Chapter Text
Wedding Date: August 11th, 1998
Three months and nine days after the battle, Harry attended a wedding.
Neville was suntanned, freckles painting his hands as he stood waiting by an overspilling arch of summer flowers. He looked like he'd spent the months since the battle bathing in sunlight.
Maybe, Harry thought, he should have practised for this moment. He should have stepped out into the daylight sun just a few times these past months. Prepared himself for the harshness of the light, the way the heat seemed to carve into his neck, to claw persistently at his back. Most of the last three months and eight days, Harry had spent in a squashy wingback chair in the Burrow's narrow corridor. His chair was perfectly positioned to glimpse into the kitchen, the edges of the sitting room, a slice of back garden. The Weasleys would pass him on their way in and out of the house, would stop for a moment to talk, but never hover for too long: Harry's chair was the only place to comfortably linger. It was backed into the furthest corner of the corridor. The sunlight couldn't touch him there.
Harry wiped at the furious beads of sweat on his neck. There was always a crick in his neck these days, from where he liked to rest sideways in the chair, let his head roll off the arms for a few moments, a few hours. Neville looked like he belonged in this afternoon sun, creamy robes dancing around his ankles in the breeze, a bright smile painting his face. Not a bead of sweat in sight.
Harry glanced at Hermione, who was standing in the grass beside him. She wore her hair in braids for the first time this summer. Angelina had carefully, over hours, pulled back strand after strand, weaving glittering ribbons in with the dark curls. It made Hermione look different, somehow, ready for whatever came next. Now, standing in the relentless August sun, Hermione seemed steadfast and collected.
Ginny, waiting on Harry's other side, had spent most of the morning tearful, shouting at Molly. Standing here now she appeared content, smiling at Neville, at Harry, at everyone around. The back of her hand was lightly brushing Harry's, swaying back and forth almost imperceptibly.
She loved weddings, she'd told Hermione when she'd stepped into the floo. Harry thought, perhaps, she must have attended a lot of weddings before. Harry had been to Bill and Fleur's wedding, which had ended in turmoil and terror. Besides that, he had attended one other wedding, with the Dursleys, when he was maybe nine and they hadn't been able to get around bringing him. Harry's stomach had growled loudly and insistently during mass, and a few people had shot his aunt and uncle wary looks. After the service an elderly lady had passed him a buttered bread roll, wrapped in tissue paper, had told Petunia in passing "You must have forgotten to feed him this morning, the poor dear," and Harry had been locked away for long, dull days after the occasion. Back when Harry was nine, he'd loved the sun and the daylight, only ever wished to be outside. Therefore, Harry did not like weddings.
For Neville's sake he could only hope his own face looked similar to Hermione's, to Ginny's, or maybe even Ron's, who looked somewhat impatient as he eyed the massive buffet just outside their reach. They looked like the sort of people you would want to invite to your wedding: dressed in their best summer robes, glad for Neville, immune to sweat. Present in a way Harry couldn't make himself be.
Harry did not know why Neville was getting married to Hannah, why they were doing it now. He had found out from Ginny they had gotten together in seventh year and "surely Harry knew that? Everybody knows?" Harry hadn't known.
"I vow to walk by your side, share my life, my magic and myself with you. I am yours until the end", Hannah said and Neville echoed, and a woman in a soft yellow cloak with sparkling fastenings lifted her wand and unspooled ribbons of golden magic into the sweltering air. They wound around Neville and Hannah, caught in the sunlight, and for a moment, everything was a little too bright.
Harry gave in to Gin's subtle nudging of his hand, grasped her warm palm in his and closed his eyes.
***
Harry had done precious little in the days since the battle. The end of the war had washed over wixen Britain like a soothing wave. It had washed away Harry's responsibilities, his importance, his certainties.
Hours after the battle, Molly had taken his hand and apparated them to a war-torn Burrow, and the moment they had stepped over the threshold, Harry knew he would stay. There was nowhere else. He'd dropped his few belongings into a drawer in Ginny's attic room and sat in his wingback chair under the stairs.
Hogwarts owls had sought out the Burrow on the first day of June. They'd come for him, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and even George, inviting them to venture out and finish their education. Days later, when Harry had sent back his owl declining the invitation in the middle of the night, the knot of bilious emotions in his stomach had coiled and snarled, had dared him to try and detangle it.
Ron, too, had decided not to go back. Hermione's confirmation owl had already taken flight over Devon while Harry was still pretending to read the list of books that was attached to the parchment.
His friends spent long evenings at the fire discussing their choices, deliberating their futures, tip-toeing around their pain. Harry sat with them sometimes, but never knew how to contribute to their conversations. These days, his memories of Hogwarts caused a sense of dread to clasp at his throat, and his thoughts seemed too scattered, too frightened and fragmented to share. He just sat and watched the fire. Once in a while a sudden jolt would take over his body, and he would understand, as if for the first time, who and where he was.
Sometimes, when the house was asleep, Harry waded into the fields surrounding his new home. The towering weeds would scratch at his scruffy chin and tangle in his hair as he walked in the moonlight until his legs ached, his back ached.
Gin joined him sometimes, walking quietly beside him. Sleeping next to Harry when he couldn't sleep. Sometimes they touched.
Harry had tried to summon the energy to help various Weasleys with the restoration of their home. He'd tried to make Gin laugh the way Ron often was able to, had tried to help Molly in the kitchen whenever it looked like cooking for a large family and their miscellaneous partners and friends was more of a daunting chore than a comfort to her. He'd attended funerals. But mostly, Harry had sat and watched.
It was the day before Neville and Hannah's wedding that had proven to be Harry's most trying post war time endeavour: he had dragged himself in front of the Wizengamot for Draco Malfoy's trial, three months and eight days after the battle.
His hands had been shaking when he gave his reasons, rambling, grasping to remember the exact phrases Hermione had instructed him to use, why he believed Malfoy should not be sent to Azkaban. He had felt unbearably fidgety. His skin had been crawling, his eyes itching, and he'd heard his voice rattle inside his body and through the courtroom.
Malfoy, as was his wont, had been the antithesis to Harry. He had sat completely still, seemingly unmoved by the proceedings, by the harsh words spoken about him.
It had been unnerving. Usually, Malfoy's face was overflowing with emotion: derision, disdain, mirth, arrogance, curated boredom, squirmish discomfort and mindless panic. That day, there was nothing. His eyes had been fixed steadily to the heavy stone columns behind the rows of members of the Wizengamot. The courtroom had been dead silent. The light of the sconces had caught in Malfoy's hair every so often, insistently pulling at Harry's attention. Harry had tried to look at him while he gave his testimony, but found that his words cut into his throat when he tried. Harry's words, in that moment, in that courtroom, were of the utmost importance, and so he'd forced his eyes away from Malfoy's dispassionate, foreign face and upon the stony-grey arches behind him.
The verdict had not been passed that day and Harry's hands hadn't stopped shaking.
***
Harry might not actively dislike weddings, he decided, hours after Neville and Hannah had vowed their lives to each other. The sun had yielded to a benign indigo night sky. He was out in the meadow, belly full of food, a powder blue alcoholic liquid sloshing around his crystal tumbler.
He had managed to claim a prime spot: this was what he excelled at these days. He was sitting on one of the bright picnic blankets that sprawled across the meadow, his back leaning against a steady oak trunk. His shirt had recovered from the buckets of sweat the ceremony had cost him. The evening breeze played through the branches and soothed his skin. Harry sat, basking in the fresh night air, and watched his friends dance a few paces away from him. He felt calm, for minutes at a time.
Neville was laughing, spinning Hannah, his face bright and radiant. Harry had never noticed before that Neville was handsome. He looked strong and kind and self-assured and the gentle way he looked at Hannah made Harry's chest feel tight and he had to look away.
Ron and Hermione were awkwardly shuffling around the dancefloor, nervously glancing around to see if anyone was noticing their lack of rhythm or knowledge of the steps. Gin was dancing rather wildly with Angelina and Seamus – neither George nor Dean had come. Luna was weaving through the tables further back, inspecting various floral arrangements with her wand, casting spells that made some of the flowers glow faintly in the moonlight. Every time the moonlight caught in her hair, Harry's stomach coiled and he was thrown momentarily back into the courtroom, to the firelight gleaming in silvery hair.
There was no wireless anywhere Harry could see. Only a bulky phonograph, enchanted to reach across the meadow evenly. Even if there had been a wireless, Harry had no way of knowing if Draco Malfoy's verdict was important enough to be spoken aloud on air, to reach Harry.
Harry needed to know.
When Gin had asked him about Malfoy this morning – and various mornings before – Harry hadn't been able to explain to her why the thought of Malfoy potentially being locked up in Azkaban felt so violently intolerable.
All he knew was that, in the rare moments he noticed the beauty of the night sky, the scent of his favourite food being prepared, or the warmth of another body near his, he felt compelled to soak it all in and he wondered, every time, if somewhere Malfoy was doing the same. If somewhere he was nibbling at dainty quiches, soaking in an extravagant, floral-scented bubble bath, or leaning into his mother, and had to close his eyes to try and seal the moment into his memory lest it all be taken away from him soon.
The thought that Malfoy – that anyone, really, but especially Malfoy – would be shut away somewhere, alone, never seeing anything but leaking stone grey walls, impassive guards and his own thinning wrists, would never feel clean or loved by anyone – it was intolerable.
When Gin had asked him about it this morning, he had only shrugged. He'd felt exhausted, both by his stint at the Ministry the day before, and by the neverending row between Gin and Molly that had rampaged through the house from the moment they'd woken up.
"They're grieving, Harry. We all are," Hermione had told him when he'd moaned about their arguing tearing at the seams of their home. "It's a difficult time for both of them, and they have very different needs. They're just learning how to be there for each other right now."
Harry had vaguely rolled his eyes at the reminder. "I know, Mione. I know," he'd said, but really, he didn't. Surely the last thing Gin and Molly could need right now was to be yelled at about the most arbitrary things. Gin would leave muddy footprints on the stairs – yelling. Molly would enter their room without knocking – yelling. Gin would miss dinner without giving notice – tears, accusations, and yelling.
Harry wanted to express to Hermione his fragmented thoughts about how Gin and Molly loved each other, and so should be holding onto each other, now more so than ever. But his thoughts felt silly, too childish. They kept scratching at his brain nevertheless, and made it difficult to be what Hermione would call "a supportive partner to Ginny".
Having a supportive partner or not, Gin was now twirling across the dancefloor with Luna and Angelina, a smile on her face, while Malfoy was cast into the shadows somewhere, waiting for the world to spit out his verdict.
A s Harry watched his friends being carefully joyful on the makeshift dance floor, he couldn't help but picture Malfoy standing somewhere, alone, intently staring into his mother's rose bushes, trying to inhale the moment with all his senses, to take it into isolation with him.
It would prove useless: Malfoy could try with all his might, but after just a few days in isolation, the outside world would begin to feel unreal and hopelessly distant. Voices and scents, colours and Mrs. Malfoy's rose bushes, it would all fade further and further away and be replaced by blankness, a distant, dull ache. After all, Harry would know.
***
When Hermione untangled herself from Ron – both of them looking awfully relieved at having done their part in intermingling with the dancers – they both walked up to Harry, visibly ready to slum it with him on the floor for the rest of the night.
They sat down with Harry, Ron to his right and Hermione to his left, their shoulders barely brushing. They sat like this sometimes, at home in the Burrow. Harry felt himself releasing a tension in his fingers he hadn't realised he was holding. He took a long sip from his powdery drink, then passed the glass onto his right.
"No dancing for you, then?" Ron asked, momentarily leaning more heavily into Harry's side. He always did this – leaning into Harry – whenever he started a conversation with him after a period of silence. It was Ron's gentle way of grabbing his attention. One of the only types of touch that didn't make Harry retreat.
"And dethrone either of you two as the worst dancer of the night?" Harry replied easily. "Pass."
Ron snorted. Hermione awkwardly pulled on her braids, picking at one of the glittering strands.
"Yes, well," she said and then said nothing for a while.
Is this weird for you too, Harry wanted to ask, being here celebrating after…everything? Is it weird that Neville and Hannah just seem to know that they want this? Is it weird that our friends are getting married at eighteen? Do you two think about getting married at all? Do you think Gin would want to get married? Would it be me she'd want to get married to?
He didn't say any of these things, letting his eyes instead cast around the dancefloor, searching for something to hold his attention, to bring into their conversation. His eyes got caught in Luna's silvery hair and in lieu of anything else to say, he said:
"Arthur said Malfoy's verdict is most likely coming today. I mean, it will have already come, I guess. Only, I don't know," he paused, twisting his hands in his lap. He could feel his friends' eyes burning into the sides of his face. "Only I don't know if it would be on the wireless? How will I know?" Mrs. Malfoy's trial was coming up in only three days. Harry would speak at that too. He wasn't sure how usual it was for verdicts to be delayed but couldn't imagine facing the Wizengamot before knowing the outcome of the previous trial.
Ron let out a long breath, passed Harry's glass to Hermione. It was almost empty now, the blue liquid faint amongst the shrunken ice.
"It'll be in the prophet tomorrow, I reckon," Ron said.
"Tomorrow," Harry said, the word hanging in the air between them heavily. He opened his mouth to say something else, but decided that "I just don't think I can wait until tomorrow" wouldn't help in maintaining his mask of composed guest at a wedding.
Hermione seemed to be able to read the thought right off Harry's face regardless.
"Oh Harry," she said, her fingers tracing his knee where the trousers of Percy's suit dug into his skin with the stretch, "I know you care about him – " at Ron's groan she changed tack, just slightly, "I know you care about this, but surely you can wait until the morning to find out."
"But what if it's not in the Prophet in the morning? What if…" Harry stilled and forced himself to take a moment. Stared at his friends dancing not far away from him, at the flickering candles, the glowing flowers, the laughter weaving through the air. "What if it says he's going to Azkaban?" He took his glass from Hermione, sloshed the dwindling ice, hoping to cover up the shaking in his hands. It must be obvious, the shaking. He could feel it in his chest.
"We can appeal this, you know? There are ways," Hermione assured him and Harry felt so glad for her. Hermione, too, had spoken at Malfoy's trial, though Harry suspected her reasons to do so were less about scorching, tidal gut feelings and more about her well thought-out disdain for the wixen judicial system and Azkaban in particular. Her motives felt, to Harry, much less personal and overwrought than his own.
For a while, Harry sat under the oak tree with his friends, letting Hermione's spikey anger at the prison system carry him through the night. Hermione's anger, he knew, was important. Potent. Ginny joined them on their blanket when midnight had passed and Harry's mind had started, insistently, to pull towards this morning's Prophet – when, technically, did the morning begin? The spaces next to Harry being taken, Ginny sat cross-legged in front of him. When he reached out for her middle, she leaned back, hesitantly, the complicated knot in her hair brushing against his nose as she rested against his chest.
She felt cold, despite having spent the last hours in constant movement. As so often lately when he was with Gin, he felt Ron's eyes heavily on him. Ron was concerned for Gin, Harry knew, and he appreciated Ron looking out for her. Yet in these moments, Ron's looks often felt accusatory to Harry, as if he knew Harry was not doing right by her, somehow. Harry knew he wasn't. The feeling scratched at his conscience sometimes and he felt he ought to change somehow, to make things right, or, at the very least, venture to understand what he was doing wrong. But he felt too tired and empty, and either way, he'd get there eventually, if only everyone would stop looking at him for a moment.
He gave Ron a hopeful smile and wrapped his arms around Ginny, willing his body warmth to flow into her, to provide her with comfort