In the Wake of a Marriage
Petals were strewn across the crimson carpet in pale drifts as he strode solemnly down the aisle, until the sparkled in the few weak rays of sunlight that filtered through from outside. Each disciplined pace kicked up a brief cloud of confetti as the piles were disturbed by his booted feet. The fragments fluttered around his black-clad legs and the tails of his frock-coat like wing-less butterflies as he walked through the hushed rows of onlookers. He had not worn his cloak today as his hands, which had functioned even after repeated bouts of cruciatus, had shaken too much to make the additional buttons worthwhile. His bride would prefer him this way anyway, the less formal attire that he usually kept solely for his laboratory made him seem softer, she had said. More like the man she loved, the man she claimed he had hidden from the world. He had told her she was a know-it-all and therefore he would not argue with her even if, and here he had sneered playfully, even if she was wrong. The memory of that exchange almost brought a smile to his thin lips, almost alleviated the hard knot that had settled at the back of his throat.
But too soon he returned to his surroundings. And the knot returned too.
He could hear the music of the orchestra now, whispering through his head as he approached the altar, finally reaching a crescendo as he breasted the last row of chairs. His best man stood there, waiting patiently for his arrival, and glanced briefly, worriedly, into his eyes. The groom permitted himself a small quirk of the lips, more a grimace than a smile, and nodded once in mocking reassurance. His friend, satisfied momentarily by his manner, faced forwards once more and the groom similarly turned his attention to the stone plinth before them. He forced himself to analyse its shape and structure, following the curl of each carven vine that wended its way across the stone. The dark green of the inlaid leaves shone brightly, he noted, on such a dreary day, complimenting the brilliant whites and reds of the flowers that lay in wreaths around the stone's base. He stepped forward finally, moving purposefully around the altar to slowly kneel amongst the discarded confetti that had been strewn even here, in the recess behind this symbolic edifice. He traced the newly carved writing upon the stone behind with a single trembling finger and, as his head tipped forward to lean against the cold marble, several black strands slipped free of the club at his nape to shield his face from the crowd behind. Finally freed from the scrutiny, he allowed a single tear to roll unheeded down his face to fall and be lost amongst the dark cloth of his trousers.
A sound, barely a whisper at the back of the church, prompted the groom to rise and resume his previous position at the top of the steps but never once did he glance behind into the knave of the church where his bride still lingered. The music drifted back into his head, the slow tune matching itself to the measured footsteps that advanced steadily down the aisle. He stayed motionless as they grew close, refusing to move aside until the last possible moment for the bier to be carried past.
But he did step aside.
He stood on the sidelines refusing to look into the eyes of his recent wife as her body was carried past. Refusing to implant a memory of her thus, devoid of all the life and vitality that had drawn him to her side. Instead, he gazed dispassionately down at her form, still dressed in its silken white gown. A few stray whisps of hair lay upon her breast, the glossy brown curls incongruous against the pallidity of their surroundings. He detachedly reflected upon why the pure white of his bride's dress seemed so… wrong, wondering idly how it could possibly be right. Would it be better if there were some tangible evidence of the damage that lay beneath? Would he feel more comfortable, less remote, if there were bloody stains upon the fabric as in the case of a muggle bullet? If he lifted aside the artfully draped shawl and saw a green stain to mimic the flash that had taken her from him, would his beloved's death become real?
But he did not look. He no longer craved reality.
As the last pall bearer passed with his lightning-scarred face bowed in grief, the groom looked forwards once more from his lonely position, observing the men as they lay down the burden of the casket, unable to lay down the burden of their grief. He sighed as he stepped forward to place a single red rose upon the bride's pale breast, directly above the hidden hole through her heart. Ironic, that a man who had scorned such generic gestures of romance in life, should turn to them now in death. Turning he paced back through the ranks of grieving onlookers, remembering the laughter and congratulatory cries which had lifted to the rafters only yesterday, pausing neither to comfort nor console the other mourners as he waded blindly through their midst. They would not expect it from him anyway.
It was only when he reached the heavy oaken doors, standing wide to reveal a glorious golden sunset, that he recalled that the day was not the dreary depths of winter that seemed to cling to the church's interior. He breathed in the sweet scent of summer as he seated himself on the warm sun beside the stain that lingered on the steps despite all efforts to remove it. He didn't mind; he felt closer to her here, the last point at which he had seen her eyes laughing into his. He knew he should return, walk back through the looming doors at his back and accept the love and companionship that awaited him inside. He knew his friends and colleagues were concerned – his only family had died with her - that if he turned his head it would be to catch a glimpsing of several others hastily swinging round in a futile attempt to disguise their observation. He did not want to go back inside, where there would be no escape from her memory, from the pity of his friends, or from the presence of the shell that had so recently contained her vibrantly curious spirit.
But he rose and returned to the wake.