"How about red?" she asks, holding up a magazine in his face. "Red's a lovely colour," she adds.
Yes, Harry thinks. Bloody brilliant. Gun to my head and paint the walls, he thinks with a faint smile.
"Harry?" she asks, again. "Red?" Her voice sounds like Hermione for a second, something he once found sweet but now grates on him. She reaches out to touch his face, but he ducks his head and mutters an affirmation.
"Red. Lovely."
She looks as him, quietly, patiently, and it makes him angry for reasons he can't identify. Her hair in a messy bun, posture perfect as she sits in the high-back chair across the table of magazines and papers. Her hands are still, folded on top of the magazine. He slouches and his leg twitches and he wishes she would run around and be excited about this whole damn thing. Her eyes seem to bore into his scull, reading his thoughts and grading them, and he suddenly slams his hands down on the papers and then again when the magazine muffle the sound that find himself irrationally wanting.
"Harry," she says, not flinching, "We don't have to do this. You wanted to do this. We don't have to."
Shut up, he thinks, but doesn't say it. Instead he buries his hands in his arms and speaks to her through the table. "I want to," he confirms. "Red."
She smiles at the top of his head and gently puts down the fabrics catalogue. "And yellow flowers? Those are your school colours, right? It seems fitting."
No, he wants to yell. But he doesn't and just nods his head, defeated, because it is fitting and he sees no reason to argue with her. He wants to forget Hogwarts and house colours and he really, really wants to forget promises, but he agreed to write his vows and his memories are coming back, hard and fast, and the last place he wants to be is here in their apartment, sitting at the table and discussing tablecloths when he could be peacefully six feet under.