Harry knew that once the news got out, the papers would relay the whole story blow-for-blow, filling far more pages than could possibly be necessary. Anonymous "close friends" will be quoted giving revealing information. Whole events that never took place will emerge into being by the whim of the Prophet's editor. Maybe there'll even be a doctored photo or two if someone is feeling creative.
But Harry won't be able to blame them for their excitement this time, for it is, of course, an excellent tale.
They knew each other for years before anything happened. They were on opposing sides of two Quidditch teams who famously rivalled one another - one a beater and one a chaser, both captains - and had a jolly good go at trying to murder one another during every game the two teams played.
The teams' Quidditch grounds are on the opposite side of the same city - Liverpool - which notoriously has the greatest density of pubs of any magical city in the UK. Fans pour in to celebrate after every win, and console themselves after every loss; the bartenders have long been experts in breaking up any Quidditch-related brawls (which happen as much between the players as it does the fans). In fact, a couple of years into their consecutive captaining, the two captains got into a drunk fight so bad it made headline news for a week, after which the President of the National Quidditch Association threatened to ban them both from playing if they didn't get their act together. But this has been the state of Liverpool Quidditch for hundreds of years.
Now, as one may expect, Quidditch players have a habit of ending up together - a decent reward can always be made tipping off the Daily Prophet about who's sleeping with who. But in Liverpool, the rivalry runs so deep that there had been no known union between two Quidditch players from opposite ends of the city for more than 300 years. Sure, there had been illicit encounters, and hush-hush affairs, and probably even a lovechild or two - but nothing that involved anyone putting a ring on it. That was until Lacy and Rowan.
She was Liverpool-born Seeker who flew at the speed of a spell and owned hair as red as Ginny Weasley's; he an Irish Keeper who came from a line of Quidditch players and could fly before he could walk. Unbeknownst to them, their Uncles went to Hogwarts together, and (this they did know) love a good practical joke. A long story cut short: a blind date was set up, both players were too proud and stubborn to walk away from it until it was over, and far too much attraction was generated in that one night. There were on-off attempts to not be together for the sake of team tradition, but after revelations and team-mate blessings, the two gave up pretending they weren't meant to be together, and got married. Which meant the two teams had to - at least some of the time - do something they had never prepared for: get along.
Some players, when forced to, got on famously with the opposition. Others… well, let's just say the engagement party ended in some bruises and a broken foot.
The captains, in many ways, found it hardest. They had to control everyone, both from fighting one another but also from getting too friendly; they had to preserve competitive team spirit, but also be amiable with the opposite team; and they had to hide from the bride and groom not only that they still hated one another's guts to the northern edge of Scotland and back, but also as Harry later found out, the mounting sexual tension between them which they were trying to supress.
Lacy and Rowan were one thing. They were a pair of sweet young things who couldn't help but fall in love with each other. The captains were another. One was Bryan Kavanagh, descendent of former Minister for Magic Evangeline Orpington and long-term partner of Rose Appleby, a musical sensation and the wizarding world's current sweetheart; the other was Ginny Weasley, notorious for many things, one of those things being breaking Bryan Kavanagh's foot, another being her status as Harry Potter's girlfriend.
It had not been extraordinary, Harry and Ginny's relationship: it was best described as functional and pleasant, which everyone except Fleur Delacour thought was just fine. Fleur had been raised in the French manner, and thought that passion must be incited no matter how old the relationship, and so found the British habit of ignoring dissatisfaction until it either disappeared or became a really big issue really quite obnoxious. Ginny, who had never warmed to Fleur, once told Harry that if 'that phlegm' thought something was wrong with their relationship, then it was certainly fine.
Harry laughs to himself often about that. Their breakup had, ultimately, been much easier than anyone would have expected. Ginny had come in, solemn faced, sat down on the sofa, and burst into tears. Everything came blurting out. The accidental semi-angry flirting, undecipherable glances, Kavanagh breaking up with his girlfriend and nobody knowing why, sudden sweetness towards Ginny that she reacted badly to, a drunk argument, a kiss… a kiss. She looked Harry in the eyes in that moment. Sometimes one kiss says everything, she said. He took her into his arms and hugged her tightly. She had stood beside him through everything, Ginny. He loved her so much, and right in that second, when his heart was supposed to be breaking, it was filling with joy. She deserved it all. The love, the passion, the fire. Everything Harry was supposed to be giving her, but in the end just wasn't destined to.
Now Ginny and Bryan were engaged. They had, of course, come over and told Harry the day after the proposal. Ginny had looked so happy, so radiant. The afternoon was melting in the evening, and Harry's small flat had been filled with a lovely light that made everything look slow and unrushed. Outside in the late spring everything bloomed pink and white and bright green against the greyness of the Muggle apartment blocks of outer London. Harry grins like an idiot when he thinks about it. He could not think of a single thing wrong in the world on that lovely, mellow Sunday morning.
There is, of course, a downside to all of this. Harry is still single, and the Daily Prophet has convinced half of its readers that Ginny has left him irreparably broken hearted. There are witches throwing themselves at Harry left and right, telling him they can save him from the throes of depression, or whatever else they think he's in.
And only a week after the proposal, he receives a firecall to say Skeeter has somehow got wind of it, and it'll all be front page news tomorrow. Basically a heads up for Harry to brace himself - last time Skeeter got a story this juicy he had to make a public statement that no, he wasn't out of work to deal with 'personal matters' and no, he wasn't in rehab for a Ginny Weasley-related breakdown and/or alcohol problem. It's Rita Skeeter that needs to be sent to rehab, Harry thinks, for her compulsive lying problem.
The next morning Harry gets dressed slowly. He knows at the back of his mind he shouldn't be wasting his time, but going to work is a plaster he can't bring himself to just rip off quickly. There are always those looks after a major story comes out.
Outside, it rains half-heartedly as Harry sits at his tiny table in his tiny kitchen and has breakfast. He lives in an apartment which he fell in love with because it was the exact opposite to where most people thought he should be living: it's a crumbling Muggle flat complex on the edge of London, made mostly of concrete and inhabited by people who looked like they had lived there since the dawn of time. The place was built by someone who had no idea what they were doing, as evidenced by the fact that Harry lives on a 'floor' that only has two flats and is sandwiched between what are technically floors two and three.
Harry's nearest neighbour is an ancient one-eyed woman whose entire wardrobe seemed to be modelled on curtains of Merlin knows only what era, and who, on her regular morning walks around the block, yells "the magpies are coming! The magpies are coming!" at random passers-by. Her only communication with Harry is to take a swipe at him with her walking stick if he gets in her way in the corridor - and she swings with unusual force for somebody who looks at least a hundred and two.
Harry doesn't like leaving the solace of his home on days like this. It's so ordinary and comfortable and hidden from the world: if you step into Harry's flat, you come into a snug little living room with bright yellow wallpaper and a striped red sofa. (It shouldn't surprise you that both are older than Harry.) There's a wooden coffee table in front of sofa, and a TV set. A couple of photos and shelving units stuffed with memorabilia hang on the wall. A bookcase lives in the corner, with the spines of all the magical books turned towards the wall. Most of the books are Hermione's. Standing against the right wall, near the kitchen door, there's a boring-looking little cabinet stashed with magical bits and bobs: some bozarbar and such for magical emergencies, but mainly fire whiskey and Weasley Wizarding Wheezes products. Next door the kitchen contains about enough space for two plates, a kettle and a frying pan, which suits Harry just fine. The bedroom has enough room for a double bed and a wardrobe, but the wardrobe doesn't have any doors because there wouldn't be enough room to open them. And because nobody but Harry ever goes into this room, the walls are covered in notes about the current Auror cases Harry is working on, which he rereads when he can't sleep. There's also a bathroom, which impressively somehow manages to be smaller than the cupboard under the stairs Harry used to sleep in.
Harry procrastinates leaving until he's running late, and has to run to the spot where he apparates to the Ministry. He could apparate or floo straight from his flat much quicker, but these things are recorded and he'd really rather nosey ministry employees not have his address - it would only be a matter of time before it got out.
From where he apparates into the ministry, he runs towards the lift. If he misses it, he'll probably be late by at least ten minutes. And the boss doesn't forgive anyone for being late, not even Harry (which was part of the reason Harry loves both his job and his boss so). As he turns onto the last long corridor, he can see the lift doors opening on the other end of it. Malfoy, already there as usual, gives Harry a look that challenges him to guess whether he'll hold the doors today or not.
Harry sprints the length, runs into the lift and collapses into his corner, pressing the buttons for his floor and Malfoy's. The doors close.
"Malfoy," he says, when he can just about breathe.
"Potter," Malfoy replies.
The usual greeting.
"Thank you for not making me late," says Harry.
Malfoy says nothing.
On more than one occasion, Malfoy has made Harry late by not holding the elevator. There have not been any such incidents recently, either because Harry has tried to make civil with Malfoy over the years, or - and Harry dreads this one - Malfoy actually feels sorry for him.
Harry shutters. If there's any more pity, he will leave England.
The elevator hums and clicks as it travels. Most of the elevators at the Ministry are a smooth ride. Quick. Efficient. This one is a nightmare. It usually takes several minutes, as opposed to several seconds as it should, jolts a lot, sometimes gets stuck, and often stops at the wrong floor.
He glances at Malfoy. Malfoy has tucked his newspaper under his arm and is messing with his wedding ring. Harry looks away. He doesn't want to think about wedding rings right now.
They take this elevator because everybody else avoids it, and Harry and Malfoy want to avoid everybody else. Malfoy started using it when Harry was on holiday, having no idea Harry had used it for years. When Harry returned, slightly more tanned and slightly less haggard looking… well. The first two days they ignored one another, as if nothing unusual was happening and the situation would eventually solve itself. On the third day, Harry resolved to talk to him.
Harry had rehearsed what he was going to say the night before, but the next morning a third person decided to join them. It was a girl whose name Harry didn't know, but recognised by sight from the times she'd tried to catch his eye in the cafeteria over the years. She had long, dark, curly locks which framed a perfectly formed face, and Harry harboured no interest or attraction towards her even though he felt that he somehow should. Her presence annoyed him not just because his rehearsal went out of the window, but because he knew why she was there, and Harry would really rather she forget the idea of it. Right on cue, about five seconds after they all got into the lift - the girl shooting dark glances at Malfoy - she turned and smiled at Harry.
"Do you take this lift often?" she said, even though Harry knew she knew he took it every damn day, "My name is Rosanna - the normal lifts are so crowded, don't you think? I'm trying to find nicer ways to get to my office. I think this is rather nice, wouldn't you agree?"
"Er, maybe," said Harry. His eyes darted to Malfoy, whose whole face was tense: Harry could see he was gritting his teeth very hard. He wasn't sure if he was doing this because the girl made him uncomfortable, or if he was trying very hard not to laugh. Harry suspected the latter.
The girl also glanced at Malfoy. "Although," she said darkly, "there are some ways in which it could definitely be nicer."
Malfoy turned to them and grinned in the viscous way he always did when he was about to be unpleasant.
"It's very hot in here, isn't it?" he said. He took his jacket off. The girl straightened her back and stopped smiling. Malfoy went on: "I'm warm even in this shirt."
He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up one sleeve, slowly, deliberately. Then he rolled up the second, making sure to make a show of revealing the Dark Mark. The girl pressed herself into the corner furthest away from Malfoy, her expression nasty. The elevator pinged. The doors opened at a random floor, as it did on its detours, but this didn't matter to the girl. She ran out.
"Thanks," said Harry after the doors closed.
"That's probably going to get me fired," said Malfoy, rolling his sleeves back down and doing up his cuffs, "what do you want, Potter? I assume it's me you're after, I don't know why else you'd be riding this Merlin-cursed lift."
"I've been using this lift for years," said Harry.
Malfoy stopped in the middle of buttoning up a cuff and screwed his face up at Potter.
"Yeah, really," said Harry. "I was on holiday the last two weeks."
Malfoy sighed and put on his jacket.
"I started two weeks ago. I'll find a different route up tomorrow morning."
In the spur of the moment, Harry held out is hand. "Let's be civil about this. We can share an elevator without hexing one another."
Malfoy looked down at Harry's waiting hand and pursed his lips.
"You're being ever so Gryffindor about this," he said. It was clearly not implied as a compliment.
Harry keeps his hand outstretched. "Fine. In that case, think of it like this: you get to avoid the normal elevators, and I get to avoid any more incidents like her. That Slytherin enough for you, Malfoy?"
Malfoy snorted. "Whatever," he said. When Harry didn't lower his hand, Malfoy rolled his eyes, and shook it.
They stood in silence for a few more seconds until the elevator hit Malfoy's floor.
"What do you do now, anyway?" said Harry.
The doors opened. Malfoy stepped out.
"Office for Confiscation of Dark Arts Materials," said Malfoy.
"No kidding."
"Apparently I know a thing or two about that," said Malfoy with a humourless expression. He turned around and walked away. The elevator doors closed.
The elevator pings, bringing Harry back to the present moment. The doors open. Malfoy stays in his corner. Harry looks at him.
"It's decided to stop at your floor first today," says Malfoy. "Concentrate, Potter."
"Fuck."
Harrys spends the rest of the day avoiding any human being who isn't utterly convinced he's actually thrilled with Ginny getting married. Ron and Hermione come to his office to have lunch - the cafeteria isn't fun for any of them at times like these. Ginny has asked Hermione to be her maid of honour, and Hermione, quite beside herself, spends most of lunch relating to them the entire history of wedding traditions, or so it seems.
In the afternoon Harry throws himself into his work and becomes so absorbed he forgets until the last minute that Luna is coming around in the evening. He rushes home to find Luna waiting outside of his flat, holding a rather large tall black box.
"Sorry, have you been waiting long?" he says, as he lets her in and, at the sight of the messy living room, berates himself for not cleaning up that morning.
"No, not at all," she says, putting down the box, "this is for you."
"What is it?" he says.
Luna shrugs. "I don't know, it was there when I got here, but it was on its side. It has your name on it."
Harry looks at a suspiciously walking-stick shaped indent on the side of the box. The crazy old woman across the hall, no doubt.
He hangs his and Luna's coats up, puts on the kettle and then returns to examine the box a bit closer. On the top of it there's a small note with H. POTTER inscribed neatly on it, but nothing to indicate where it came from. He opens the box and stands back, rather confused.
Inside, there is a bouquet of flowers in an intricately-made blue glass vase. He carefully pulls it out and places it on the coffee table.
"Gladioli," Luna says, delighted.
Ten large stems burst out of the vase, each stem tall and green, with about eight soft white flowers each, bunched up the stem two by two. Harry stares at them. He cannot think of a single person they could be from - the list of friends who have his address is quite short, and the most likely candidate is Neville, who is firstly somewhere in New Zealand at that moment, and secondly will probably never trust Harry with plants again after one unfortunate event.
"They're lovely," says Luna when Harry remains rooted and silent on his spot, "shall I make some tea?"
Harry nods. Something about this mystery has grabbed him. These flowers - Gladioli, Luna said - are as bizarre a gift as they are a beautiful one. Somehow, he knows they have something to do with Ginny's engagement, but nothing else about them makes sense. He cannot help but feel those white blooms hold a message he cannot yet decipher, a significance he cannot yet understand.