Chapter I: The Wedding
Disclaimer: If Harry Potter had been my idea, then I'd be writing on Fiction Press, and still not getting paid.
Author's Note: Everything in italic parentheses (abc) is my comment. I know that this chapter is a sappy cannon shipper's delight, but I promise, next chapter will be less sappy. This isn't a just the ships story.
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Harry sat bolt upright in a delicate white chair, seated next to his best friends, Ron and Hermione. He glanced at them, Hermione, handkerchief in hand, ready for the ceremony, Ron holding her other hand softly, lovingly in his.
All of their eyes were set on Ginny and Gabrielle, who were walking down the aisle, royal purple slippers padding along the snow-white runner. Harry gazed affectionately at Ginny, her lavender dress trailing behind her, pooling at her feet between every step.
For a second, he thought he saw a smile play on her lips. He never would be sure, because at just that second Gabrielle moved in front of her, obscuring Harry's view.
The wedding march struck as the girls reached the alter. The ornately carved mahogany doors at the back of the church swung open to reveal Fleur Delacor in a floaty, white gown and Auntie Muriel's tiara that glittered like drops of springtime dew. The gown included every bow, ribbon and lace trim that could fit onto a wedding dress that could still be considered 'floaty' and not 'absurd'.
She seemed to fly down the aisle rather than walk, and arrived at the alter in mere seconds. Fleur failed to notice that her beauty had been insufficient to rip Harry's gaze, and thoughts, from the alter. And Ginny.
Fleur was not the only one failing to notice things. Harry also was. He failed to notice the ceremony until '…if anyone objects to this marriage, speak now or forever hold your peace,' Fred and George stood, obviously meaning it as a joke. They sat down promptly, with a very rude look from Charlie. Harry saw the yearning in Ginny's eye to stand. He knew she would not as it would mean years of punishment from her mother, and many, many rude looks, just as Charlie had given Fred and George.
'…you may now kiss the bride,' was heard from the front of the chapel, and then a 'woo' and many dog-whistles from all around.
How Harry wished…his thoughts, however, were interrupted by an incredibly loud sniffling nose, which Harry immediately identified as Hermione as she blew her nose into a mind-bogglingly wet tissue.
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As the reception began, Harry found himself being a wallflower as everyone else was doing the Hippogriff on the dance floor. A part of him wondered how anyone could have so much fun just two short weeks after the death of Albus Dumbledore (may he rest in peace). A smaller section reminded him that Dumbledore wouldn't've wanted him to mope. His guilt quickly silenced the very small part in the back.
As the Hippogriff changed to a slow tune, he looked onto the dance floor to see Ron and Hermione whisper what he assumed to be sweet nothings into each other's ears. They were not whispering sweet nothings, and their conversation was as follows.
'What's wrong with Harry?' Hermione whispered as she found him along the wall, concern in her voice. 'Nothing, probably. Remember how he was when Sir…Snuffles died? Probably the same thing' Ron replied with an oiled ease, as if he had practiced many times in front of the mirror. (He had) 'Sounds like you've been practicing,' Hermione replied with mild amusement. 'Hey,' came the mock-offended voice of Ron. 'Anyway, might get him killed if he focuses on that instead of Voldy,' After saying this Hermione wished she could see Ron's face after hearing the pet name she had just called You-Know-Who.
But Harry didn't know that. He didn't feel particularly disgusted, or in the least perturbed about this. He felt jealous. Not of Ron and certainly not of Hermione, but of what they had. That trust. That love. He'd seen it before, in the Mirror of Erised. His parents had had it. He wanted it too.
His eyes shifted on the dance floor to the eyes that were following him. They were Ginny's. She was dancing with a guest whom he was not familiar with, and whom he figured to be some distant cousin of her aunt's uncle's. He felt a twang of guilt for breaking it off with Ginny. Then in streamed the envy and jealousy, like a monster building inside of him. His subconscious twisted his hands into fists. Harry hoped desperately that Ginny couldn't see him turning green.
After a moment, Harry realized that it was not his place to be jealous. They weren't a couple. Another minute passed and Harry decided that it was all the better if she danced with other boys. The less Voldemort suspected that they were together, which they weren't, the better. If they weren't a couple, Ginny couldn't be used as leverage again. She had almost died because she simply had been his best friend's sister. Think what Tom could do if they were dating.
Harry watched her dance song after song. She looked happy. The more she danced, the happier she got. He like that she was happy, but he could barley bear watching her dance with so many boys, none of them him. Rumba, waltz, Macarena, think-of-it-yourself-dance, electric slide, chicken dance, funky chicken, the twist, the mashed potato, one right after the other.
He knew it was for the best, but was the best good enough? And more to the point, was the best what he wanted?
Just as Harry was thinking that Ginny walked straight up to him. The makeshift DJ (Just Fred, he and George aren't joined at the hip, y'know.) was announcing the last dance. 'This is the last dance, so you'd better dance with them now, or lose your chance. You know who you are' Fred said, adding a conspicuous wink at the back of the garden, meaning for everyone was think it was just for them.
After the announcement was over Ginny said something to Harry that she had planned and executed carefully, making sure what she said was true. She danced every song repeating one thing in her head. 'Well, you're the only one I've not danced with,' she said passively, as if she just happened to dance with everyone else. She succeeded in sounding put-off, as if she had been forced by Auntie Muriel or someone of the like to ask for a dance with The-Boy-Who-Lived. Her tone killed the last of Harry's hope of ever getting together with her.
'What of it?' Harry replied peevishly. 'I thought you'd dance with me,' answered she sheepishly, to Harry's not so suttle remark. 'Sure,' Harry replied, that being the only polite thing left to say.
They danced silently for what seemed an eternity. 'I really did want to dance with you,' Ginerva said as her steps lightened, as if eggshells had appeared beneath her feet, and her life depended on keeping them whole. 'I wanted to dance with you too,' Harry whispered. Ginny breathed a sigh of relief and was treading on solid ground again. 'Good,' Ginny breathed into Harry's ear, standing on her tiptoes to do so. She settled her feet into the dewy ground and buried her face in Harry's warm neck, resuming the dance without sight.
