Here I sit in a little garden outside my best friend’s house, surrounded by people I don’t know. Actually, I feel like I do know them, since I know so much about them. But it would be really awkward to just start talking to them, because we’ve never met before. Of course, I know her family, at least sort of; I just don’t really know any of the other guests. This is my first trip to England, and I’m just thrilled to be here. A lot has happened in the past couple of weeks, and it all revolves around my best friend.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: How did a boy from Southern California become best friends with a girl from Ottery St. Catchpole? It’s a long story, but I’ll do my best to fill you in.

We met back in 2000, when both of us were nineteen. I was walking home from the local community college when I saw a stunning redhead walking in the opposite direction. Her eyes were downcast, and her long hair hung about her face, mostly hiding it from view. Having always had a thing for redheads, I turned around and started walking slowly, waiting for her to catch up with me. When she did, I said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” she said without looking up.

“You’re not from around her, are you?” I asked. The town I lived in was small, and I was sure I would have noticed her before if she lived there. The girl shook her head.

“My name’s Dave,” I continued, determined to strike up a conversation. “Dave Jensen. What’s yours?”

She hesitated before saying, “Er, Molly. Molly... Weatherby.” I nodded politely. Molly seemed like such an old-fashioned name, not at all suited to the beauty I was talking to. Then again, she spoke with an English accent; maybe it wasn’t so old-fashioned where she came from. However, I didn’t allow myself to dwell on her name for long because something was bothering me. Initially, I had thought Molly was looking at the ground as she walked because she was lost in thought. Now, though, I was sure there was something troubling her. She seemed extremely sad, almost broken, and I suddenly felt driven to find out why.

I invited Molly into a little café, and she agreed - unenthusiastically - to accompany me. We talked for hours, and after a while, I began to understand her sudden appearance in town, and her apparent depression.

“I ran away from home,” she told me.

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s a long story,” she replied. “I was in love with the greatest guy, but...” she paused to wipe a tear, “he was in a terrible accident. He’s in the hospital, basically brain-dead, and he’ll probably never recover. My family all told me I should wait for him, so I did. I waited for a whole year, but nothing ever changed. I just felt worse and worse, and I knew I was going to break down. So I ran. I haven’t talked to anyone from back home in a year. I’ve just been wandering. I had to get away.” Tears were now streaming down her face, and I reached out to pat her hand.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “Where are you staying? I’ll walk you home.”

She just shrugged and looked at the floor.

“You mean you don’t have anywhere to stay?” I asked, amazed. Sure, she was sad, but she didn’t exactly look homeless. Molly shook her head, so I insisted that she stay at my house for the night.

It turned out that my parents weren’t exactly thrilled about letting a homeless girl sleep in our guest bedroom, but they allowed it anyway on the condition that we find her someplace more permanent the next day. I helped her find a job waiting tables at a local diner, and a couple of girls I knew from school agreed to take her in as a roommate. As time passed, Molly began to come out of her depression and we became very good friends, although I never did ask her out. It’s kind of ironic, really, since that was the whole reason I had approached her in the first place, but I knew her heart still belonged to her injured boyfriend. I didn’t even know his name, but I could see how much she still cared for him and I respected her for not abandoning his memory.

As we became better friends, Molly was introduced to my secret obsession: J.K. Rowling’s books about the boy wizard named Harry Potter. At first, she seemed startled by this, although that didn’t really surprise me - most people I knew considered them children’s books, books I should have outgrown a long time ago. After her initial reaction, though, she seemed to enjoy the fact that I liked talking about the books and speculating about the wizarding world. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire had been released shortly before we met, so there was a lot to discuss. I was sure that Rowling had given us some sort of clue when she had James Potter emerge from Voldemort’s wand before Lily, but she insisted that it was just a mistake. It turned out she was right.

Over the next few years, we remained close. Molly became happier as time went on, but her eyes could never quite hide the sorrow that she kept locked up inside. Our biggest common interest, strangely enough, was Harry Potter. More precisely, it was Harry Potter’s world. We could sit for hours just talking about the wizarding world as though it really existed, as though we knew the characters in the books personally.

The only part of Harry Potter fandom that she refused to touch was fan fiction. I found this surprising, since she loved everything else about the “Potter-verse,” but she flatly refused to look at it.

“Anybody who thinks it’s somehow okay to pair Ginny with Malfoy or Snape, or to put Harry with Malfoy-” she shuddered, “-has no business writing!” she insisted whenever I brought it up.

Things went on like this until very recently - two weeks ago, in fact. Molly was finally able to afford her own apartment, and we were sitting in her little living room, discussing theories about Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince as usual, when she suddenly got very serious.

“Dave, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said. There was no laughter in her brown eyes and I knew that, whatever she was about to say, it would not be a joke.

“Go ahead,” I told her.

She paused, trying to gather her courage. Then she looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’m a witch.”

“No you’re not,” I said in a friendly tone. “You’re one of the nicest people I know.”

Molly shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, I’m a witch. I can do magic.”

I laughed weakly. I wasn’t exactly sure how to react to this claim. “Okay, witch,” I said finally. “Can you show me some magic? You are over seventeen, so at least you won’t be getting your wand broken over it. On the other hand, I’m definitely a Muggle, and I’d hate to have you get in trouble over showing me magic.” I was trying hard not to, but I couldn’t help laughing as I said it.

Molly glared at me for a moment, but then her expression softened. “I didn’t expect you to believe me,” she sighed. “Hang on; I’ll be right back.” She hurried to her bedroom and returned seconds later holding what could only be described as a magic wand.

“Watch closely,” she instructed.

My eyes were glued to her wand as she twirled it, conjuring an armchair out of thin air.

“Have a seat,” she said. I moved over to the chair and sat down. It was as solid as any other chair I had ever sat in. I stared at my friend, amazed, as she flicked her wand. The chair vanished, and I toppled to the floor while she stood by and laughed.

“Okay, I believe you,” I said, sitting up. “This is awesome! I wish I was a wizard. No wonder you like all that Harry Potter stuff so much! It’s about your world!”

Molly sat down on the floor next to me. “There’s something else I have to tell you, Dave, and it’s going to be just as shocking.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “Those stories about Harry Potter aren’t just stories. They’re real.”

I froze. “How did J.K. Rowling find out about them, then?” I asked. “I mean, the magical world is so secret...”

“Simple. She’s a witch, and her name isn’t Rowling,” she replied. “Right after the events in Half-Blood Prince, the Order of the Phoenix was in serious need of money. Hermione came up with the idea of raising the funds by getting the story of Harry’s time at Hogwarts published as fiction for Muggles, and Harry went along with it.”

“So who really wrote the stories?” I asked, amazed at the amount of information flowing my way. “Who is J.K. Rowling really?”

“Rita Skeeter,” she said.

“WHAT?” I yelled. “So the stories we have are probably mostly fiction anyway, aren’t they?”

“No,” said Molly, laughing. “Hermione made sure she got it right. Of course, a few things might be fictionalized a bit, like the chapter, Spinner’s End, but they’re very accurate.”

“This is unbelievable,” I whispered. Looking back, I’m sure my face was white with shock, but Molly just kept sending more my way.

“There’s one more thing,” she said, biting her lip. “Do you remember joking about my family being just like the Weasleys?”

I nodded slowly. “You said your father worked in law enforcement... Arthur Weasley is head of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. I’m such a geek to have that title memorized!

“Your mother isn’t someone to mess with, just like Mrs. Weasley. Your oldest brother, Art, is a banker. Bill Weasley works at Gringotts. Your next brother, Charles, is an animal trainer. Charlie Weasley works with dragons. Next comes Ignatius, the one we both laugh about, who has some sort of government job, just like Percy Weasley.

“Then you have two twin brothers who sound amazingly like Fred and George, only their names are Fabian and Gideon. And finally, we have your closest brother, Bill, who entered the police academy just before you left home. He would correspond to Ron Weasley, who wanted to be an Auror.

“So,” I concluded, “you’ve been lying to me about your family all this time. All this time, I thought you had a family that was remarkably like the Weasleys, when you really just made them up and based them on the Weasleys.”

Molly shook her head violently. “No! I didn’t make them up,” she replied hotly. “You’re so close to the truth, but you’re completely missing it!”

I stared at her. Of course! It was so simple that I had never thought it could possibly be true.

“You told me Weatherby was your last name,” I said slowly. “Weatherby was what Mr. Crouch used to call Percy.”

She nodded, so I kept going.

“You gave me everyone’s middle names, didn’t you? You always called your parents Mum and Dad, but... Art’s first name is Bill, Charles is - well, Charles is Charlie, obviously - Ignatius is Percy, Fabian and Gideon are Fred and George, although I’m not sure which is which. Your brother, Bill, is really Ron Bilius, and you... Ginny?” I asked tentatively, half-expecting her to roar with laughter.

Instead, she threw her arms around me. She was laughing, but it was relieved laughter.

“Yes,” she said, sitting back down. “My name is Ginevra Molly Weasley. Ginny.”

I grinned. “No wonder you hated those fan fictions about Ginny/Draco and Ginny/Snape,” I laughed.

Ginny gagged.

“So, why didn’t you use Charlie’s middle name?” I asked.

“Because it’s Septimus, and that would just sound too weird,” she said, laughing. I joined her, imagining her trying to explain to me that her older brother was named Septimus.

“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked at last.

“We’re too good of friends for me to keep it all a secret any longer,” she replied.

“So?” I asked, excited. “How did the war end? What happened?”

Ginny looked at the floor and didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to- I mean, I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll wait and find out from Ms. Row- I mean, Ms. Skeeter. It is over, though, right?” I asked tentatively. Now that I knew who she really was, I was terrified of receiving a Bat-Bogey Hex from my best friend.

“It’s over,” she said softly. “We won. Harry won. Back in 1998.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, and a sudden thought struck me. “Ginny,” I said, thinking how strange it was to call her that after years of calling her Molly, “your boyfriend - the one in the hospital - is it - is he... Harry?”

Ginny nodded.

“Is there any hope that he’ll recover?” I asked.

“He already did,” she sighed. “About three years ago.”

“WHAT?” I yelled. “What are you doing here, then? I can tell just by looking at you that you still love him! Why haven’t you gone back?”

“I can’t go back!” she screamed back at me. “I don’t deserve him! I left Harry, I left my family, I left everything and everyone behind. I can’t go back. I failed them all. I promised Harry I’d wait forever if I had to, and I broke my promise when I left. He’d never take me back, and I can’t handle that. Besides, what family would want me back after I just disappeared for so many years?”

“Your family would!” I shot back. “If those books are as accurate as you say they are, then I think I understand them at least a little bit. Your mother, especially, will never stop loving you and hoping you’ll come home. And, from what I know of Harry, I doubt he’d ever give up on you either. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s spent the last three years searching for you.

“Come on,” I said, pulling her to her feet. “Let’s go get you a Portkey or something, and get you home.”

Ginny pulled away. “No!” she said. “I came to this country as a Muggle, and it’s not exactly legal for witches and wizards to do that. Today was the first time I’ve used magic since leaving England. If I leave, I have to do it as a Muggle. Besides, I’m not going. I never should have told you any of this. It’s too bad I don’t know a good memory charm,” she grumbled.

“Don’t even think about it,” I hissed, knowing full well that I had no way of stopping her if she decided to use magic against me. “Mol- Gi- Whatever your name is! Trust me! I trusted you when you told me who you really are. I didn’t demand proof that you really are Ginny Weasley. Please trust me now. I may not know your family or Harry personally, but I know their personalities well enough to know they’re good people. They will welcome you back, Ginny, I promise you. Trust me.”

“Okay,” she said, deflating. “I’ll go back.”

“And I’ll go with you! If that’s okay with you, I mean,” I added quickly.

Ginny laughed and said, “I’d love that. Now let’s get some airplane tickets.”

As we went to check the Internet for tickets, I whispered, “You finally gave away the biggest secret of Half-Blood Prince, you know?” She looked at me strangely, so I continued. “Now I know that Snape really was evil.”

“I never told you that!” she insisted.

“Not in words. But you did burn that ‘Snape is Innocent’ T-shirt that I used to have.”

Ginny laughed, and said, “Rita’s going to kill me.”

“Don’t worry,” I replied, chuckling, “your secret’s safe with me. Besides, who would believe me if I told them?”

A week later, we arrived in London. We caught a taxi from the airport to the Leaky Cauldron, where Ginny literally had to pull me inside because, being a Muggle, I couldn’t see the entrance.

Once inside, I asked, “So, how do we get to your house?”

“Floo Powder,” she said simply.

“Are you sure Muggles can travel by Floo Powder?” I asked nervously.

Ginny nodded. “Hermione’s parents have done it quite a few times. Just remember to speak clearly. You go first.” She handed me a bit of powder, and I stepped into the large fireplace.

Taking a deep breath, I threw the powder into the grate, and green flames burst up all around me. I yelled, “The Burrow!” and began spinning so fast I was sure I would be sick. Just when I was certain that I was going to vomit, the spinning stopped and I fell to the floor. Looking up, I saw a short, red-haired woman standing with a wand pointed at me.

“Mrs. Weasley?” I asked, even though I was sure that was who this was.

“Yes,” she replied curtly. “And who are you? I don’t think I need to tell you that it’s rather rude to just barge in on people you don’t know like this.”

“Sorry,” I said, getting up. “I’m actually with somebody else - somebody who I think you’ll be happy to see. She’s right behind me.”

As if on cue, the fireplace behind me burst into green flames, and Ginny stumbled out. She looked up at her mother and managed to squeak, “Hi, Mum.”

“Ginny!” Mrs. Weasley gasped. She rushed to her daughter as tears streamed down both women’s faces, and embraced her for a full minute while I stood grinning at them. Finally, she managed to say, “I’m the only one home just now, dear, but I’ll get everyone right away!”

Releasing Ginny, she jotted down several notes on pieces of parchment and gave them to a healthy-looking owl, which I was quite sure was not Errol. I found myself wondering if Errol had died, but decided this wasn’t the best time to ask. The owl flew out of the window, and Ginny introduced me to her mother.

“So nice to meet you, Dave,” said Mrs. Weasley, though her eyes never left her daughter. While we waited for the rest of the family to arrive, Ginny explained to her mother where she had been for the past six-and-a-half years, and why she had left. When she finished her story, Mrs. Weasley looked at me with teary eyes and said, “Thank you for bringing my baby back home.”

About that time, people began emerging from the fireplace, and soon the house was full. Everyone was shocked and delighted to see Ginny; their reaction was much closer to my expectation than hers. They were all so overjoyed that she hadn’t been found and killed by the remnants of the Death Eaters that they couldn’t be too upset about her leaving.

I merely sat back in awe. Here was a room full of people who I felt like I knew, but had never met before. There were Arthur and Molly, Bill and Fleur, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, Ron, and Hermione. I didn’t bother to ask how Percy had become part of the family again; that could wait for another time. I also noticed with a smile that Ron and Hermione were holding hands, and wore gold bands on their left ring fingers.

Before long, I realized that someone was missing: Harry. I watched Ginny’s face fall as she noticed the same thing. Maybe he wouldn’t forgive her. Maybe he had moved on, after all.

“Ron?” Ginny asked quietly. “Where’s Harry?”

The room grew suddenly quiet, and Ron scratched the back of his neck nervously. “I don’t know, exactly,” he said. “All I know is that he’s in America somewhere.”

“What? Why?” she asked.

“He’s looking for you,” Ron said. “He has been ever since he got out of St. Mungo’s.”

I winked at her and mouthed the words, “I told you so.”

“Well, is there any way we can contact him?” she asked.

“Of course, dear,” answered Mrs. Weasley, “but it’ll take time for the owl to reach him.”

“That’s not good enough!” stormed Ginny, suddenly angry. “We’ve been apart too long already, and it’s all my fault! Isn’t there something faster than an owl?”

“Well,” began Mr. Weasley, “we haven’t done it since the Order was dissolved, but I suppose we could use a Patronus...”

“Yes!” Ginny squealed, bouncing up and down. She was looking and sounding like a teenager again. “Hermione, could you do it? Get him to come as quickly as possible, but don’t tell him I’m here; I want it to be a surprise.”

Hermione nodded, and sent the silvery message shooting off across the ocean to find Harry.

We spent the rest of the day sitting around the Burrow. Ginny was telling everyone why she had left and what she had been up to, and catching up on everything she had missed while she was gone. I was just getting to know everyone. Fred and George offered me some candy, and I was really tempted to try it, but I had to decline. I didn’t feel like being choked to death by an extremely swollen tongue.

Just as dusk was settling, there was a knock at the kitchen door. Hermione went to answer it, and we heard her shout Harry’s name as she opened the door.

“What’s wrong?” Harry demanded. “Is everything okay? You used the Patronus, but your message was kind of cryptic.”

“Everything’s fine,” she said soothingly. “There’s somebody here that’s really anxious to see you.” Hermione said as she led him into the sitting room. As soon as he passed the doorway, he froze.

“Ginny!” he whispered.

“Harry!” she whispered back as tears began running down her face.

The room was silent. I could feel the emotion flowing between them as I sat there, mentally shouting at Ginny to run over to him.

“Can we talk?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, and he led her back through the kitchen and out the door.

Everyone in the house wanted desperately to follow them and listen in on what would be said, but we restrained ourselves. This was their time. They were gone for over three hours, and night had fallen completely by the time they came back.

Ginny entered first, her face blank and unreadable. Harry came in a few seconds later, his expression grim.

“Ginny and I have come to a decision,” he said slowly. We all stared at him as he stood in silence.

“Well, what have you decided?” Ron asked impatiently.

The corners of Harry’s mouth flickered upward for a split second before his expression became grim once more. “I think we’ll show you. Is that okay, Ginny?”

Ginny nodded and, her face breaking into a huge smile, she threw her arms around his neck and began kissing him passionately.

We all watched, dumbfounded. When the initial shock wore off, all of the men in the room, except for Mr. Weasley, began catcalling, and everyone clapped and cheered.

When they continued kissing, one of the twins called out, “Oi! Potter! That’s our sister, remember!” Harry didn’t respond, but Ginny made a rude hand gesture behind Harry’s back, where her mother couldn’t see.

Finally, they broke apart, grinning broadly, and Harry said, “We have an announcement to make. Ginny, show them your hand.” Ginny held up her left hand to reveal a glittering diamond ring. Everyone stared in amazement. “I bought it right after I got out of St. Mungo’s,” Harry explained, “and I’ve kept it on me at all times ever since. I just kept hoping that one day I’d see her again, and that it wouldn’t be too late.”

As soon as the shock wore off, everyone began congratulating the happy couple. Harry shook my hand and said, “Thanks, Dave. Thanks for bringing her back to me.”

“Yeah, thanks for talking some sense into me,” Ginny added.

“My pleasure,” I said, smiling at them. Never in my life had I seen two people more in love. I looked into Ginny’s smiling face and saw, for the first time since I met her, that the sadness in her eyes was gone. She had Harry, and that was all that mattered.

“Have you decided on a date?” Hermione asked, as she gave Ginny a congratulatory hug.

“Next Saturday,” said Ginny. Everyone froze. “What?” she added, seeing our shocked faces. “We’ve waited far too long already. Almost everyone we want to be there is already here, and the others can get here quickly enough.”

So, you see, that is how I became best friends with Ginny Weasley, and it’s why I’m sitting in the garden outside the Burrow, waiting for her to walk down the aisle and marry the man she’s wanted for so long: Harry Potter.