The last time that I saw my mother's house, evil thickened the air until I could barely breathe. Ghosts peered out of windows and ran in front of my path, bitter memories playing out on the walls and in silence between words.
This day, the house glimmered in the summer sunlight as a crisp, white beacon on the otherwise bleary street at such an early hour of the morning. Red flowers bloomed at the bottom of the steps, although I swore they had never been there before. The swinging chair had been repainted, a fresh grapevine wreath hung on the door, and a vase of cheerful daisies placed in the window to make the place ready for potential buyers.
Angie looped her arm through mine. "Ready to go in?"
I could still feel it around us. Something flickered in the corner of my eye or tickled the back of my neck or flashed in the window. Something wrong. Something heavy and thick and dark and wrong. But only a flashes. Only the slightest inklings that something terrible had ever happened here.
"Ready."
Angie, George, and Fred (and a variety of others, I would later discover) had worked far too hard or spent far too much money fixing the place up. The furniture and floors had all been cleaned, walls repainted, and smaller items packed away somewhere – since I had maintained over the months that I wanted none of it, Rowena only knew what they did with Mum's vases and books and coasters and whatnots. The kitchen set had been completely replaced, making the room barely recognizable with all the shiny new appliances. I still chose not to go in. We had other things to do, after all.
I snagged Angie's elbow and practically dragged her up the stairs, the pair of us giggling like pigtailed girls as we stumbled over our own feet in our excitement. Angie wrestled out of my grasp at the top forced me away from our target to explain the plans she had for my old room – fresh beige paint, quilt I never used spread across the bed to make it look homey, curtain rods replaced, and old toys packed away – the next free weekend she had.
"It'll be like I was never here," I confirmed. She grinned.
"That's what I want. No signs of your mess."
"My mess is wonderful," I countered.
"Your mess is a pain in my ass," she corrected. I rolled my eyes and cuffed the back of her head, bringing a fresh round of giggles to us both. It was time to get down to business, so I slid out of my old bedroom and down the hall only to be hip-checked out of the way by my much-too-violent friend.
Angie blocked the door with her body, hands behind her back to grasp the doorknob. "We didn't get to clean out the bedrooms yet. It might be a little bit…well…much."
I rolled my eyes. "Isn't that why we came here? Because things weren't packed up yet?"
She cocked her head to the side. "True. In we go." With that, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.
There it was in exactly its former state, untouched by the months and the tragedies and the loss. My mother's bedroom. While my room had been mostly barren, belongings packed up years ago when I went to Hogwarts for the first time (the last few items shoved in a trunk when I moved in with Fred and George), this one was as full as if someone would be sleeping in it tonight. Everything looked exactly the same from the hospital corners on the bed to the framed abstract art on the wall. Here, time stood remarkably still.
"How are you doing?" Angie asked as I stood immobile in the doorway.
My head throbbed from memories battling to the forefront of my mind – images of my girlhood face grinning in the mirror, my mother's hands braiding my unruly locks, and trying on her jewelry when I knew she was preoccupied swimming to the surface in mismatched orders. My stomach tightened at the familiar sight of bright sunlight spilling onto her dark green comforter (Slytherin colors for my father).
There was so much about her I never took the time to understand, but I saw plainly then what I could never grasp when she was alive. If I lost George that day, I would fight until everyone even remotely responsible paid for it. In five years though, or ten? With a young child that ate dirt and fell down every fifth step and hated vegetables? I would protect. Fiercely. Like she did.
"I'm all right."
The jewelry box still rested on the vanity like in my childhood, and I began sifting through its contents before she could push further. Too gaudy. Too gold. Too long. Too…eugh.
"That looks old." Angie pointed to the tarnished bronze owl charm.
"I'm wearing the charm bracelet Fred gave me seventh year." I shook my wrist so she could see hos prominently silver it was.
"Oh. Pearls, then?" She fingered the short necklace gingerly. The suggestion gave me pause. I thought of my dress: Simple, ivory, straight to the floor, lace around the sweetheart neckline, capped sleeves.
"Pearls," I agreed. She clasped the beads around my neck with a "Something old."
"Dress is new," I added, ticking off the imaginary list in the air.
"Ravenclaw brooch is blue."
"I need to borrow something," I murmured as my reflection ran its hands over my mother's necklace.
"I'll loan you a flask, but I want it back as soon as 'you may kiss the bride' is deal with."
This required consideration. "Anything in it?"
After a moment of fishing, she procured the Hog's Heads finest souvenir from her bag and shook it for full sloshing effect.
"Deal." I snatched at it and took a swig so the firewhiskey could refreshingly burn my throat and nose. A surprising choice in drinks, but part of my wondered of the flask was even originally intended for her or if a certain redheaded best man would be sorely disappointed at being left out. "What do you think the boys are doing right now?"
"Last I saw, they were trying to figure out which suit was whose. I don't know who's the bigger mess today – Fred or George."
"Imagine what it'll be like on your day."
Angie hummed what may or may not have been appreciation over my comment. Carefully, she scooped up a fistful of my hair, gave it a few twists, and secured it with my mother's pearl-tipped hairpin.
"There," she smiled softly, "now George can see your eyes." Warmth spread through my chest at the implication. She patted my hair like my mother used to do and added, "You are getting married, Mel."
"I am," I breathed, although the words did not help the moment feel any less surreal.
Maybe it would be easier for Fleur to comprehend this moment when her time came – after all the planning and fussing and preparation, marriage could not be avoided. For me, though? To wake up one morning and be asked if I wanted to get married that weekend – no fuss, no ceremony, just a muggle license that our enemies would never think to look for – left only days to comprehend. Now the moment arrived, and it felt like someone else's day. Surely, I watched through one-way glass as another girl did this.
"It doesn't feel real."
"That's just because you're essentially married already just without the documentation. It's all a formality at this point."
Oh. Of course. Angie had quite a knack for putting things into perspective. I married George a long time ago. After all, what was a wedding besides formally declaring your intent to spend your lives together? We just needed to sign some paperwork to do that. I made the actual decision years ago, back at 11 years old on Platform 9 ¾, although I had no clue at the time that the moment was more than a chance collision. And I loved him since…since…
Since the first time he grabbed my hand to drag me off somewhere. Since he told Kenneth Towler off for hurling insults at the Ravenclaw Quidditch team for killing time with the Slytherin team as we handed the pitch to them after try-outs our second year. Since the day he listened to my rant about how unfair it was for wizards to ignore the miracle that is the electric kettle (all that magic, but I still have to wait for the stove to heat up!). Since the time he cried, honestly cried, over a fight with Fred. Since he stayed up all night to just hold me and make sure I was not alone even though Cedric was dead and Voldemort was back and everything was different.
"You all right?" Angie asked, procuring the dress for me to change into.
"Think you will marry Fred one day?"
"Oh, probably." She pursed her lips at a wrinkle. "His mum'd make us, wouldn't she?"
"If she didn't, though?"
"I don't know. I can't think about things like that right now, not with…everything. What you and George are doing? It's beautiful and I understand; you two need to do this exactly how you are. That just isn't me or Fred. When everything clears up maybe. We'll see."
Clears up. Like the war was a pile of dirty dishes no one had the strength to wash. How British.
"Have you two talked about it?"
"Loads," she confirmed. "We're just not keen on doing it because of the war. We want to be sure any decisions like that are on our terms, not theirs."
"Do you think George and I are rushing this?" Maybe we were letting Dumbledore's death taint our decision…
Angie snorted as she zipped up my dress. "I don't think anything about you two can be described as rushed, luv."
"I could say the same to you."
"Fred and I find more pleasure taking it slow, and, yes, I mean that as a euphemism."
Ew. Ew. "I hate you."
"You're beautiful. Let's go get you married."
FGFGFGFGFGFGFGFGFGFG
At age 15, I went with Angie to her cousin's wedding. It was a huge muggle affair with over a hundred people in attendance. We packed into the church, hair coifed and perfume sprayed to overpower our pewmates' conflicting scents. Someone carefully arranged bouquets in every corner and on every available table in the reception hall, where we feasted on oversauced food and sickly sweet cake while bad music swirled softly through the room. Girls lost their heels as they danced to Aqua with boys they barely knew. Children snickered at how the groom willingly wrapped his arms around the bride's waist when My Heart Will Go On began.
As the only wedding I ever attended, I always assumed all ceremonies stuck to that formula and figured that my wedding day would be similarly abysmal.
I was wrong.
It was a simple ceremony, nothing like the elaborate celebration I once attended or the one coming in a few long weeks for Bill and Fleur. No feast, no songs, no dreadful music. Just two witnesses and a muggle man with a pen and paper that held infinite power. It felt very official and, most importantly, very private. No one needed to know about this. Not right now, anyway.
I did not need a big ceremony or that huge extended family gawking while my relatives were distinctly absent by no choice of their own. At the end of the day, I just needed that official document stating that I was married to this man, the one that stared at me with the full depth of his being, the one that thought I was the only person in the room.
A quiet conversation with Kingsley in the coming days would get the documentation taken care of with the Ministry.
George wrapped a possessive arm around me as he and his brother argued over where we should get dinner. Dinner. Wedding dinner. My first dinner as a married woman. Angie and I giggled over that. Fred told embarrassing stories about George's school crush on me. Angie told embarrassing stories about how oblivious I had been towards his feelings. We laughed over shared adventures and Quidditch rivalries; George laced his fingers through mine and did not let go until I needed the hand to eat.
For one day, one blessed day, we were four normal young adults. No war. No death. Just a wedding.
As always, thank you guys so much for reading. I know updates are slow, but how you all stick with this story means the world to me. I love reading your reviews and getting your feedback. Thank you!
Next Chapter: Flight Planning