Author's Note: I'm very grateful for the warm reception, and for the kind reviews.
In particular, I would like to thank gal-texter for rendering the kind of thoughtful reviews every writer craves. Sometimes the reviewer spots something the writer missed, and and the wake-up call can be most welcome (after the initial sting wears off) if it prevents similar missteps in the future.
The question of whether Harry and Hermione are suited for marriage at age 18 is a valid one. Realistically, not one couple in a thousand is mature enough to take such a step at so young an age. For the sake of the story, and in the spirit of pure romance, we assume here that our favorite couple IS ready to take the big step. But even if we stick to pure pragmatism, arguments remain to validate such a "hasty" marriage.
Until very recently in human history, it was not uncommon for couples to marry at 18, or even younger. The success of these marriages hinged on the fact that young people were compelled by a harder, crueler world to grow up sooner. Today, we cry, "Let 'em be kids for as long as they can!" But history is full of people who accomplished great deeds at a young age, and no one laments their lack of a "normal" childhood. And what IS "normal," anyway? But to return to the topic, young people were once encouraged to take on as much responsbility as they could handle, and not to be denied the chance to advance based solely on their age. Maturity does not automatially swoop down and land on one's shoulders like a post-owl at 12:01 a.m. on one's 18th birthday (or, in the case of the wizarding world, 17th).
In truth, we know very little about J.K.'s world of witches and wizards. But from the archaic nature of their lifestyles, we get the impression that the wizarding world as a whole embodies a more old fashioned mode of living (and thinking), stressing individuality and encouraging responsibility as quickly as one may be found ready to shoulder it. Dumbledore told Harry in Goblet of Fire that he had shouldered a grown wizard's burden and been found equal to it. Similarly, Percy Weasley went straight into the Ministry of Magic upon graduation and quickly assumed a position of greater and greater responsibility, despite his youth. The magical world seems content to live according to pre-20th century values, and there is no indication that any of its members feels any lack thereby.
In this admittedly idealized fantasy world where Harry and Hermione have each one found true love in the person of the other, it is natural that they marry, not in haste, but in the spirit that delaying such a perfect union would serve only to postpone their ultimate happiness needlessly. In the books, both act in a more normal fashion. Neither is ready to take the big step -- yet. The future may yet validate all our dreams. Order of the Phoenix was rife with clues, not least of which was James and Lily not pairing up until Seventh Year. This seems to foreshadow Harry and Hermione, themselves obvious counterparts of the elder Potters. And I read on an HP web page a long time ago (I think it was the Harry Potter Lexicon) that James and Lily married "just out of school." Well, what's good enough for THEM is good enough for US, what?
This is a touchy subject, one that can easily be debated for weeks on end. But there are better places to bring that cauldron to a boil. Here and now, as Shakespeare's so aptly put it,the play's the thing.
So, has anything been resolved? Only that, as we fan writers exercise our power to make our literary puppets dance to the tune we alone call, we must endeavor to justify ourselves, at least marginally, in terms of rational thought. If we choose to join Harry and Hermione in marriage just out of school, we can argue fairly successfully in our defense. If, on the other hand, we elect to marry off Ron, or Fred, or George in the same manner, we might first want to hold a seance and conjure up the shade of Clarence Darrow to plead our case. (Ron MIGHT be ready at about age 25; Fred and George would do well to wait until at least 30.)
Well, that's my two Knuts' worth. Time to let the story do the talking.
Those of you who fell asleep four paragraphs ago -- WAKE UP! I'm DONE!
Well, they can always read the chapter later. Those of you who successfully withstood the power of Morpheus may read on. And, as always, thanks.
Now that the guests were all well-fed and contented, the house-elves (with the exception of Dobby) began to slip away quietly. After making a last sweep of the celebrants to magically refill their goblets with their drink of choice, they returned en masse to the once heavily laden table, which was now as barren of food as if assailed by a plague of locusts. With a last (less than approving) glance at Dobby, who was laughing gleefully as he worked alongside Fred and George around the corner of the house, the elves mounted the table and, with the ease of long practice, lifted their arms in a single sweeping motion. The table vanished soundlessly, carrying the elves along with it back to the kitchens of Hogwarts whence it had come.
The guests now stood at their ease, talking in small groups, some of them sipping elderflower wine or something similarly potent (Hagrid brandished a flagon of mulled mead the size of a milk bucket), others (the bride and groom among them) preferring less spirited fare.
Harry and Hermione were talking merrily with Ginny and Neville (the latter of whom, Harry observed, seemed to have become a virtual satellite orbiting the youngest Weasley). Just now, he and Neville were both listening somewhat distractedly to Ginny and Hermione discussing Ginny's upcoming final year at Hogwarts. Ginny hadn't made Head Girl, but she was a Prefect, the third Weasley so honored. Despite Percy's efforts to become his sister's mentor in this respect, Ginny preferred Hermione's perspective, and the new Mrs. Potter was more than happy to oblige.
Harry and Neville, finding themselves virtually ignored by their companions, merely rolled their eyes and smiled indulgently as they essayed their own dialogue of sorts. Neville was little changed outwardly from his school days. But, though still somewhat withdrawn, Neville was no longer the bumbler who had been the bane of Professor Snape's Potions classes for seven years. He had, in fact, opened a small apothecary shop in Hogsmeade, funded by a small inheritance left him by his parents and released by his grandmother upon his graduation. He might be unable still to brew a viable potion, but when it came to preparing the ingredients for one, there was none this side of London who was his equal. Harry found himself giggling uncontrollably at the image of Snape patronizing his former student's shop to restock his Potions larder. The irony was too delicious for words.
Unfortunately for Harry, he found the topic of herbology considerably less fascinating than Neville, who could go on for hours on the subject (and, if not physically restrained, frequently did).
From where he stood in the Weasleys' back garden, Harry could take in the entire gathering at a sweeping glance, and as Neville droned on, Harry let his eyes wander across the lawn from one small group of conversationists to another. His expression changed subtly as his focus shifted from moment to moment, and in this manner he gave Neville the impression that he was attending his every word, thus sparing his classmate the embarrassment which a blank, vacuous expression might otherwise convey.
Near at hand, Harry saw the Weasleys and the Grangers engaged in animated conversation. Arthur appeared to be examining Mr. Granger's pocket telephone with the unbridled joy of a five-year-old opening a birthday present. He was pushing buttons delightedly, and Harry chuckled as Molly shook her head in exasperation ("I keep telling you, Arthur, it won't work, there's too much magic around this house!").
Charlie Weasley was having a pointed discussion with Hagrid on the subject of dragons. Hagrid was punctuating his arguments with great sweeps of his tree trunk sized arms, slopping mead from his flagon and skewing the hat of any witch or wizard who happened to drift too close.
The oldest Weasley, Bill, was presently being fawned over by Lavender, Parvati and Padma, who couldn't decide which was cooler, his new earring (a manticore fang) or his long, flaming pony tail, which seemed at least six inches longer than Harry remembered.
Dean, Seamus and Oliver were debating the relative merits of Quidditch versus soccer, with Dean pontificating, "Goaltender is much more difficult than Keeper. You try blocking a shot-on-goal without a broomstick to ride on!" Harry might have expected Oliver, himself a Keeper, to dispute this assertion with adamance, but the former captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team seemed strangely detached from the fray. More than once Harry thought Oliver was trying to catch his eye, but whenever Harry gestured with his goblet of sparkling pumpkin juice, the other seemed to be looking right through him.
Spotting any of the Weasleys in the modest gathering was not difficult. Harry spied Percy conversing with Remus at the edge of the frog pond. Percy was gesturing in a bewildering manner, holding his arms apart for Remus to see, as a fisherman might when describing a prized catch. But Harry had never known Percy to engage in anything of an outdoor nature, preferring the seclusion of his office at the Ministry of Magic. Nevertheless, his gestures were eliciting nods from Remus, and Harry puzzled slightly before letting his gaze wander further across the lawn.
Another blaze of red hair marked Ron, who was having what appeared to be a very grave discussion with Sirius. A wide variety of emotions played across Ron's face, like a kaleidoscope being turned in rapid succession. Harry would have pondered this further, but a commanding voice abruptly arrested the attention of all. Turning his head, Harry saw Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall and Flitwick (the latter reposing comfortably on a floating sofa cushion) clustered in a tight, almost conspiratorial, knot. The Hogwarts Headmaster was holding his wand aloft, gold sparks flying from its tip. These fell harmlessly over the heads of the guests, drawing their attention toward the Speaker.
"If I may have your attention," Dumbledore said in a quiet yet commanding voice. The guests fell silent as one as all attended the Speaker's words.
"The time has come," Dumbledore said, his eyes finding and transfixing Harry's, "for our guests of honor to celebrate their union with their first dance as a married couple."
His eyes leaving Harry's now, Dumbledore turned toward Professor McGonagall.
"Minerva, if you please?"
Lifting her head majestically, Professor McGonagall waved her wand with a grand flourish. Near the center of the Weasleys' lawn, in the very midst of the guests, a spot of brilliant white appeared on the green of the grass. The spot began to expand, people retreating hastily as it spread outwards like a pool of spilled milk. At length it was at least twenty yards across, gleaming in the afternoon sun like a full moon fallen to Earth.
Necks craned inward. Dean Thomas knelt and touched the white surface lightly.
"Marble," he said wonderingly. "Amazing. Absolutely flawless."
But Professor McGonagall was not finished. She waved her wand again, and a spot of rich, lambent brown appeared in the center of the brilliant white disc and flowed outwards until it was within an inch of the edge. This time it was Seamus who exclaimed, "Blimey! Rosewood, or I'm an Englishman!" He ran a reverent hand over the surface, which was an intricate parquet of unquestioned artistry. "It's - it's like silk!"
"Brava, Minerva," Dumbledore smiled. "You have outdone yourself."
Harry knew this was high praise, coming as it did from one who himself once held the position of Transfiguration teacher at Hogwarts. But Professor McGonagall merely tilted her hat to one side and said, "You haven't seen anything yet, Albus!"
She pointed her wand at a small clump of trees standing between the garden pond and the back hedge (Percy and Remus both jumped out of the way with alacrity). To a chorus of gasps, the branches of the trees transfigured into musical instruments. One tree became a string section; another woodwinds; yet another, brass. A small number of trees had a place where a branch had been cut off, leaving a blunt stump. These became the drum section.
As everyone applauded, Dumbledore turned to Professor Flitwick, who, hovering on his floating cushion, was level with the Headmaster's eyes.
"Filius?" Dumbledore prompted. "Or should I say -- Maestro?"
Standing indifferently on his cushion now as if it were solid ground, Professor Flitwick waved his wand at the tree orchestra in a sweeping motion. Immediately there came a soft, nameless strain of music from the enchanted branches. To this accompaniment, Dumbledore led Harry and Hermione to the exact center of the circle.
"Requests?" the old wizard asked, his eyes twinkling as at a secret jest. Harry and Hermione smiled at each other before Harry spoke.
"You know the one, Professor -- Albus."
"Indeed," Dumbledore smiled, turning to nod at Professor Flitwick, who returned the gesture with a knowing smile.
At a wave of the maestro's wand, the melodic strains of a dynamic waltz filled the air. Harry slipped his arm around Hermione's waist, cradling her soft hand in his, and they began to dance as if they were the only two people in the entire world.
As they danced with a grace that held the onlookers spellbound, Hermione felt as if they were floating on air. Suddenly, her heart skipping a beat, she realized that they were doing precisely that! Emitting a tiny squeak of alarm, she clung more tightly to Harry, who laughed gently.
"Don't worry," he soothed. "You won't fall. Trust me."
"I do," she said as she relaxed in her husband's arms, her smile warm as the Autumn sun on their faces.
As they danced and spun in mid-air, Harry saw a light growing in Hermione's eyes which seemed to spread across her entire face. She was completely at ease in his arms now as they capered through the air like wingless pixies.
"See?" Harry said, drawing her ear to his cheek. "I always told you that flying was the greatest thing ever. I can see us now, flying through the clouds on his-and-hers broomsticks. What do you say, love?"
"And right after that," Hermione retorted with a smirk, "Voldemort will return and be elected Minister of Magic." Harry's eyes widened with amusement as his wife laughed. "Planting your bum on a piece of enchanted wood isn't flying," she breathed onto Harry's cheek. "This is flying!"
"I walk on air every time you're in my arms," Harry whispered. Their lips found each other's as the music faded into silence and they sank slowly to the rosewood surface beneath them, oblivious to the applause of the guests - and, indeed, to the universe as a whole - as they shared their first kiss as husband and wife.
As Professor Flitwick lowered the newlyweds to the ground with a wave of his wand, Dean and Seamus sidled up and cleared their throats.
"Professor," Seamus asked, "what was the name of that song you just played?"
"I believe it is called 'Artist's Life'," Flitwick answered. "Exquisite," he added wistfully before pointing his wand at the orchestra again.
"Bloody 'ell," Seamus grumbled, digging into the pocket of his dress robes for another gold Galleon. "How in Merlin's name did you reckon that one out? The only music you ever chatter on about is that bloody Muggle rock and roll!"
"Simple," Dean said, dropping the Galleon into his pocket where it clinked against the one he had won earlier. "It was while they were dancing to that song at the Halloween Ball last year that Harry proposed. Since then it's been 'their song'. You'd know that if you'd have come to a dance now and then."
"Like I want your ruddy leftovers, mate," Seamus grunted. "I swear, you must've set a flippin' school record. Tell me you didn't snog the knickers off every bird at school two years either side of our class!"
"Not every one," Dean said softly, his eyes on Harry and Hermione as the orchestra began to play again. "Come on. Parvati told me that Lavender told her that she's saving the first dance for you."
This news seemed to reinvigorate Seamus, and the two friends moved toward the dance floor in search of their prospective partners.
Author's Note:Put your dancing shoes on! Things are just starting to jump, and there's always room on the floor for one more. You might overhear some interesting conversations if you dance next to the right people, so hurry back, won't you?