Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
I Loved Her First
The song playing softly on the piano by Luna (who knew she was such a musical genius?) echoes in your head and you can't help but let your thoughts drift.
Images flash through your head—the way she looked just after her birth, sleeping with those adorable tufts of red hair bursting up from her otherwise bald head.
The way she used to smile at you and play with you and sneak out on Charlie's (or Bill's, or Ron's, or George's—whoever's) broom.
The way she would ask Molly to tell her stories about Harry Potter, the way she was so certain that one day she would become Mrs. Potter. And today she will.
The day Fred died—the day Voldemort died. The way she refused to cry, the way she just bit down on her lip, hard, and squeezed your hand.
And now, today, you're at her wedding and she looks so beautiful, that you almost don't blame him for wanting her hand at the young age of 20.
The girls really did a marvelous job, a truly amazing one on this wedding. From the curtains to the chairs to the walls to the floors, it all screams Harry and Ginny.
Everything you see is sharp and clear—you're walking slowly down the aisle, her gliding beside you, the train of the beautiful white dress Hermione helped pick out floating behind her. You can see the pink and white roses up front, the golden streamers and elegant chairs, the transfixed guests.
You feel the waves of happiness coming off of her radiant smile, see that expression mirrored on her husband-to-be's face.
You smell the crisp orangey, freesia-y, scent and close your eyes, breathing it in, vowing to never forget it.
You see Hermione beaming at you and Ginny, as the Maid of Honor. Ron is looking beside himself as the Best Man. George is marrying them—they all checked, and it turns out he actually does have a license to do that.
The bride's flaming red hair is pulled back with silver pins, but left down, cascading down her back in silky waves. You think that Molly's a natural born wedding planner—from the gorgeous wedding Bill and Fleur had, to the simplicity of Percy and Audrey's, and now the elegance of Ginny and Harry's.
You feel a strange combination of emotions when you think of Harry—love, pride, happiness, sadness, envy, resentment.
You love him like a son, that's for sure, but you never thought he would actually be your son. And you don't regret it, oh no, you don't wish he'd never requited your daughter's feelings for him, but you're jealous, and you admit it.
He's going to sweep her off her feet, love her for the rest of his life, but he's also slowly molding her into a woman—not that she needed his help, but this makes it official. They're going to move away, and buy their own house, and start a family—all things that women do, not girls.
Ginny'll pat your hand and say she'll always be your little girl—you know she will, she's always been a bit too cliché—but it won't be true.
She'll always be your daughter, always your daughter.
But she will never be your little girl again. Not after today. She hasn't been for a long time, in fact, but you're just starting to realize today.
You'll never see the red-haired, brown-eyed, little girl wearing the bright green shirt ("It's the color of Harry Potter's eyes, Daddy!") asking if you can take her out for ice cream later.
And then it hits you—that she'll never ask you to read her a bedtime story again, and suddenly there are tears in your eyes, and it's Ginny supporting you, not the other way around.
You keep walking down the aisle, squeezing your eyes shut every few seconds and trying not to think about the red-haired baby with the blazing brown-eyes.
When you finally get there, before you hand her off to him, you pat his shoulder. You don't say what the bride's father is supposed to say to the groom. You don't say, "Good luck," or, "Take care of her," or even "You're my son now, always have been."
No, instead, you think of a song Molly used to make you dance to with her, back when you were just an intern at the Ministry with a wife and son back home.
She always wanted to be romantic back then—and you remember appreciating this song because it was actually catchy, and more importantly, not Celestina Warbeck.
So you lean over and whisper in Harry's ear, "I loved her first."
He doesn't even flinch. Just nods, and for a good second and a half he takes his eyes off your daughter and looks at you, and you see the seal of a promise in his eyes.
He knows, then, if he hadn't already, that if he doesn't treat her right, you were there first, and you'll come back for her. He knows.
And for the first time on this whole damned day, you actually smile.
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