Oh my God, it was really weird recognising some of those user names in the reviews! I totally remember you guys! Thanks so much for sticking around, and being so accommodating and positive rather than slapping me over the head for my long absence. Welcome to allnew readers as well, great to have you on board… Your exits are here, here and here, complimentary peanuts and warm towels will be provided shortly. Have a pleasant flight! Xx Shez

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Seven days passed with surprising speed. Harry spent much of them running errands for Ginny – Flooing to the florist, to the dress shop, returning shoes, buying stockings of a slightly smaller length and width, owling people with instructions about location (The Burrow's backyard, which was more like an open meadow), gifts (either small useful things, or generous donations to the fund for the Radically Effected and Casualities Of Voldemort's Evil Reign – title didn't exactly roll off the tongue, but wizarding organizations have a thing for anagrams), and on, and on.

Ginny was working herself to the bone. He worried about her, but she wasn't in any kind of mood to listen to good advice. It was like her hysteria about the dress and the invitations had been replaced with a grimly determined drive – her wedding was going to work, by Merlin, like a finely oiled machine. Mrs Weasley remained studiously absent from most proceedings – it seemed she'd taken her conversation with Harry to heart. Instead, Hermione was Ginny's most trusty assistant, and sat with her for hours every day looking at lists and ticking things off with the beautiful plumed quill Ron had given her last birthday.

Hermione was stressed, but she wasn't like Ginny. Twice Harry had woken up in the night to find his fiancée scribbling feverishly in her wedding notebook, holding the tips of her fingers against her temples as though trying to press out a solution. Both times he'd managed to relax her a little, and coax her back to bed, but there was something wrong going on in her head, as though somebody had shaken it like a box of Every Flavour Beans, damaging all her usual grace and composure, and leaving her with this frazzled doggedness.

There was no point asking if anything was the matter. Of course there was – she had a wedding to organise! See, he knew what her answer would be before even putting the question forward. Instead, he tried to focus on being as much use as he could, whilst at the same avoiding getting in her way.

Fred and George had made things up after their Angelina-related rowing and moved, for a time, back home. While it was encouraging to see them getting along so nicely, their presence in the Burrow (rather than in their much-loved London digs) did not sit well with Harry. They were always sneaking up and downstairs, or locking themselves into their room. Strange odours kept sliding out from under their door, and muffled explosions occasionally shook the walls. Stranger still, Mrs Weasley had made absolutely no complaints.

Harry managed to corner George on his way upstairs one morning.

"What are you doing up there?"

George widened his eyes and pressed a hand to his heart.

"Moi? Why, Harry, what are you suggesting?"

"Nothing. Just wondering."

"Well, you asked. We're having an orgy. Loads of fit birds. You should see the place, it's a mess."

"George."

"What, you want in?"

"George!"

The twin grinned and scratched his nose. "I'd tell you, Harry, but to be honest, I don't think you have clearance."

"Clearance?" He blinked. "So it's a secret?"

George seemed to think for a moment, and then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you could definitely say that."

Harry eyed him suspiciously. "Is this … wedding-related?"

George swallowed his grin, and assumed an expression of seriousness. "That," he said, "would be telling."

"But – George – you'd tell me, right? If it was anything major, you'd tell me?"

George carried on up the stairs. "I can't hear a thing, Harry," he said breezily. "You'll have to ask me once I've cleaned my ears out. Should be in a few weeks or so."

"How are Fred and Angelina doing?" Harry called after his retreating back, giving up on the old line of questioning. George answered without turning, his tone that of only vaguely masked exasperation. "You don't want to know, my boy. I don't bother. It's a saga of epic proportions these days."

He disappeared back into his room, and a thin cloud of smoke, presumably released when he opened the door, went rolling down the stairs.

Harry decided not to worry. It would be much easier that way.

Throughout all this, Ron had managed to evade any sort of participation in the wedding proceedings, holed up in his room or the broom-shed, or disappearing for long hours with his old fishing rod, and reappearing just as he was no longer needed. His luck lasted right up until Sunday morning, when Ginny went marching out to the shed, dragging Harry behind her.

She rapped on the door, and there was a brief silence before he called: "Yes?"

"Don't 'yes' me, get out here."

Another long silence. "Er – may I ask who's speaking?"

"Ron Weasley! You are a twit!"

"Oh, hello Ginny."

She tutted impatiently, and Harry stifled a smile. "Come on, you knew it was me already. Please, Ron, please will you come out?" She put on her best little-sister-in-need voice. "Please?"

His voice sounded closer when he spoke next. He had clearly moved to the door. "I'm busy," he said warily.

"Busy my eye!" Ginny exclaimed, and then composed herself somewhat. "Alright, fine. But honestly, how many times can you polish your broomstick in one day?"

Harry laughed out loud this time, and the door flung open. Ron had a broom in one hand, service kit in the other, and an outraged expression on his face.

"For your information," he said heatedly, "I am actually polishing my broomstick!"

"Yes, you were," she replied innocently. "That's what I said."

"'Were'?"

"You need a suit fitting. And you're going now, Ron. Now."

With her free hand, she grabbed hold of his sleeve, and pulled both boys across the lawn and back into the house. She ignored Ron's protests till they reached the fireplace in the living room.

"Shush," she said, over Ron's 'but I'm not even dressed properly!'. "I don't care what you're wearing. You could wear a paper bag over your thing and that would do me. I just need you to go and do it. Right now. Then it's done, isn't it?"

"Well … I guess it is, but – " he began, and she cut him off again.

"Exactly. This wedding is two weeks away. Two weeks. Enough messing about. Harry, here's some gold, for heaven's sake don't lose it."

"Of course I won't."

"I know, but just be careful. And mind Ron doesn't make a fool of himself."

"Of course I will."

"And make sure you're looking at the right suits when you –"

"Ginny," he said, gold safe in his pocket, and placing two firm hands on her shoulder, "I will. OK? Go and sit down for a second, will you? Have a cup of tea. I'll make you one now if you –"

"No, no, no," she said, and smiled a rueful smile at him. "I can't stop right now. I have to owl some more dress-shops about a replacement. But thanks. Give me a kiss."

Ron rolled his eyes, and Harry kissed her quietly on the lips, and then on the nose, and then they were gone, with a wisp of Floo powder and a roar of flame.

London was – well, London. Crowded, bustling, familiar, surprising. Ron perked up a little at all the activity around him, and pointed out various odd items in the shop windows along Diagon Alley with increasing enthusiasm. Harry didn't think Ron had been in London for a while – Allenhall University was right on the border of England and Wales, and although it was situated in a fairly busy town, there was still nothing like breathing London air, watching London natives wander by in their fashionable robes, and passing places like Ollivander's that had been such reassuring constants in their childhood.

They finally found their way to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Harry, when he entered, was hit with a sense of déjà vu that almost knocked him over. Immediately, he recalled the dark-panelled walls and the stool he'd stood on to be measured for his Hogwarts robes, a skinny little boy with glasses too big for his face. In fact, this was where he'd first met Malfoy, when the ex-Slytherin had been barely taller, and decidedly rat-featured.

"Wow," Harry said on a laugh, and Ron asked "What?", but Madam Malkin waddled over before he could formulate a reply.

"Harry Potter?" she said breathlessly.

"Er – yes?"

"My dear," she said, smiling broadly, her cheekbones rosy with pink blush. She took both his hands in her hers. "How are you?"

"Oh – you know, fine." He'd become used to strangers, particularly middle-aged women, doing this. They always looked like they wanted to take him in and give him a good feed, and perhaps a gentle prodding as to the nature of his glamorously tragic life.

"Your lovely fiancée owled ahead of you," she said, releasing his hands and hurrying off to her counter.

"Oh she did, did she?" Harry said, raising his eyebrows at Ron.

"Yes. She seemed concerned that you might not – how can I put this? – know what you were doing?"
She beamed at them again, and then produced two hangers from behind the counter. They were covered in some kind of fabric, but at the very bottom he could see a bit of trouser-leg.

"We don't do a lot of business in muggle suits here," she said conspiratorially, "but for Harry Potter's wedding, we can certainly put something together. I imagine it will be quite the event! Now, do spread the word about where you purchased these, won't you darling? One can't get much better advertising than the word of Harry Potter!"

"Oh yes, Harry Potter," Ron said, grinning, "one must remember that."
Harry elbowed him fiercely in the ribs, and Ron's amusement was replaced by a grimace of pain.

They tried the suits. Both fit to perfection, with none of the heavy, sweating, silly swirling-about-the-ankles he sometimes felt in a set of dress robes. Ginny had always wanted the bridal party in suits and dresses (the Muggle format for weddings had grown popular in recent years), and that suited him fine. For about the space of five seconds, Ron and Harry admired themselves in the mirror, and then declared the outfits to be fine. Before they could undo a button, however, Madam Malkin had Apparated herself to their very sides, exclaiming over the suits' splendid colouring for their skin-tone (black – truly splendid, that), and proceeded to have a good poke around with their cuffs and leg-lengths.

It was in this very attractive position, with an old woman pulling at loose threads between his legs, that Harry saw Ron freeze, and then heard a hearty: "Ron Weasley!" from across the store. He spun about. A handsome, broad-shouldered man with wavy blonde hair and a wide, bright smile was waving at them. He looked as though he was about to sail a yacht, or play polo or something. Of course, the nearest water was the Thames, and there weren't any polo grounds in central London, but he still managed to carry off the look and, even at this distance, project an air of health and vitality. The yacht/polo vibe – it was undeniable. How did he make his hair so shiny?

Ron wordlessly, automatically, raised a hand in return, and the man began to make a beeline for them.

"Who's that?" Harry asked out the corner of his mouth.

"Richard," Ron said faintly. "That's Richard."

"What, the Richard?" he whispered furiously. "Allenhall Richard? Richard who you hate because you think he's after Hermione, Richard?"

"Right."

Ah. Now he kind of got it.

"Ron Weasley," Richard said again as he reached them. "How've you been?"

"I'm – excuse me, Madam Malkin – yeah, sorry, I –"

"No trouble," she said, sitting up and patting his leg. "Aren't they wonderful? I'll wait at the counter."

She bustled away, and Richard looked expectantly at Ron, still waiting for his reply.

"Fine," Ron managed eventually.

"Great! And let me guess –" He turned to Harry and pointed a finger at him, grinning. Harry pointed back, a little confused, and Richard burst into laughter. "Ah, it's great to meet you Harry," he said, reaching out to shake his hand. "Hermione – and Ron, of course – have told me so much about you."

"Oh, er – well, you too. Great to meet you …"

"Richard Desmond."

"Richard."

"So, something special going on, lads?" he said, turning back to Ron, who had now thrust two trembling hands into his pockets.

"The wedding," he replied with an effort. "Harry's."

"Oh right!" Richard slapped his forehead exaggeratedly. "Hermione did mention it. Should have remembered. She's very excited, if I'm not mistaken. And you're marrying – Ron's sister?"

"Right, Ron's sister," Harry confirmed. "Ginny."

"Great. Congratulations. Great. When is it?"

"Ah – about a fortnight actually."

"Oh, some last minute organization happening here?"

"Yeah, me and Ron were last priority."

"Lots of people coming?"

"Quite a few, yeah."

"That's the way."

Brief laughter, and then a long silence of excruciating awkwardness followed. Richard was clearly waiting for one of them to speak, Ron was too inarticulate with irritation to open his mouth, and Harry didn't have a clue what to say. It seemed that Richard was anticipating something, something in particular. Was it – an invitation? Harry looked at Ron, and Ron was staring at him, clearly thinking the same thing. Harry looked back to the quietly expectant Richard. This man was not going to invite himself along – but he had a feeling that he was quite determined nonetheless.

Merlin, this silence was long. It was killing him. And Richard knew it. Damn him. Harry was too much the well-trained English boy to bear this black hole in conversation, or blow past his hints. Instead, with the utmost reluctance, he said:

"Would – you like to come, Richard?"

"Oh, really?" Richard exclaimed eagerly. "It wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"Well, actually …" Ron began in a mutter, but Richard didn't seem to hear.

"Oh great, Harry, thanks! I'd love to. Listen, owl me the invitation – Hermione has my address, right Ron?"

"Right," Ron said. Harry heard him crack a knuckle.

"OK! Great! Good to see you guys. Hope to hear from you soon, eh? Say hello to Hermione for me, Ron – you look great in that suit, by the way. Knock 'em dead!"

With that, he was gone, and Madam Malkin yoo-hooed their attention.

"Come now," she called cheerily, "I don't want those suits dirty before the big day!"

Outside, Ron and Harry walked perhaps a hundred metres down the street, each carrying a suit-bag, without speaking. Every now and again, Harry would glance anxiously sideways to check on Ron's facial features, but they gave nothing away. It wasn't until Ron tripped up on a slightly raised bit of cobblestone that he cracked.

"Merlin!" he shouted angrily, and kicked the ground again. "I hate him!"

"I'm really sorry, Ron," Harry said. "Come on, move onto the pavement."

"Why'd you have to do that, Harry?"

"I don't know! Because it was polite, I guess. I couldn't not, when he was so blatantly waiting for me to ask, could I?"

"Bloody hell, yes you could have, Harry! Yes you could have!"

"I'm sorry, mate, really. But – look on the bright side."
Ron spoke in acid tones. "There's a bright side now?"

"Sure," Harry said, fumbling for an answer. "Er – you get to show Richard that you're not scared of him, don't you?"

"I'm not scared of him!" Ron exploded, flinging his arms about. Harry, in fear for the suit (and his life, if Ginny saw any damage to them) took Ron's bag away and slung it over his own shoulder, gripping Ron's encouragingly with his free hand.

"I know that, Ron, but maybe he doesn't." He was warming up to this now, and beginning to think that he might actually be talking some sense. "What I mean is – well, he seems to like Hermione."

"Believe me, he does."

"Then you've got to show him that for you, he isn't a threat. That you know Hermione doesn't fancy him, and that you're not going to skulk about in the background making threatening faces at him while he moves in on her. Right?"

"I guess – right."

"So – show him you don't care! Be gracious with him at the wedding, and then let him see that you and Hermione are so solid, there's no point in his even trying. Yeah?"
Harry felt quite chuffed. He'd managed to put a half-decent argument together in explanation for his moment of polite panic. Hermione would be proud.

Ron said nothing for a moment, and then sighed. He seemed almost to wilt a little, as though the fire had gone out of him.

"That's just it, mate," he said quietly. "Maybe he is a threat."

"Oh Ron, come on. You know Hermione wouldn't have a bar of it."

"I mean it," he insisted. "Did you look at him, Harry? I'm a bloke, and even I can see he's a Greek bloody god."

"You're not half bad yourself," Harry joked, but his best friend did not respond.

"Ron," Harry went on, just a little concerned now. "What exactly are you worried about?"

"I don't know," Ron said frankly, finally meeting Harry's eyes. "I just can't handle the thought of her leaving me."

To hear him state his fears so plainly rather took Harry aback.

"She's not going to leave you," he said, frowning, and then lurched forward a little as somebody knocked him in passing.

"Hey," Harry said, turning about, only to find himself face to face with Malfoy.

"Hey!" he said again, just as Malfoy exclaimed: "Potter!"

They shook hands, and then Ron and Malfoy nodded at each other with passing civility, and Harry remembered something.

"Aren't you meant to be in Prague?"

"Portugal."

"Whatever."

"Ah – yes, I was. I cancelled that."

Harry cocked his head to one side. "Oh really. I see."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Come now, Potter, don't be like that. I was going to, but it all got too complicated, and I decided to loaf about in London for a while instead. Don't look at me like that, cancellation isn't a crime."

"No, guess not. Lying should be."

"No lies."

"Right. So you're in the country. I suppose that means you're coming to my wedding, Malfoy?"

"Oh, am I?"

"Of course. You said if you could, you'd be there, and look – now you can."

Ron opened his mouth at this, and then closed it again. Malfoy's gaze went over Harry's shoulder, met Ron's eye, and then moved away again, focussing on something in the distance.

"If I'm welcome," he said eventually, "then I'll be there."

"You're welcome, Malfoy," Harry said. "You always were."
Malfoy paused, then nodded once. "Well. See you on the big day. The Weasley house?"

"Yeah, the Burrow."

"Alright. Take care of yourself."

Without another word, he moved past them. Just as Harry made to speak to Ron, Malfoy cut in.

"Potter!"

He was standing a few metres away, clearly having remembered something.

"Yes?"

"For tomorrow – happy birthday."

Then he turned on his heel, and strode away down the street.

"Am I imagining things, or is this 'invite Ron's worst enemies to the wedding' day?" Ron challenged. Harry was quick to retaliate.

"Don't, Ron, don't let's do the Malfoy thing again."

Ron held up both hands, as though surrendering. "Alright, I know, I've got him all wrong."

"Yes, you do."

"Harry, I might hold off for your sake, but my brothers will murder him."

"No they won't," Harry said, trying, as he spoke, to convince himself. "No they won't, or I'll murder them. He's my friend, Ron, and I want him there. The only reason he wouldn't come in the first place, and gave me all that crap about Portugal, is because he was worried about what all of you would say."

"So why would he change his mind now?"

"Well I don't know, Ron – you weren't exactly reassuring, were you? I think I had him in a corner, that's all. He couldn't bow out with another excuse, because I know he's here now. Anyway, I think he wants to be there, deep down."

Ron sighed another heavy sigh. "I'm sure. He'll also feel the pain of Fred and George's punches, Harry – deep down."

"Worry about that when we get there," Harry said, running a hand through his hair. "Merlin, what a morning."

"Tell me about it," Ron agreed gloomily, and Harry punched him lightly on the arm.

"Chin up," he said. "It's not all bad."

"Oh really?"

"Really. You've got a great suit, don't you?"

Ron gave a small half-smile. "That's true."

"Hermione'll love it – and I guess the gazebo will be engaged for the evening."

"Fuck off," Ron said, smiling wider now, and punched him back.

And for the moment, they put thoughts of Hermione in Richard's well-muscled arms, and the Weasley brothers at Malfoy's throat, out of their minds, and focussed on finding the nearest Floo grate.

In all the wedding confusion, Harry had yet again been close to forgetting that the 31st of July was not just any other day. Whoever would have thought, years ago, that Malfoy would be the first to wish him a happy twentieth birthday?