Four Weddings and a Funeral

When

11 August, 2003

"When is Dad getting here?" Ron mewls. "Is he here yet?" His head, which seems to have been attacked by a bottle or two of vintage Madam Sleekeasy's, rests in his best man's lap, there in the garden bench.

"Nah, he's still at the Ministry," George says, his eyes locked on Harry's. George has been through this three times before, playing the Master of Ceremonies, and recognizes pre-marital panic for what it is. "He'll be here, Ron. He hasn't missed a wedding yet. And every secretary and department head fears Mum's wrath too much to try to keep him when he's needed here."

Ron chews on his lips. "I... I don't think I can do this." Harry winces.

Yup. Done this. George winks at Harry and says, "What, little bro? It's easy as Gobstones. Just stand at the altar with the rest of us without fainting, and when Dad says to kiss the bride, make sure you go for the one in white."

Stony-faced, Ron mutters, "I can't marry Luna. People who love me die."

Before he can stop himself--really, he knows better--George says, "Ron, luv, that's Harry's line."

Both men stare at him, eyes round. Harry pats Ron's shoulder and apparently decides to ignore George's bon mot. "She'd rather marry you anyway, Ron. I don't think fear of dying is ever going to deter Luna."

His face flooding with color for no apparent reason, Ron looks up at George, pleading. "Is she okay? Is Luna all right?"

The truth here is not the way to go. "Yeah, of course, Ron. A bride on her wedding day? She's happier than a Niffler in a Gringotts vault. Can't wait to see you."

There's an infantile whimper from Ron. "Tell her... Tell her I love her, will you, George?"

Harry, who has managed to look serious through this whole charade, can't help rolling his eyes; Ron's still staring at Harry's knees.

"I think we're fine here," Harry says blandly. "Could you go check in with the opposing camp? And," he continues, his voice flat but his eyes smirky, "tell my wife I love her."

"I'll do that," George says, saluting, and then thinks as he walks away, As long as you don't go about loving her out here in the garden again. Two years later and my eyes have still not fully recovered.

Mum is madly rearranging the seats as the flame-headed midget Beaters, Tristan and Bilius, run laughing from Condie-the-tiny and molasses-skinned Cassiopeia, all four cousins howling with glee, their blue dress robes flying behind them. Mum grumbles at them, but she's beaming, absolutely in her element. Poor Mum. Won't have another of these shindigs for quite a while.

Fleur is living up to her name at the kitchen table, sorting the bridesmaids' bouquets and the groomsmen's boutonnières. She barks past George as he enters. "Tristan! Conduiramours! Lentement, oui?"

"Oui, maman," two toylike voices chirp. Cassie starts singing, "Wee, wee, weeweewee!"

"Oi, Fleur, what'd you and Bill think, sticking a name that long on a squirt that short?"

She looks up at him, smiling; she's learned what Weasley teasing looks like. "If she is big enough to conjugate, she is old enough for her full name. Conduiramours was the name of a queen, the wife of Sir Perceval." Her face is fuller now, less pretty. More beautiful.

George shakes his head to clear it. "Just don't tell Penny."

Fleur grins again, "Hmm. Penelope is patient, but per'aps not so. Besides," she grimaces, "Bilius? Why would she and Perceval ever give their firstborn such a name?"

George grimaces. "Family name. It's what Dad wanted to call your husband, till Mum put her foot down."

"Another reason for me to kiss your mother," Fleur says.

Pointing down to the flowers, George asks, "Those close to sorted? The guests are starting to arrive."

"Oui, I saw that 'orrible Prewett girl out in the garden with Gabrielle. Up to no good, sans doute."

"Cousin Mafalda?" George smirks. "She not such a bad sort." Fleur fixes him with a glacially Gallic stare. "Well, I mean... for a Slytherin."

"Hmph" is the extent of Fleur's answer. With a practiced flourish, she presents George with a basket now packed with bouquets; she has reserved one for herself, along with a basket of flower petals for the children. "Bring these up to the ladies, soignewusement, s'il te plait."

"Yes, ma'am," George says, not quite sure what he's agreed to but snapping off a Peeves-ish salute nonetheless. Maybe this'll settle the girls down, he thinks, not too hopefully. Shuffling along the hallway to the stairs, he sees Charlie and Bill sorting the drinks for after. "No sampling the wares, you two!" George barks in his Head Boss voice. Both of his elder brothers have the good grace to look embarrassed when they grin back at him.

Smiling. Everyone's smiling. Well, except for Ron and Luna, and they get sanity passes for today. Not that Luna needs one anyway.

So what's my excuse? wonders George. He climbs the stairs, leans against the wall. Of course, right below poor Colin's snapshot of first DA meeting, there's a photo of the two of them, G and F on their hideous Weasley jumpers, grinning like madmen, and for the life of him George can't remember if he's the one in the F or the G. When was that?

George hears the door to the loo close crisply up on the landing. "Ah, George, it's excellent that I saw you."

Trying to keep the wince purely internal, George greets his brother. "Hey, Perce. Beautiful day for a wedding, yeah?"

"What?" Percy asks, straightening his glasses. "Oh, yes. Lovely. Listen, I've just been speaking with Miss Greengrass, and she's concerned that our inventory isn't going to keep up with the demand as the school shopping rush hits over the next few weeks--"

"Percy--"

"So I want you to reconsider outsourcing some of our manufacturing. Those Moldovan chappies made an excellent proposal; they would be able to get production going as soon as the ink was dry--"

"Percy--" Bringing him in to manage the business end really seemed like such a good idea.

"And with the sales volume that we're talking about, I'm sure that any drop-off in quality would be offset--"

Fratricide seems like an even better idea just now. "Percy, NO. We're keeping production in-house. That was the plan from the beginning. When our shelves are bare and kids have to walk away with order forms in their hands, it's all good. Now go down and enjoy the wedding. No more business today."

Percy arranges his dress robes, puffing his chest out in his best Percy fashion. "All right. But I want to meet with you, Miss Spinnet and Miss Greengrass on Monday morning to make sure that this inventory squeeze doesn't undermine our market position."

"Percy, take a deep breath. You can't go broke making money." George can't help but be pleased when Percy turns, unable to think of a way of answering that. "Oh, and Perce?"

"Yes?"

"Did you know that Conduiramours was Sir Percival's queen in the old stories?" Percy's eyes narrow, and something unfamiliar, something vaguely akin to glee bubbles up inside George. "Wonder why Fleur would have named her daughter that. Any ideas?"

Percy stomps down the stairs stiffly as ever.

"Guess I'll ask Bill!" George calls, and turns back up the stairs. Even the sight of his old room--door closed--doesn't entirely take away the pleasure of this small bit of mischief.

Daphne Greengrass is sitting at the foot of the stairs up to the third floor. She has a lit cigarette in one hand, trailing smoke lazily in the heavy, indoor summer air. In the other hand, her wand is slowly tipping her straight sable locks silver.

"You know, Daph, most people want to charm the grey out of their hair, not in."

"Why follow fashion when you can set it?" She leans back, her very ample figure looking positively obscene even beneath the silk and organdy of her lavender bridesmaid's robes. Taking a drag from her cig, she peers at him. "So, no go on the outsourcing, eh?"

"Daph, come on." Should have known it was her idea. The woman was no great shakes when it came to Charms or Defense, but bloody brilliant when it came to Cold Cash. "That's not how we do things."

She bats her eyes, which is moderately terrifying. "Oh, no. We wouldn't want to change Saint Fred's business plan, now would we?" George's gorge rises, and Daphne holds her hand over her mouth in mock shock. "Oops! Are we not supposed to say that?" She takes another drag from her cigarette.

Looking at her, George shakes his head and laughs sadly. "You're right. Maybe I'm being stupid, sticking to ideas Fred and I had when we were seventeen. But..." He gazes at the door, Fred and George's Room, Keep Out, Top Secret chipped and fading. Again he shakes his head. "Look, we'll talk it through with Big Head Boy and Alicia first thing Monday. Okay?"

"Okay, Boss Man." Ash spills from her fag; she charms it away with a flick of her wand. Her keen bookkeeper's eyes appraise him. "You spend far too much time working. Far too much time making other people laugh. When are we going to get you laid, Georgie-porgie?"

Again, George feels his stomach rise, though this time it is in shock rather than anger. "You volunteering for the job, Daph?" For a moment, the idea of burying himself in her ample bosom, her ample everything, is quite alluring. "I thought you were telling us that Swot Goldstein had the tongue that launched a thousand ships?"

"Oh, Anthony keeps me very, very happy, thank you very much." She grins evilly, her full Slytherin wickedness out on the surface. "But I must say I've always wanted to find out if what they say about the width of a man's hand and the thickness of his..." George knows better than to look down at what he knows is his very broad palm, but it's not easy to restrain himself. She's good. At being bad. "Well, Boss Man, let's say that Anthony could probably have his self-interest tickled in another direction if I so chose. But no, I can't say that my ambitions were running so high..." She Vanishes the stub of her cigarette and gazes at the door of George and Fred's old room. "Still, I'm sure someone worthy of your royal Weasleyishness might volunteer. Because let's face it, luv, you need your pipes cleaned."

George splutters, nearly dropping the flowers. "Bloody hell, Daphne! You're really awful!"

"'S why you love me. Boss."

He laughs, and it feels good. "Damn. How the hell did you ever end up with Harry?" George remembers running into the two of them up at the Broomsticks the winter before Potter and Ginny finally got their heads out of their arses: Harry sitting intense and silent next to Daphne, her making one obscene remark after another until she finally got him to crack a smile.

Suddenly her face goes very slack, as if she can't trust it to smirk, as if she doesn't know how to arrange it. "That was as much of a shock to me as it was to him, I think." She looks up at him, her eyes searching. "I suppose I made him laugh. He made me... He made me feel as if I might add to the world instead of being a black hole. Which was a first. And he never looked at me as if I were a pair of bossoms with legs. Which was also a first."

George can't think what to say to that.

"So, Georgie, did you bring all of those for me?" She points at the bouquets.

"Don't push it, Miss Bookkeeper. Start embezzling flowers and you'll be made redundant before the first petal hits the floor."

She smirks. "You'd never do that. I know where all your gold's hidden, and that bint cousin of yours, Prewett, won't be out of school till next June."

"True. And for all that she's family, you know Mafalda will never take your place in my heart. You know Susan's not here?" She nods. "So lucky you, you get to walk me down the aisle! Here's your flowers." He hands her one of the smaller bouquets. "Things still crazy upstairs?"

She snorts, staring at the nosegay. "You know, after watching your sister twitch like a cat in heat the morning of their wedding, I thought I'd gotten a feel for nuptial insanity. The Lovegood takes the cake."

"Is she dressed yet? Because I really, really don't need to see her bits on display again." How can Ron want... so little?

"Well, for such an untouched creature, our Luna is anything but modest. But yeah, I think Ginny finally shoved her into the gown."

"Untouched? You mean they haven't?..." That can't be. They've been together for three years! Bloody hell, no wonder Ron...

"Yes, George, you are not the only Weasley boy whose plumbing is a bit backed up."

"Damn. No wonder Ron is curled up in a ball down in the garden." Daphne rolls her eyes, but her smile is as warm as it ever gets. George begins to climb past her. "Well, better get this over with. The guests are starting to arrive. As soon as Dad gets here we're going."

"Ah, waiting on the Minister. What else is new?" She pulls out another cigarette and stands. "I'll be right downstairs. Good luck, Boss."

"Thanks." It still seems odd, having a Slytherin for an employee and a friend. But she's certainly good for a laugh, is Daphne. And good at her job. George has the overflowing vault to prove it. And if Ginny trusts her--

The door flies open at the top of the stairs. Luna steps out, blessedly dressed in her full white regalia. Her face is beatific, the perfect blissful bride; the only thing that makes George nervous is his sister, who is standing behind her friend with a grimace of thin-lipped anxiety. "Hello, George," Luna says to a point over his shoulder somewhere just shy of Neptune. "It's a lovely day, isn't it? I'm going to kill myself, but I'd like you to make sure Ronald and the guests have a lovely day."

"Luna, sweetheart," Ginny says with the same kind of patient tone she employs with the nieces and nephews, "I think if you kill yourself neither Ron nor anyone else will enjoy the day very much at all."

"Really?" Luna looks deeply shocked at this news. She turns to George. "George, if I were to throw myself out the window, wouldn't you still be able to enjoy the day?"

Before George can even open his mouth, his sister shoots him a look of mingled pleading and imperious command that would do their mother proud. "Uh, no, Luna, if you tossed yourself out of the window, I think it'd put quite a damper on my afternoon, as a matter of fact." He looks over Luna's shoulder towards where Tonks is staring at herself in the mirror, changing her hair color to match the purple robes, then to contrast, then to clash horribly.

"Oh," Luna says. She seems to be considering this deeply.

"Ron told me to say he loves you."

George regrets saying it as soon as the words leave his mouth. Luna's calm, pixilated façade cracks wide open, and suddenly her chin is quivering and she's blubbering like a three-year-old. "H-h-h-e l-l-l-loves me?" she wails. "I don't d-d-d-deserve... I'm t-t-too odd and t-t-too s-s-skinny and t-t-too..." Whatever else it is she thinks she's too much of, George doesn't find out, because she dissolves into wet howling.

Well, George thinks, at least she knows herself.

Ginny begins clucking at Luna in a very Mum-like way, and Penny comes up on Luna's other side, petting her arm. "Did you know, Luna," she says, Ravenclaw to Ravenclaw, "that brides in China wear red, not white, because white is the traditional color of mourning in East Asia? The red symbolizes..." She maneuvers Luna away like an over-articulated mannequin to Tonks and the vanity. The two sister-in-laws-to-be sit a blubbering Luna down, chat at her, begin to do her hair. As if it mattered.

Putting the flowers on a chest at the foot of the bed--no more single for Ronnikins--George mutters, "The enormous one's for Luna, obviously. Daphne and Fleur already have theirs." He looks over to Luna, who is sitting nearly catatonic under the care of Tonks and Penny. "I told Greengrass she's on. Good thing she had the regulation getup already because she's singing. Can't believe Susan really didn't show."

Ginny shushes him quietly, making sure Luna isn't listening. "Not such a shock. She hasn't been up for any of the weddings. Too painful. Said she had to work."

"Poor kid," George mutters with a shake of his head. "After all of this time..."

Touching his face, Ginny says, "Not that you're one to be pointing fingers." He winces involuntarily; Ginny sighs. "When Fred wakes up..."

"If Fred wakes up," George says between tightly gritted teeth.

"WHEN Fred wakes up," Ginny said, eyes glistening with that fierce determination that has always marked her limit, "do you want him to find that you've moped the whole time away, or do you think he's going to want to hear about the pranks you've played and the birds you've been seeing? Or do you really think all he's going to want to see is a balance sheet from the shop?"

A dull ache throbs just below George's throat. He can't think of anything to say, so he pulls his sister tight. "Happy bloody birthday, Gin-gin."

She tenses slightly in his grasp, and then relaxes. "I didn't think anyone'd rememebered."

"What?" George jokes, "you thought the whole bloody fête was about those two nutters getting hitched? Dad's arranged a flyover by the Cannons later this afternoon."

"Ha-ha," Ginny mutters. "I hate parties on my birthday. I hate the bloody Cannons. Dad knows I'd kill him." She shakes her head. "When this is over, I think Harry and I have earned the right to get royally pissed."

"That you have, sis," George says. Ginny's face suddenly gets quite small. Interesting. "Oh, would it make you break down too if I told you your husband told me to tell you he loved you?"

That evokes a quick smile and a barely perceptible blush. Definitely won't be watching the garden bench tonight, nope. "Nah. Think I'll survive." She kisses him on the cheek. "But thanks."

George looks around Ron's old room. The place is barely recognizable--magically enlarged, ceiling raised, freshly painted. Not a trace of Cannon Orange to be found. Many, many, many sound-dampening charms on the walls, floor and door, thank Merlin. Even a new bathroom. Clearly Mum and Dad were doing their best to keep Ron at home with his new bride. Not bloody likely. George gives them two months before they move out. It was a shame poor old Mr. Lovegood's house was...

"Tonks," Luna says from her throne at the vanity, her equilibrium (if that's what it is) apparently re-established, "I think you and Charlie should adopt."

The Auror's eyebrows bow to the point of breaking. "Uh, that's a great idea Luna. Cassie could use a brother."

"Cassie?" Luna muses.

"Uh." Tonks looks around to lock eyes with Ginny, but George's sister just shrugs and throws her hands up in dismay. Tonks looks down at Luna with an expression made up in equal parts of anxiety and wry amusement. "Cassie. The little hellion Charlie and I adopted last year?"

Luna pauses for a full ten seconds, and the whole room holds its collective breath, praying that she won't be overwhelmed by this not-so-new news. She isn't. "Oh," she says airily. "Cassiopeia. Her eyes are the same color as Dragontree bark."

Ginny buries her face in her brother's shoulder, whether to stifle laughter or a howl of disgust George isn't sure. He pulls her outside and gently shuts the door. "Never the same show twice."

A hysterical giggle escapes from Ginny. "Just tell me I wasn't this bad," she says, her head back on George's shoulder.

"Oh, but our mum told us we should we should never lie, Ginnikins." She looks up, scandalized. "You were bouncing around like a Kneazle overdosed on Pepper-up. It was exhausting. One would have thought you'd actually slept the night before."

She looks up at him, face round in shock as red slowly floods her features. "George... We... What? When did you?..."

George wishes he could enjoy this more. Wishes Fred could be here to see their unflappable sister utterly flapped. "All I can say, Gin, is when you and The Boy Who Bonked want a little together time, you might choose a spot a little further away from the house. Or at least on the other side from my window." Now the red washes out, replaced by flat pallor, a sure sign that he's hit home. "And on the night before your wedding, too! Mum would be so disappointed if I..."

"DON'T YOU DARE," Ginny roars, and stares at him. Finally, shaking her head, she groans, "Oh, Merlin, George, I'm so sorry, we didn't think anyone was up..."

"Yeah, well, I don't sleep so much any more, and if I remember correctly it was hot as Hades and the crickets where having an orgy. Thank Merlin Ron and Luna didn't follow suit--it was still as glass last night." He grimaces. "I really don't think I could have taken that. Mind," he continues, "for a boy with a gammy leg, your Harry displayed remarkable--"

"GEORGE!"

"--stamina and flexibility." Her forehead clunks against his chest. "Oi, Gin-gin, don't muss the dress robes."

"Bloody hell," she mutters into his lapel.

A kiss on the top of the head. "'S all right. No permanent damage was done to my delicate eyes. And I promise not to tell Mum. Unless the provocation is too great."

She peers up at him, her expression blank, and George knows from long experience that he may have won this round, but he has no chance at all of winning the war. Still, it's nice to score a point against Ginny once in a while; without Fred...

"George? Someone walk over your grave?"

"Nah," he says, kissing her on the forehead. "Just thinking about when Fred wakes up."

She kisses him back, full on the lips. "Love you, Gred."

"Love you too, Ginnikins." She smiles at him, but her face pales. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just tired." She looks ready to heave, actually. Interesting. "Butterflies. Luna must be rubbing off. So, Fred, could you head on down and see if Dad's here yet, and get the boys ready?"

"Your wish is my command, sister dearest." He says giving her the same Peeves salute. "But I'm not Fred, I'm George."

"Oh!" Now she really looks ready to puke. "George, I'm so--"

"C'mon. No problem." He pats her cheek and does his best to smile. "Now you go and guard the window. We don't want Luna hitting any of the guests on the way down."

Grinning at him wanly, she opens the door to the loony bin.

When he reaches the landing outside his room, he is surprised once again. Not by Daphne, this time--by the other Slytherin in his life, Mafalda Prewett, and by Fleur's little sister. They are staring up at him with matching smirks. "Didn't anyone tell you two it's not polite to eavesdrop?"

Mafalda's smile is just on the goofy side of really evil. "Oh, we weren't listening, George. We were getting an eyeful."

"Of what?" Actually, George has an idea, but really is hoping he's wrong.

"Your sister's lovely in lavender, silly." Mafalda waggles her black eyebrows.

Nope, not wrong. "Ewww, Maf... That's my sister you're perving on, and your cousin, when it comes to that!"

"Third cousin, once removed." Leave it to the accountant's daughter to have the maths worked out. "That's not any closer than your mum and dad. And I think Ginny's virtue is safe from me." Gabrielle smiles at her, glowing as is her wont.

"Uh-huh. Well, watch out for Fleur; none of my concern, but she's none too happy that you're corrupting her sister."

Mafalda peers over her glasses.

"Is it Mafalda's fault that I 'ave ensnared 'er with my Veela charms?" Now it is Gabrielle's turn to look wicked.

George shakes his head and looks at the two of them, the elegant blonde and the mop-haired, bespectacled brunette. As recently as his own school days, this would have been impossible--not two girls dating, though he couldn't remember any being terribly open about it, but a Gryffindor and a Slytherin. When did that change? Was this what they fought for? Could be. "Look, have a great time, but let me tell you from years of experience--the getting yelled-at part is no fun, no matter how fun the thing was that you're being yelled at about." He leans forward. "So whatever you have in mind, just don't get caught, all right?"

Both girls giggle. "We'll try," Mafalda says. "Oh, your dad's here. Ron's wearing a trench out in the garden and Harry wanted us to ask you if the girls were ready."

Show time. "Okay. Thanks. Could you tell Harry that they're as ready as they'll ever be, and that I'll be down once I've told them it's time?"

Both girls nodded and wandered down the narrow stairs, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand.

George walks to the door to his and Fred's old room. When Fred comes back. WHEN Fred comes back.

The door opens a crack, and before George has a chance to respond, a hand snakes out, grabs his wrist, and pulls him in.

Alicia is standing there, decked out for a wedding. Which makes sense. On either side of her, their arms crossed, are Angelina and Katie, also bedecked. All three look ready for battle.

"Uh, hullo, girls."

"Hullo, George," Alicia says, a smile playing on her lips though no warmth is in her eyes. "We've decided it's time."

"Time?" he says, barely.

Angelina reaches out and strokes his cheek; the Quidditch calluses make him shiver. "It's been five years, George, since you did anything but work, sleep or act nothing at all like the George Weasley we know and love."

Katie twirls her wand against his hip. "It's been seven years since you and Fred showed us what a good time really looked like."

"So, Boss," Alicia continues, walking very close to him; her perfume makes him light-headed, or perhaps it is her proximity, "since the three of us are currently... unentangled, and since we all agree that you badly need to remember what a good time looks like yourself, as soon as this wedding is done, and we've all had a chance to toast Ron and Luna's health, we are dragging you back up here and..."

"Girls," George whimpers, "I..."

Alicia kisses him gently, and he whimpers again; Katie's small, bowed lips follow, and then Angelina's sensuous, sensual ones. He can only groan.

Angelina strokes his face again, this time with the soft back of her hand. "We all love him, George. We all miss him. But you can't stop living because he's still staring at the ceiling in St. Mungo's. C'mon." She runs her hand down his chest.

He can feel himself collapsing inward, can feel that tears are going to overtake him, that he's going to disappear like a puff of wet flame. He can't.

Alicia gives him a long, easy hug. Over her shoulder, Katie whispers into his ear, "Don't make us tie you up."

"Okay," he says with an attempt at a smile. "If you insist."

"Good," says Katie. "Though I was looking forward to the tying-up bit. See you," she says, kisses him on the cheek, and leaves.

"See you," say the other two, and follow Katie out the door.

He stares around the room that he shared with Fred for nearly eighteen years. The beds haven't been remade in years; Mum's dusting spells have kept the space tidy. There's a big picture up between the two beds of him and Fred, pushing each other and waving from behind the till at Weasey's Wizarding Wheezes, each grinning madly, each showing off his ridiculous Dragonskin coat, but otherwise the room feels empty. Dead.

George sits on Fred's bed and touches the pillow and the tears start to come pouring out, spasmic, geyserish floods of tears, and George finds that he is embracing the pillow and weeping into it. Weeping five years worth of uncried tears.

After five minutes, or perhaps ten, George sits up, feeling odd. Twenty pounds lighter, but still, odd. He stands up and looks at his reflection in the glass that covers the picture. The Fred and George in the picture make fun of his hair, his blotchy skin. He casts some quick charms, runs his finger through his hair, straightens his robes, and heads up to Ron's room.

Luna is seated at the foot of the bed. Her bed. Her bouquet is held loosely in her hands and her veil is draped over her spun-silver hair. She looks calm, angelic. Beautiful. "Wow," George says.

"Hello, George," Luna says, her moonshine gaze directly on him now.

"Uh," George manages. "Where's Ginny?"

"We were wondering where you'd gotten to! She's in the loo," Tonks laughs. Beside her, Penny is smiling primly.

"I'm here," says Ginny, stumbling out of the WC with a complexion that would be best described as seafoam.

"You look awful," George says.

"Thanks," Ginny grumbles. "So do you." She picks up her nosegay with a trembling hand.

"So," George says, businesslike again. "Dad's here. Fleur and Daphne are both ready downstairs. You lot ready to go?"

The three bridesmaids look to Luna, who smiles and says, "Of course."

"Let's bring you down to the kitchen--you'll wait there." They follow him down the stairs, the two older women giddy, Ginny a bit wobbly, and Luna with an otherworldly glide.

When they arrive on the ground floor, Penny's son Billy stares at them all, dumbstruck. "Auntie Luna," he says, "you look be-yootiful."

Cassiopeia nods her little mop of curls, focusing first on her mother, then on Luna. "Booofullbooboobooful!"

"Thank you, Cassiopeia," Luna says. "Thank you, Bilius."

Fleur and Daphne come up behind the two toddlers. "Come along, enfants," Fleur says with a mother's practiced authority. "Tristan and Conduiramours are both waiting for you outside to scatter the flowers."

Cassie's face collapses into an exaggerated frown.

"'S alright, Cassie-love," Tonks says, her eyes sparkling. "You can pick up the petals after you drop them if you want."

"Yes," Luna says, "that would be lovely. Then you can always remember when your uncle Ronald and I were married."

Their expressions suddenly very serious--Cassie's oversized jowls make this very amusing indeed--the two children walk out to where George knows that Mum is acting as chief kidlet wrangler.

"All right," George says to the bride and her attendants, "I'm going to go check in with the boys. Once I know Ron's ready--and he was ready hours ago--and Dad's ready, I'll activate my DA Galleon. Daphne's and Ginny's will warm up, and that's the sign that it's time to go. Remember the order to enter in, and Daph, I'll wait for you to finish at the back, okay?"

Six heads nod in unison, two blonde, two brunette, one redhead and one... deep purple. "Knock 'em dead, guys. Congratulations, Luna." And before the girls start to get weepy, as he's sure some of them will, he skeedadles out the garden door to where several hundred guests have found their ways to their chairs--Bill, Charlie and Percy must have been working double-time, because Harry is still calming Ron.

George strides out of the house, and all of the guests crane their necks around, sensing big things to come. Surreptitiously, George flashes his dad a thumbs-up, there at the front of the crowd where his Aurors are ready to Portkey him away at the first sign of trouble. Ready to go?

Resplendent in his ceremonial robes and his lime green bowler, Arthur Weasley nods. George walks beside his mother, who is cheerfully manhandling the fine-dressed midgets. "Ready, Mum?"

Beaming, Molly Weasley nods as well. Charlie and Bill are standing at the back of the aisle, obstructing the view of their youngest, tallest brother. Each flashes a thumbs-up as George walks past, then rolls his eyes and flicks his head at Ron.

Ron looks as if he's seen a ghost--no, as if he's seen a spider, a really big spider. "When you didn't come back, I was worried," he burbles.

"She loves you, you prat." Relief floods into Ron's face. "All set, Harry."

Ron's best friend nods slowly.

"Your wife told me to tell you she loves you, too," George says, and then he leans forward and whispers, "just not on the bench here, please?"

Harry's eyes go very wide, and George celebrates quietly--he has gotten the better of Ginny and Harry, both on the same day. Not bad at all. "Let's go then," he barks, before Harry can think of a comeback. He taps his wand on the coin in his pocket and then on the enchanted gramophone behind the garden bench. Mendelsohn's "Wedding March" begins, and Harry pulls Ron to his feet, and the groom and the other ushers process, joining Dad up by the altar.

Once all five men are there--Harry's black hair the only blot in a sea of red--Fleur leads the bridesmaids up the aisle, each opposite her husband. Once Ginny has shakily taken her place, Mum gives a loud "Now!" and the four Weasley grandkids toddle up the aisle, three dumping flowers by the fistful, Cassie gathering them up almost as fast. When they have made their way to the front--to much cooing and awing from the crowd--Mum whisks them off to the side, where a Silencing Charm has been cast on a play area where they can watch the festivities without disrupting. Damn, George thinks, we do this really well.

Daphne stands opposite him at the top of the aisle, her usual smirk gone. She gives him a nod, and George prods the gramophone with his wand again. This time a quiet piano sounds. Her voice low and dulcet, Daphne sings: "No more talk of darkness, forget these wide-eyed fears, I'm here, nothing can harm you..." The voice that bursts out of her is far too smooth and gorgeous to be hers, and yet it is.

It's a Muggle song, Luna's favorite, and she walks between them and up the aisle to Ron, crying and smiling that same beatific smile. As Luna reaches the altar and steps next to Ginny, just opposite Ron, Daphne's voice soars into the chorus, and for a moment George and every other person present forgets to breathe. Really, why do people weep at weddings? Why? We've seen it before. We'll probably see it again, if not for quite a while. Ah, well.

The song ends and George casts the Finite on the gramophone. Daphne gives him a nod, breathes a huge sigh of relief, and leads him up the aisle.

Mum is standing over by the little ones, her face aflood. There's Mafalda and Gabrielle, weeping on each other's shoulders. Seamus Finnigan is bawling into the long neck of Natalie McDonald--bless the Irish. Daph sneaks a wave at Anthony Goldstein, who is sitting dumbstruck three rows from the back. And there's Ron and Luna, each looking ready to lift off. George has never seen either of them more alive. Damn.

When George and Daphne have taken their places at the outside of the V of the wedding party--George mouths Wow! to Daphne, who smirks, but looks pleased--Dad steps forward, and silence falls. The only noise is the rustle of silk and an occasional bee taking advantage of late summer's glories.

"Dearly beloved," Dad intones, "we are gathered here today in the sight of Heaven to bear witness to the union of this man, my son Ronald, to this woman, my goddaughter Luna. Marriage being an honorable state, it is not to be entered into lightly..." The book snaps shut and Dad clears his throat. "Which is very true," he continues in a very conversational tone. "Definitely not to be entered into lightly. But... And here's the thing: I'm not much of a fan of weddings. Oh, I've officiated at hundreds of them, including those of three of my other children. But as lovely as they are--and Daphne dear, that song really was quite superb." There's scattering of polite applause, but the crowd is still stunned, uncertain just where he's going. Typical Dad. Mum'll kill him. "Lovely as they are, they are simply an outward sign of a commitment that has nothing to do with the exchange of rings or vows of faith. And if the commitment isn't there, believe me, the wedding can be lovely and the feast glorious, but the marriage won't be any more successful." He pushes his glasses up and glances over toward his wife, who is standing, mouth wide. No, Mum is Not Pleased. "My own wedding to my wonderful Molly was attended only by my parents and her brothers. It was performed by the local priest at St. Catchpole's, a lovely old Muggle if ever there was one. And yet I can honestly say that the lack of ostentation did not take one jot from my love for Molly Prewett or her love for me, and the fact that her parents couldn't even be fussed to come--and it's lovely to see so many of my wife's family here today." He waves to Mafalda and her relations. "None of that alters the fact that our marriage has been a successful one, built on pillars of love, mutual respect, trust, compassion--with a bit of passion too--and a good sense of humor besides. Marriage is a journey that starts long before a day like this, and carries on, we dearly hope and trust, for many, many decades into the future. It is not a place at which one arrives or a point in time at which the couple can rest easy."

He gazes at Luna and Ron. "These two have never been able to rest easy. In the late war, they lost more than any of us, even many who are older, can imagine. And yet in all of that loss, they found each other, and began to tread the path that led them down this aisle and will lead them on into the future. Trust me, Ron and Luna, you are blessed that you have found each other, and we are fortunate to know you. This wedding is more our celebration of your partnership than any bonding that I or any higher power could fashion. Tread the path well, children."

He sniffs, blinks, and opens the book again. George sees Katie, Alicia and Angelina sitting at the very back, passing a handkerchief back and forth. "Well, enough of me--that's what happens when you get a green hat, can't hear enough of your own voice."

Ron and Luna seem barely to notice that he had spoken. Their eyes are locked. Oh, Merlin, thinks George. When did that happen?

"Here we go," said Dad. "Do you, Ronald take this woman Luna..."

***

Sunlight slants in through the dirty St. Mungo's windows. Susan Bones knows that at this moment two of her good friends are probably in the midst of tying the knot, but she is just where she would have chosen to be--where she did choose to be: finishing her afternoon rounds on the Janus Thickey Ward, running Fred Weasley through the muscle conditioning spells that keep him in good shape.

Susan isn't sure why it gives her such satisfaction to work with a patient who shows so little hope for improvement. She can remember him from her first years at Hogwarts as a somewhat scary clown--funny things were always happening around Fred and his brother, but it was hard not to be a little frightened that some of them might happen to you. Then, during her fifth year, she got to know Fred and the rest of the DA gang, and she saw the Weasley twins through fresh eyes, through what Aunt Amelia calls very seriously "the blind vision of Justice." From the very first meeting at the Hog's Head, she realized that Fred had a very different side--serious, protective of his family and his friends. That impressed her almost as much as Harry's quiet strength and those gorgeous green eyes, or Neville...

Oh.

She got to know Neville through taking all of those years of Herbology together, and was always struck by his sweetness, his kindness. As their fifth and sixth years progressed and they were comrades through the DA, however, he became a real friend, and once her idiotic infatuation with Harry had worn off--the subject of many tear-and-giggle girl-talks with Ginny Weasley--she realized that Neville, her good, wonderful friend Neville had grown into a handsome man and a powerful wizard in his own right. And oh, that boy's hands...

Oh.

And here is Fred Weasley, still alive but... Still. Fred Weasley, who epitomized the word animated. Quick with a smile and a joke, quick to defend those he loved. Lying on his back, staring at the ceiling for five years. Unmoving.

"There, Fred," she says, running her hand along one of his square shoulders as the muscles are finally let loose by the spell, "you are looking very well today." Yes, very well. She quickly massages his arm, working out the knots that another day of inactivity have tied. "Your brother Ron is getting married today, you know. Luna Lovegood, bless them both. They're so lucky to have found..."

Oh. Blast. Susan hates to cry, hates the feeling of giving in to an exercise that is so pointless. Tears never take away the cause of sorrow, and do little to alleviate the feeling of sorrow itself, and yet here she is, weeping on Fred Weasley's broad chest, seeking the warm proximity of someone who is, as far as she or any of the other Healers can tell, utterly unaware of her presence.

When the tears begin to subside, Susan leans back and looks into his face, his unwavering, startling blue eyes. "Oh, Sleeping Beauty," she murmurs. "It's time to wake up."

And then she leans forward and does something she has thought of before but promised herself a million times she would never do: she presses her lips to his, slack as they are, and kisses him.