Author’s Note: A homage to F. Sionil Jose’s “Waltz”—in all its incestuous glory—and my first try with this pairing. Thanks to Zed Adams for the Zed-like beta (she told me to call it that *lol*).

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The white wedding gown shimmered in the dim light of her room. It lay on the bed; the tiny pearls and crystals encrusted on the hem glittered as she ran her fingers through the delicate fabric, wondering how long it took to painstakingly weave the lace and sew the thousands of minute stones that weighed down the voluminous silk of her gown. Apart from the detailed work on the skirt, the dress was quite simple. Quietly elegant, she thought, and very expensive.

Nothing was spared for the future bride of Harry Potter: from the extravagant clothes to the long-awaited ceremony tomorrow. After all, she was going to be the lifelong partner and companion of the Wizarding World’s famous hero, brilliant Auror, and possible future Minister of Magic. That she was, herself, an accomplished Ministry diplomat was almost secondary. Harry would always acknowledge her achievements, but to the world, and the history books, she would always be his wife.

On impulse, she wore the dress, sliding it from above—feeling the soft, silky surface of the lining brush against her skin. It revealed her shoulders and arms; exposing the expanse of smooth, creamy flesh that Hermione insisted she must show when she accompanied Ginny to the fittings. She slipped on the satin shoes and stood before her mirror, smiling at what she saw: she was a bride, her long dark red hair a veil with tips that brushed the edge of her bodice, tickling the young swell of her breast.

“You look beautiful.”

She turned, surprised. But it was a pleasant shock. Holding out her hands to the tall man standing before her door, Ginny smiled. “I did not hear you come in.”

“Thank you.”

It was her brother, Ron. His fame as an Auror was second only to Harry’s, his abilities equal, though different. No one could be prouder than her when he first passed his tests, and no one could have mourned more deeply when she had thought him dead during the heat of the War. He was her friend and her protector, and with their father’s early death, he would also be the one to give her away to his best friend.

The years had torn away much of the boyish exuberance. He could still be funny, even quirky, but she noticed a new quiet maturity in him that she had not seen before he was required to kill. And this newfound seriousness was even more evident tonight.

“Ron?” She looked up searchingly; her fingers touched his, bringing him closer. He looked so much younger up close, more vulnerable, without the rough robes he wore during the day. His paleness matched hers—down to the freckles—but his hair was brighter, more vibrant. Gone was the brave warrior looked up to by the masses. Tonight, he was just as he was—just as he had always been to her.

“I wanted to greet you good night,” he said quietly.

“Then… Good night,” she echoed.

They stood still, like statues, for minutes, holding on to each other, bathed in the moonlight from outside.

After a while, she broke their contact. Releasing him, she walked to the balcony, her skirt whispering behind her. She took a moment to look down, held on to the marble railing, and gazed at the reflected light of the lake below. She had never seen anything more lovely.

He followed her outside, stepping into the wake of her beauty. Sensing his presence, she turned around. But this time, it was him who held out his hand.

“Will you dance with me?”

She swept toward him, naturally, softly. They danced slowly with the stars, swaying to the low hum of his voice. Their feet found their rhythm without difficulty, as if they had danced this song a hundred times through the years. Her head rested on his shoulders, her full lips quivering against his shirt.

“Happy?” he asked later, as he swung her in his arms.

“I am never unhappy with you,” she only answered, moving in closer.

“He is a good man.”

“Shh… I don’t want to talk about him tonight,” she silenced him, raising her head and laying the softest kiss on the corner of his lips.

He nodded sadly, finally, while she danced, wishing the song would never end. She felt his lips touch her forehead, and, in the midst of her joy, a tear swelled from her lids, lay on the crest of her lashes—frozen for a moment—before dropping down and disappearing into the perfect white of her of her wedding gown.

END

(June 2004)