she brightens. "We'll give them to Luna."
"They're puce robes. That has to be strange enough for the Quibbler."
"We're doomed, aren't we?"
There is a long silence before Ginny speaks again. "Do you think they're really getting married?"
"I don't have a clue," Harry says.
Neville and Luna turn up around dinnertime, because Harry's flat is the safest place to be at the moment. They eat leftovers and spend a productive evening lamenting their sad fates. Or at least they do until the next bottle of firewhiskey gets opened and it descends into an off-key chorus of "Ten Uses For A Wizard's Wand" and "Maggie Mitchell's Favorite Broom".
Bill's going to kill them. Really he is.
"It was an accident, Hermi -- Ron, don't look at me like that!"
"Ginny's right. Fly-by robe theft. Tragic, really."
Ron and Hermione are getting married today, in case that wasn't obvious.
The wedding goes better than Harry ever imagined. The casualties are minimal, the punch only explodes twice, and everyone is expected to make a full recovery.
Whether or not Ron and Hermione are actually married is a matter of some debate, as no one actually heard the I-dos. Harry suspects they skipped straight to the snogging.
Ginny sidles up to the Boy Who's Surprised Everyone's Still Alive, wearing an old set of blue dress robes. Somewhere in the corner, Lee Jordan has been left to the mercies of Cousin Gertrude. Harry debates rescuing him for a moment before he decides not to bother. The hero thing is passé, and Lee Jordan is definitely not a Patil sister.
"We've escaped certain death," Ginny announces.
He links an arm with hers and sidesteps Percy, whose hair has turned green. "Oh?"
Ginny points in Bill's general direction. Some prankster seems to have glued him and Fleur Delacour together. They'll probably spend all evening in that predicament. Pity, that.
Harry wastes a precious second thinking instead of getting completely trashed. He's still not clear how all of this worked so well -- the wedding, the lack of puce, the fact that Seamus Finnigan volunteered to handle the bachelor party. There's probably something profound he could pull out of all that.
Damned if he wants to bother.
He looks down at Ginny. "We could dance."
"Or we could find Bill's bottle of Winkle's Old Peculiar, because I'm about to fall over in these bloody shoes."
"You're drunk again."
"So're you," she says, and grins at him.
And Harry thinks he understands the maybes. Just a little.