Posted 3/17/2014

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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.


Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Wedding

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On Thursday the seventeenth, Harry repacked his bag for the last time. He had been very observant. He had watched the neighbours, and he already knew about their lives. And Petunia Dursley had confirmed his findings, even if she didn't know about it. And so, Harry waited. At quarter to one, he walked downstairs and into the kitchen. His aunt stood there, a pan in her hand, ready to cook lunch.

"I'm leaving today," he told her. "The protection will fall later in the day. Don't wait around."

Dudley walked into the room. "So you'll set your plan into motion then? In that case, I'd better call Dad."

Petunia looked out of the window. "I hated her," she said in a detached voice. "I still do. She left me. And I hate them. They stole her from me." Dudley chose that moment to leave the room; Smeltings had really improved him and seemed to have taught him manners. She didn't notice and instead put the pan down. "She was special alright, always thinking of others and never of herself. I hated her for it. It was as if she couldn't understand someone wanting something for themselves. The perfect daughter, shaming me with her example, and always confusion in her eyes why I couldn't do it. She sent me a letter when you were born, and it was a long one, dozens of pages in her small script. I never read it. She included a picture of you as well. I burned both." She paused, watching Number Twelve walk his dog. "You have her eyes."

Harry very much wanted to roll them in response, but doubted she would notice. He also held his tongue. Somewhere upstairs, Dudley was rummaging.

Petunia Dursley still hadn't turned away from the window. "She was always the good, talented, delightful, beautiful daughter, and I hated her." She sighed. "I had begun a life of myself, with a husband and a son of my own. I was free of her. Finally I had achieved something of my own, something to be proud of. I was the good daughter, the one who was there when my father died while she was off somewhere. I listened to his rambles about the war, hours on end, about mines and bombs and triggers, about the bodies blown apart and the cries of pain and the blood and gore. About all the little dangers around us. About his work in the mill. I was the good one, the helpful one. I delayed my dream of studying chemistry, my best subject in school, just so I could stay at his side, while she was off with them.

"I burned everything we had of her. Every picture, every letter, every piece of clothing or furniture. I was free of her, finally, finally free of her."

A small smile stole itself on her face at that thought, and for maybe the first time, Harry, seeing her profile, realized that his aunt really wasn't that old, just barely in her forties. It was still strange to think of her as young, and he couldn't imagine her ever being his age. But the smile dropped almost as soon as it had appeared only to be replaced by a look Harry was far more familiar with.

"Then you came."

Petunia Dursley's hands jerked awake. It looked as if she tried to stop herself from grasping the thin air, grasping something only she could see - a small bundle from the looks of it. She seemed unable to speak, but Harry knew what she meant and thought. After the lengths his aunt had gone through to cut the ties to her hated sister whom she had still loved, she had suddenly been entrusted with something she couldn't destroy or push away, a daily reminder of all her shortcomings and a target for her hatred. Sudden images flashed through Harry's mind, and had he not known it better, he would have thought them to be real memories. He could picture Petunia Dursley, young and happy, finding her nephew on her porch. And suddenly her life had been turned upside-down, all of her efforts to distance herself from her sister for naught. He could understand her hatred of him. And then the scene changed, and he saw a joyful Petunia Dursley playing with her son in the park, unburdened by him –the life she would have had without him.

Petunia awoke from her trance and turned to face him. It was weird to see her without her normal sneer and instead devoid of emotion. "Your mother," she began, her voice oddly calm, "died trying to protect you. Her name was Lily." She held his gaze for a moment, but then, she clenched her jaw. "Leave," she ordered, and he was happy to comply.

Once in the hallway, he met Dudley. He had a bag in his hand, but looked unsure of what to do with himself. Finally, both nodded at each other and without a word, Dudley slipped into the kitchen.

Harry quickly glanced around. For his plan to work he needed to slip outside soon. Seeing no one, he pulled out his trusted cloak and threw it over himself. This was his moment. Gone from sight, he easily slipped outside. His escape had begun. Just like every Thursday, the black company car stopped in front of Mrs. Number Nine's house, and just like every Thursday, she handed the burly man a package. Petunia Dursley had told everyone who would listen about her theory –that Mrs. Number Nine was secretly doing something criminal. It had been a disappointment when instead the woman had been revealed to be a writer of short stories for a children's magazine. In fact, the burly man worked for the same publishing company and had offered to take her work with him. Unlike her, he wrote for a cooking magazine.

Just like every Thursday, Mrs. Number Two sneaked back into her house. How she had been able to hide that secret Harry never knew, but she still continued her affair with Mr. Donovan a few roads down, whose wife was working Thursdays.

Just like every Thursday, Jennifer Pine returned home. She had been a scandal in and of herself for Petunia Dursley in that this young woman had been so utterly unremarkable that everything from secret agent to prostitute had been thrown around. The supposed cover of studying to become a teacher just didn't suit the nosy Petunia.

Harry lay in wait. It all came down to timing he knew, but he was also confident he could pull it off. Then, finally and just before Harry had chosen to switch plans, the big car of Mrs. Grant arrived. And just like every Thursday, the stout woman hit the brakes as she almost passed the house. Just like every Thursday, she got out of the car while her son climbed out of the passenger's seat. Mrs. Grant had already opened the trunk and gotten her son's cello out. Harry took the opportunity and jumped into the car.

Steven Grant had finally reached his mother who handed him his instrument. "Now then, be nice, pay attention," she instructed him. "Always thank Geoffrey..."

"Mr. Pollard," he corrected her with a roll of his eyes.

"And please tell him I will come by later the week to deliver the money." Harry rolled up in the car. After a few more reminders, mother and son parted ways, he went to his lesson and she to waste some time with her friends. It was strange, Harry thought, that he remembered his aunt's complaints about Mrs. Grant leaving her son to do shopping instead of waiting for him, but he put it out of his mind. The car restarted, and looking out of the back, he watched Privet Drive vanishing in the distance. He was gone.

The drive wasn't that long, but sitting under his cloak, Harry was still uncomfortable, especially since Mrs. Grant couldn't drive one bit. Finally, she arrived at a parking lot, and true to what Harry had heard, she got out and fetched her trusted bags from the trunk. In the hubbub around them, he jumped out without being noticed. He was somewhere in the city, a supermarket he didn't know close by. But it didn't matter. His plan didn't require a clear path or location, which just meant being even more unpredictable.

He left the unwitting Mrs. Grant behind and walked down the street. He had hoped to end up somewhere in the centre of town, but luck hadn't been on his side. His plan to vanish into the crowd of Muggles had been dashed, but he wasn't unprepared or troubled. After a few more minutes, Harry found what he had been looking for –a run-down gas station with an equally shabby café connected to it promised exactly what he needed. Ducking into the bathroom, Harry had little trouble finding a stall for himself. Once inside, he opened the package he had with him. It really was easy as long as one left their dignity behind, Harry thought wryly, and sorted through the things he had brought. He quickly changed his clothes. Once he had put the heavy, ragged coat on, he felt very much in tune with his costume. He was very happy to see the coat reached down to the tattered shoes he had prepared at Hogwarts. Only he himself didn't look convincing, but luckily, he had prepared for that as well. All it took was a bit of dirt, and the garden of Privet Drive had enough of that. Not two minutes later, Harry looked dirtier than he would have liked, but he wasn't finished. He put his used clothes into his bag which he slung over his shoulder. Only then did he grab the bottle he had left out and drank from it. The taste was disgusting, like stewed booger or something equally vile, but he forced it down anyway.

And then his face bubbled, morphed as his legs grew longer, his upper body filling out. To his surprise, one of his fingers retreated into his hand. Once the potion had done its course, Harry felt very different indeed. Experimentally, he fingered his own face. Scars had appeared, and stubble had grown, but at least his eyes seemed to be fine without the glasses. He certainly wouldn't like his changed look, but beggars couldn't be choosers. And in a way, he was both, Harry thought to himself.

He left the gas station, ignoring the disgusted looks he received, but no one stopped him. In fact, people avoided his gaze, which just suited him fine. And luck was on his side, it seemed. Shortly afterwards, Harry found a train station. He joined the crowd. It was too easy, really, he thought as he paid for his ride. Death Eaters were looking for Harry Potter, yes. But would they check the trains? Would they look among the Muggles? And more importantly, would they expect their target to look completely different?

A small girl stared at him, and Harry threw her a lop-sided, toothless smile. An older man shifted slightly, but otherwise the passengers continued to look away. Harry's disguise worked. About a quarter of an hour later, he switched trains. Another ten minutes later, Harry changed directions again, this time to the central station.

Office hours had ended, it seemed, and people were milling around. Packed with people as it was, Harry had trouble keeping an eye on his surroundings. He had hoped for a lot of traffic to hide him, but he still knew it worked both ways; not only would anyone tailing him lose sight of their target but Harry too would have trouble watching them. Once or twice he thought he had seen someone before, but each time, he lost sight of them.

The train from platform four departed on time, and Harry had just barely managed to get inside. Apart from the Hogwarts Express, Harry had never been in any long-distance trains and would have liked the experience. But he couldn't wait for long. Instead, he searched for the restrooms. Ducking inside, he pulled out the Thermos from his bag and replaced it with his coat, standing in the clothes he had worn hidden underneath it. He was lucky no one saw him like that, and it was a truly odd mix that reminded him of his third year, but instead of wasting time, he rearranged the possessions he had with him. The leather bag he had carefully hidden with the Thermos was open on the sink, the necessities spread out it front of him. He washed his face as he didn't need the dirt anymore. Then it was time to change identities.

It worked, he could feel it. The Polyjuice Potion wore off. His features shifted back to their original state, but Harry didn't bother cherishing his new-found boyish looks. He also carefully avoided looking in the mirror. He didn't want to see himself like that. Instead, he quickly drank from the Thermos. This time, the potion tasted stale, and if he had to decide upon another adjective, he would have called it reminiscent of rotten eggs. Still, it worked. The twins had outdone themselves, wherever they had gotten the potion. Harry's face sagged as wrinkle upon wrinkle appeared. His skin became blotchy as he once again filled out the clothes he still wore. His hands became bony, and although he couldn't see it, he knew his hair turned grey. Finally, the transformation was complete, and Harry could work on the finishing touches. He grabbed the small bottle of perfume he had sent Kreacher to get. It smelled about as old as he felt himself as well as he looked, but he would tolerate it. Curiosity made him look in the mirror, and he found an elderly woman with wild hair staring back at him. Part three of his getaway plan could begin, he thought just as the train slowed down for Harry's stop. Time for a visit to Diagon Alley.


The next weeks were very stressful to Harry. After his arrival at the Burrow, he had to endure the teasing of Ron and Ginny who had begun calling him Aunt Greta whom he resembled slightly. But with the upcoming wedding of Bill, there was far too much to do for a lot of July. In fact, Harry had been surprised to wake up on the 31st to find himself an adult. For some reason, he had forgotten about his own birthday. Of course, part of him had wondered whether it could still count as his birthday after the merging of the soul fragments, but it didn't matter.

Mrs. Weasley had outdone herself and had made a cake resembling a Snitch. He had a great day with his friends, and liked the presents he had gotten very much. The Weasleys had given him the watch of the late Gideon Prewitt, perhaps the best present he could have wished for. Not only did they see him as part of the family, which was nice, but they also felt him worthy of continuing the work of a courageous fighter of the Light. True, Harry could have easily bought himself the best of everything, but he still liked the thought of making the previous owner proud. Hermione had given him a neat, but rudimentary Dark Arts Detector. Ron had found a book on wizarding history and traditions to help Harry with his new role of fully emancipated Head of House Black. The twins had given Harry an assortment of their inventions with one of the boxes secretly extended and filled with their more serious products. Ginny had given him a framed picture of Harry and his friends.

Around ten in the evening, Harry had gone to bed, thinking about the next day's wedding. That too went better than they had expected –the weather had been great, the food just as good as Harry had grown accustomed around the Burrow, and for once, nothing had gone wrong.

And then, suddenly with a lot of time on their hands, Hermione had taken action. She had forced both of her friends to sit down with her and do their homework, arguing that they needed to do it while they could. It had taken a few days, mostly because Ron had been more than reluctant to waste the precious sunny hours of early August for schoolwork, but Harry had understood Hermione. They were preparing for their last year at school and needed to keep his schedule open later in the month due to the wedding. It still had a severe downside in that, although he was finally allowed to use magic whenever he felt like it, he had little time for the project he had been thinking about.

On the tenth, with his homework done and Ron and Ginny tasked to help around the house, Harry finally had the time to concentrate on it. Around noon, Hermione came into his room and found him bent over the broken mirror from Sirius.

"He won't answer," she told him with a sad smile.

"Yes, I know. But I'm not trying to repair or use it. This is something different." He looked up at her. "I wondered whether these mirrors could be modified. They are great, don't get me wrong, but they still have a serious flaw –everyone can use them. So I thought about adding an enchantment to key certain people to it. Everyone else only sees a mirror, but those who are allowed to use it may communicate with it. That's why I'm trying to figure this one out."

"Because you will need to create your own mirrors, yes. Otherwise it wouldn't fit in with the hierarchy of spells. Adding a protection needs to be done while enchanting it in the first place or it would fail before long."

Harry nodded. "It took me a while until I accepted that as truth. I had hoped to modify Sirius' mirror, but..."

Hermione sent him another smile. "I understand. Have you figured out how you want to link the mirrors? Because it will be a lot more complicated with the way you want to set it up."

"You mean because I don't want the mirrors taking the call if no one is around who may use them? I haven't, yet. I have experimented a bit with linking items, but..." He shrugged helplessly.

Hermione glanced at the wand in his hand –the replacement Harry had found among the wands salvaged from the Room of Requirement on their second weekly excursion. "The wand's working properly?"

"Mostly, yeah. It's working, and I can see myself going into battle with it. At least it's not a feather from Fawkes this time, and Blackthorn's meant to be decent for warriors, so let's hope for the best. Yeah, it works, but it still feels strange –too," he rolled it between his fingers, eyeing it, "too eager for some kinds of magic. I kind of don't want to know what it has done in the past. If it'll work for me in battle, I'll be happy, but for the moment, I'll just stick to my own wand and keep this one as a hidden surprise."

Hermione watched him for a moment with that same doubtful expression she had when he had first confided in her about the personalities of wands. Then she shook her head lightly. "Well, Mrs. Weasley sent me to get you. Lunch is ready and if you want anything, you will have to come down soon."

Harry grinned. "Well, this can wait, I guess. There is something you might be able to help me with, though. It's more or less a by-product of this. I'll tell you about it later."

Together they descended into the kitchen already filled with redheads.


August sixteenth came, and the rain of the last two days had stopped. Checking in on the preparations, Daphne was glad it had. True, she wasn't marrying the prince in shining armour she had dreamed about as a little girl and neither the untamed adventurer of her more recent fantasies, but it was still her wedding day. She didn't want it to be overcast. For perhaps the twentieth time she went to her room. It felt strange to be standing still, and she just couldn't, in a way. For some reason, whenever she allowed herself some time to think about the situation all she could see were the many possible flaws in the plan. What if something went wrong? What if, for whatever reason, someone decided to really cause problems? It had been lucky Daphne had caught Astoria trying to smuggle that prank food into the wedding cake or else it would have been a very interesting wedding day indeed with the bride puffing up.

In her room, Daphne looked around, unsure of what to do. Part of her wanted to grab everything she owned and leave, but another part of her wanted very much to begin her own preparation. No, she didn't care about Potter, but she still knew she would have to look gorgeous when she walked to the front. She settled on a compromise and looked out of the window.

Over by the old tree the rows of chairs were being set up. It did look very nice, and she was happy Potter had agreed to marry at Greengrass Manor. It hadn't been tradition exactly, far from it, but ever since she had dreamed about it as a little girl, she had wanted to marry under the old tree. It fit, she thought, and she imagined it would underline the connection to her family quite nicely.

The door opened, and her mother entered.

"Well, time is running short," she announced. "Sure you haven't misplaced anything again?"

"I told you, it must have fallen down or something. It wasn't my fault, and my memory isn't that bad that I'd forget where I put the chain. And there's still a lot of time left," Daphne replied with a roll of her eyes. "Unless Astoria is up to her usual tricks... You know what? Let's start."

At close to three, the bride-to-be stood ready in a small drawing room that once might have been used as storage for the gardening supplies. Then again, with the decline in skill among the Greengrasses in that field of work, it was probably better served as a drawing room anyway. All day she had kept her head, had ignored the growing anxiety. It had been one thing to sit in a room at school, planning the day. It had been something else to go shopping for the actual dress, but it had been alright as well. The wedding had been an abstract concept, an idea in a way. All the preparations had been with the possibility of them never becoming reality.

But now she stood in a small room in her dress –the dress, her younger self reminded her –and with friends and family waiting for her. And his guests as well. And more importantly, her husband-to-be probably standing ready as well. She felt horribly unprepared, despite wearing the dress she had picked –white and simple with a low back and frilly seams –and her hair done in a bun according to the wishes of her mother, who thought it more appropriate for a bride than letting it down.

Why had she even thought of that stupid plan? Why not simply run away, live for a few months until the consequences of breaking the contract would have taken effect? She could have done that, right?

"You will do fine," one of the paintings told her, and Daphne forced herself to smile. It wasn't the real thing. It was just a play, wasn't it? A game of pretend that only a handful of people knew about and everyone else believed to be the truth.

She cursed, and another painting scowled at her. "A lady shouldn't use such language. A lady shouldn't even know those words!"

But Daphne took a deep breath. She could still run away. It would only be a few days until she would have to pay for it, but she could live a lot in that time, couldn't she? Distractedly she picked at the dress. It was a nice one, wasn't it? Too nice not to use it? And why had she endured the hours of preparation at the hands of her mother and later aunts, if not to go through with it? And she did look nice, didn't she, even if she had to say so herself? She did, yes.

And then the door opened and her father entered the room.

"They are ready for you," he told her, not quite meeting her eye. "Daphne, I..." he hesitated, but finally looked at her. "You look beautiful," he said to her. "You look like her," he added. She could tell he wanted to hug her and was glad he didn't. She was nervous enough as it was without him adding to it.

"I just wish it hadn't come to this," her father continued. "I'm not ready to let you go yet." After a pause, he added, "I..." He swallowed with a quick glance to the side. "I'm... sorry I couldn't..." He broke off, sniffing.

"Dad," she began, but he interrupted.

"I've... I'm sorry I..." He took a heavy breath. "It's my fault. I've failed you, and you... pay for it. I should've..." Once more he broke off. "I'm... I'm sorry for... I've failed you. I'm..." He sighed. "I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry, I..."

Daphne stepped over and hugged him. He needed it, she knew it, and he deserved it. "You did what you could," she told him, patting his back awkwardly. Only a moment later, she realized it might not have been the best thing to say.

Still, her father sniffed once more, but seemed to have regained control over himself. He stepped away, taking a deep breath. "Daphne, I..." he broke off, biting his lip. "Whatever happens, if..." He glanced around the room helplessly.

She understood his sentiment and smiled at him. "Don't worry, I'll be fine. And the next time you will be prepared for it." He blinked in confusion, and she elaborated. "The next time I marry, you will know what to expect. And there's always Astoria - won't handing her off be a happy day?" After a moment, she asked with a shrug, "Shall we?" She extended her arm more determinedly than she felt in truth. But it was her day, and she couldn't falter so close to the end. She needed to be strong.

Together they left the room and stepped into the sun. Row upon row of guests turned towards them, and many people from her side smiled at her. Tracey stood out, but it had most likely to do with her actually looking young and exuberant among the sea of teary-eyed women. Daphne also noticed Astoria glaring at her, but it didn't matter. Their mother sat next to the demon spawn. She had seen her daughter before, had known how she would look, but it seemed the emotion of actually seeing her first-born walking down the aisle overwhelmed her still.

On the other side, Daphne also noted some familiar faces. She wasn't surprised to see the Malfoys sitting there, staring back at her with unreadable expressions. But there were others as well. She saw Longbottom with his grandmother. He seemed uncomfortable, but managed a small smile she felt grateful for. Close by, the Lovegood oddities sat, and the daughter beamed absent-mindedly. Daphne tried not to think too much about the other girl, but she was still glad about the younger girl's presence. For one, she filled up Potter's side with something else than red hair –for he had predictably brought a whole lot of Weasleys with him. The mother looked very unhappy, her daughter had tears in her eyes that didn't look very happy at all. Next to them sat the father with the two menaces. They were part of Potter's old Quidditch team, so Daphne could understand their presence. Other team members were there as well. Granger had what looked like a firm grip on the youngest son's hand. A slight surprise was the presence of Nymphadora Tonks, her mother and the old teacher Lupin. But they were also smiling at her, so she wouldn't complain. She needed Potter's guests to tolerate her for the time being, at least, and each guest who wasn't hostile towards her was very welcome.

Daphne was aware of the many voices as well as the music in the air, but blocked out the sounds. To them, it might have looked like the real thing, but to her, it was only a trial run. It was just for show. Instead, she focused her attention on walking. The last thing she needed was to make a fool of herself by falling. She fixed her eyes on the minister. He looked just like she had expected and sent her an encouraging smile of his own.

And then, finally, she had arrived at the front. Her father reluctantly let go of her, his eyes still slightly red, but he sent a glance to the young man who now stood next to his daughter, his future son-in-law. Daphne took the opportunity to look as well.

He had cleaned himself up, which was good. His hair came across as too tidy, in fact. She had grown far too accustomed to his unruly mane, the only really wild part of him. He also wore new robes, and exquisite ones, appearing black at first, but in the light, she could see they were actually a very deep, shimmering green with silver seams and a sash. Had he intentionally chosen Slytherin colours to make a statement? Daphne doubted it, but was pleased with his choice nonetheless. The true surprise was the traditional coat over his right shoulder bearing the crest of House Black. She hadn't expected him to wear it as they hadn't talked about it, but thinking about it, she really should have known. Potter was close to the Weasleys, and even blood traitors like them would know the proper attire for such an occasion. And since they were trying to stay at least halfway to the traditions to make it look forced, it certainly fit. And unless she was much mistaken, she thought the button of the coat looked displaced, another nice touch even if she didn't know whose it had been originally.

Their eyes met for a second. To the guests, it might have looked like little more than a simple, wordless greeting, and in fact some might not even have noticed anything at all. But Daphne saw the tiniest of smiles on his face and an equally small nod. It was also in that moment she realized it had been the first time in months she had seen him this close. And she remembered her observations about him. In school she had thought him to be tired, had believed his relationship with his friends to be strained for some odd reason which, seeing as how they were Gryffindors, probably had had something to do with some noble –read, idiotic –deed. But standing next to him, she thought something was off about him. She had observed him during their negotiations in winter and believed herself to be familiar enough with him. He wasn't any taller, from what she could tell, but he seemed like it. He also looked tense.

Well, she reasoned, turning to face the minister, it was understandable. They were currently at their own wedding, and she felt nervous as well. Hadn't she tried all morning to keep busy in order to not think about the big event? He was allowed to be nervous as long as he didn't make a mess. But there was also something else in her opinion. He had looked almost confident, something she couldn't remember ever seeing him be for any real amount of time.

She tried to listen to the minister, she really did, but somehow, she became astutely aware of that one lock on the back of her head, the one that naturally had to come loose, destroy her carefully prepared hairstyle and was now softly swaying in the breeze, tickling her. Worst of all, she couldn't discreetly fix the problem or scratch herself with all eyes on her. Why did she have to go with the exposed back again? Why couldn't she have had her hair braided? She'd have it cut as soon as possible, a small revenge, but still welcome. And the more she tried to resist the urge to scratch, the more she wanted to do something. Why couldn't the minister speak faster? Or maybe skip a few sentences?

And then, he finally arrived at the important part, and still Daphne had trouble focusing. And in any case, it didn't matter to her –seven years at most until she would be rid of him.

"Do you take Daphne Greengrass, heiress to her house..." the minister asked Potter while Daphne forced herself to not roll her eyes. She had asked them not to include that part. She had wanted to keep the vows simple, partly because neither intended to keep them. And she certainly didn't feel ready to inherit anything.

"I do," Potter replied, surprisingly strong for someone as nervous as he had to be.

The minister turned towards her, and a sudden rush of blood to her ears drowned out any sound. She remembered the times when she had played bride as a child, and here she was at her own wedding, in a real dress, with a real groom at her side and still playing the part. She had known what to expect, yes, but standing in front of the guests was still very different, and she had to convincingly answer the question, something she found surprisingly difficult. Did she want to? She watched in trance as the minister's mouth formed the words. Through the rush she saw him more than she actually heard him say "Potter, Head of House Black", and another rush of blood drowned out the words.

The minister stopped speaking, but Daphne felt frozen on the spot. It proved to be luck, however. Just as the minister had stopped, a sharp pain went through Daphne, as if someone had pierced her lower back with a needle. Had she had her mouth open, she might have shouted or perhaps yelped. Instead, she was shocked out of the spell.

"I do," she found a voice indistinguishable from her own say, although it didn't feel as if it had come from her mouth. Her eyes started swimming as the pain took over. Not a needle, she realized, but a stinging hex had hit her. She should have guessed Astoria would have something up her sleeve.

The minister spoke, but she didn't hear him. In her mind, she prepared for the next attack, tried to imagine the demon spawn scheming. When would she strike again? The rings might have made a good target, perhaps she had found the time to hex them?

Lucilla came just as planned and presented the pillow. It looked odd, seeing them side by side like that. Silently they exchanged the rings. The first time she had held his hand like that, her mind told her, not merely shaking but actually holding it. And as he put the ring on her finger she could see the scars on the back of his hand in the light of the day: I must not tell lies. It was still white against the skin, and she wondered just how long it had taken for the message to be carved into the flesh like that.

She fought down the smile and giggle when she realized Potter hadn't really learned his lesson. He had lied, in a way. Did he honestly cherish her like he had vowed just moments ago? For some reason, she found the realization hilarious.

And then the minister spoke again. "Then I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss."

It was a strange sensation for Daphne, as her blood rushed to her head –she could just imagine the blush; she probably looked like a matchstick –but at the same time, immeasurable relief washed over her at the successful execution of her plan while a clump of dread settled in her abdomen. She still had to pay the price, of course. Her heart sped up beating so violently as if trying to escape her chest, and she got goosebumps. She turned towards Potter –her husband! –and saw him looking thoroughly uncomfortable, but leaning in.

Then their lips met, and she felt the dread leave her.

She had secretly feared the kiss. She had kissed in the past; she knew what it was like. But to do it with someone she didn't feel much for hadn't been her top priority, and much less in front of dozens of people. It had seemed like the last moment something could go wrong. She had considered a few months ago whether she should have done a few trial runs with Potter, just to get accustomed to it, but had deemed one to be more than enough for her liking. Knowing her luck, someone would have walked in on them.

But she had kissed him. Her heart slowed down and her mind cleared once more. She became painfully aware of his proximity, but she also felt his right hand faintly on her side and the other in her right. And she also noticed just how light the kiss was, nothing like she had expected. He seemed to smile slightly against her lips as the guests cheered.

And best of all, it ended quite fast. She had done it. She had kissed Potter –or he had kissed her, more likely, but it didn't matter –and she was still alive, the world hadn't ended. She had taken another step towards an independent life. The smile that grew on her lips as she turned towards the guests was mirrored on his face. She could understand it, he had done acceptably.

She couldn't remember how they had done it, but suddenly Daphne found herself on a small stage, looking down upon her guests. All around, people were standing, some already with glasses in their hands as waiters walked around. Her parents had insisted upon booking only the best and it showed. Contract and reluctance hadn't prevented them to want to show off.

She was dimly aware of the celebrations. People rose and made toasts. She sent them graceful smiles just like she had been instructed to. Mr. Lupin's few words brought her out of her trance, but mostly because she finally understood his presence. He had been friends with Potter's parents and talked about the pride they would feel if they could have been present. Daphne supposed she should send the werewolf something in a few days. If he felt close enough to Potter to consider him a member of his pack or however werewolves were capable of feeling for humans –other than food, of course, and Daphne wished the books Professor Snape had pointed to in third year would have covered more than that –then she thought it might be a nice gesture. Still, the idea of him actually having human friends was odd.

The Malfoys left after about an hour, but Daphne was happy about that. Sure, as part of the House of Black they had been invited, but she still didn't really want them around, particularly Mrs. Malfoy with her pursed lips. They had given an heirloom of the family that even Daphne could see at a glance wasn't really all that valuable, and it certainly paled in comparison to the other gifts. She found herself wondering just how they would split some of them in seven years, should Potter still be alive then.

The elder Weasleys had given the young couple a book on household charms that had clearly been passed down through the generations –an heirloom of their own. It was strange to see them acting as if they were actually related to the groom.

Their twin sons had given a set of Beating Hearts, artificial, yet supposedly able to mimic the partner's heartbeat from the moment they had dropped a bit of blood on them. They worked, soon beating in tune with the newly-weds hearts, and were certainly a thoughtful gift and admirable spellwork, perhaps one of a kind. Daphne didn't fail to notice them passing Potter another package, and from their smiles, she thought it best not to know its contents.

Granger had gotten them matching lockets that held photos of the other. Ronald Weasley had claimed to have chipped in. At least it wasn't a book, Daphne thought to herself, but thanked the other girl nonetheless.

Longbottom had given seeds for what he claimed to be rare and beautiful plants. From Potter's expression, she guessed those were two seperate groups.

Lovegood had given Daphne a disturbingly exuberant smile before she had handed them a set of silver pins that merrily sang about the wearer's feelings for their partner when they were worn.

The present from Daphne's parents had been an heirloom as well – jewellery from her great-grandmother. It was a nice thought, even if it might not have been the best choice. Great-grandmother Callidora had been known to support the purification of the blood, preferably by spilling some of it.

Naturally, the food was delicious, and after the stress of the day, Daphne was more than happy to eat her fill. And still she hadn't spoken to her new husband directly. Was it odd? But then, people were constantly showing up and talking to them. She also noticed how cordial Potter was with her guests. She hadn't expected him to show manners, but was also happy he did. She needed him to get along decently with her friends and family. He even found it in himself to not comment on Pansy's choice of robes, an eye-catcher on their own, but very unflattering for her.

Just as the dance was about to be opened, Astoria came over to give her present, but not to her sister. Instead, she handed it to a surprised Potter. He glanced at it for a moment before smiling at Astoria and giving his thanks.

Daphne leaned over to warn Potter in case Astoria had chosen something dangerous, but he had already opened the package – a ceremonial dagger of the past. She hadn't expected something like that and straightened in shock, unable to avert her eyes from the valuable artefact.

"It's beautifully crafted, isn't it?" Astoria told him. "They make excellent letter opener ever since blood sacrifices have fallen out of use." She laughed musically. "Well, if it can cut skin, why not parchment or wax seals? I was lucky to find it and very reluctant to part with it, but," here she sent Daphne a smile, "I'm sure you will find good use for it."

"Well, thank you once again," Potter said with a small bow.

Once Astoria was gone, Potter put the little dagger away. "Shall we?" he whispered, leaning over.

Daphne blinked, but after a moment, her mind restarted jerkily. "The dance. Yes." It took her a moment to get her legs to move, but with each step she took towards the dance floor, she felt steadier as the feeling in her legs returned. When they had arrived and his hand came to rest on her shoulder blade, she became aware of every eye resting on them once more.

The music started, but she found herself surprised –Potter had improved from what she could tell and didn't make a fool of him as he had done at the Yule ball. He noticed her slight smile and raised a challenging eyebrow.

"Granger helped you, I presume?" she asked.

He chuckled. "She didn't want me to look too stupid, yes. But then, I learned it relatively quick."

Before long, they were joined by others. Her parents strode across the floor, perhaps partly to remind everyone they were still there. But Daphne didn't mind it and just hoped it would soon die out. With each passing moment she longed to get away more, away from the people, away from the gifts that were meant for the newly-weds, away from the next attack from Astoria, away from the music and food, away from the open area in her family's garden.

Halfway through the third song, Longbottom and Lovegood danced into them, nearly knocking them to the ground. The rest of the song, Daphne had to endure shy Longbottom's presence since Lovegood had insisted upon dancing with Potter. They looked weird, even by their standards, as they appeared to not mind the actual pace or for that matter anything resembling a style. But since Lovegood was kind enough to return him shortly after they were done, Daphne wasn't too troubled by it.

As the day went on, people started to leave, distant relatives and acquaintances first. Potter shook a lot of hands, but even he looked exhausted as the evening approached. He had gotten the required dance with the bride's mother out of the way early on –neither had looked all that happy about it –while Daphne had been inappropriately glad to have married an orphan. The closest Potter had to a father were either Mr. Weasley who had been far too busy keeping an eye on his twin sons or the werewolf Lupin who had known better than to dance with the bride.

On the other hand, while Ronald Weasley had gotten himself a second helping, Potter had stolen Granger for a dance that Daphne had watched curiously. The rumours had been going around in school, of course. Some had claimed to have seen Potter and Granger sneaking off somewhere. Daphne had never cared much about it, having little interest in him and even less in her. Watching them just seemed like a good opportunity to get some clues. It had been an interesting idea she had had about a week ago. If Potter had some kind of affair, or rather, a relationship with someone else, then she would be quite happy to look the other way. If he was busy with another woman, then Daphne would have her peace of mind. But no matter how much she watched them, she couldn't see anything even remotely inappropriate.

Around quarter to nine, with only a handful of guests still in attendance, Daphne's father rose from his seat.

"Well, honoured guests," he said, "we do have a last present, but it is not from us. Years ago, my parents were getting on in years. They regretted likely not being around when their grandchildren would marry and decided to prepare for it just in case. They left a small house close-by, a vacation home that has been restored to its former glory over the past days thanks to the hard work of many eager helpers." Here and there people applauded, but he continued, despite looking slightly overcome with emotion. "And they left it for the first of their grandchildren to marry. Daphne, it is yours now, and I hope..." blinking away a tear, he sent his daughter a weak smile, "that you will have many happy years there."

Daphne got to her feet, and Potter rose too. They bowed their heads and smiled as people applauded them.

When they sat down, Potter leaned over. "Did he have to make that big of a deal out of it?" Daphne glanced over to her father, who had turned his back to her shoulders quivering.

She merely shrugged, unsure what to say. Shortly afterwards, the celebrations came to an end, and after a last dance, Daphne allowed herself to be led from the garden to a waiting carriage. While Potter was busy thanking the cheerful Auror Tonks for coming, Daphne's father startled her with a fierce hug before hurrying away.

Once they had left the party behind, their ride was quiet as both were lost in their own thoughts. Daphne for her part felt a new worry rise in her. They had survived the wedding without any trouble, yes, but with that out of the way and the evening advancing, they were heading to what would be their wedding night –even knowing from their silent agreement nothing would happen between them, that, she felt, would not be fun.


I wanted to give Aunt Petunia something of a decent farewell. It's basically her last chance to say anything to Harry, and I can see her deluding herself into thinking she is a decent person for telling Harry about his mother. What does it matter that she's years too late for that, she's shown her nephew kindness and told him about his mother.

And finally, after so many chapters of info dumps, Harry and Daphne have tied the knot. Now off to a night of fun and adventure.

Funny coincidence, The Rains of Castamere was on earlier - another wedding. Congratulations, Edmure.