Harry woke at dawn on the morning following the third day. He stood a bit shakily, a trifle weak from his fast. But the knot in his stomach was born of more than hunger. Today was the most important day of his life, and he felt a deep, pervading fear of a magnitude he had not experienced since the last time he had faced Voldemort. He tried desperately to suppress his apprehension. If he felt like this now, what would it be like in the Corridors of Doubt?
Harry shook his head. This, he realized, was the true first test. He remembered Dumbledore's words from when Harry and Hermione had first approached the Headmaster concerning the Joining, back in their seventh year at Hogwarts: 'The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.'
Harry stood still, relaxed, took slow breaths. He closed his eyes. Hermione's face appeared, smiling her sweet, gentle smile which could sweep away all the cares of the world. Clinging to that image, Harry popped the trapdoor and descended from the attic.
When the first stream of hot water from the shower hit him, Harry felt his worries melting away. Being a wizard, he could have saved time by using a Freshening Charm to make himself clean in an instant. But there were certain aspects of the Muggle world that held a value beyond what was revealed on the surface. The pure relaxation derived from a simple shower or bath was beyond all magic, whether potion or spell. As the minutes crawled by with delicious slowness, Harry was grateful for one benefit of the magical world over the Muggle: With magical flames heating the water as quickly as it flowed through the pipes, he could stand there for hours without the hot water running out. And for just a moment, that seemed like not such a bad idea at all.
As he had so many times before, Harry was about to walk a path trod by his father before him. At such times he could almost feel his father beside him, strengthening him. He would need that strength today. He was about to face the greatest challenge of his life, greater even than his battle with Voldemort, and with consequences no less primal.
His towel slung carelessly around his neck, Harry entered his bedroom. He stopped dead. His wedding robes lay on his bed. He stared at them. He stepped forward slowly, reached out to touch the garment with a hesitancy as if it were a serpent poised to strike. He held the sleeve, felt the material absently. Molly had worked so hard on his behalf, not merely here, but in so many ways over so many years. He ran a thumb over the hand-stitching. It was so real, and yet so unreal.
His wedding robes. He, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was only a heartbeat away from being a married man.
He had never felt so alone in his life.
But, curiously, that thought itself seemed to inspire him. He had always been alone, it seemed. There had never been anyone who could truly share his burden, someone to lessen the weight of his birthright and his constant struggle to live up to it.
But no more. After today he would never again have to carry that load alone. With a bright (if yet a little trepidacious) smile on his lips, Harry donned his pristine robes and made his way downstairs.
He found Ron and Sirius sitting in chairs in the modest living room, talking uneasily, it seemed. For just a moment, Harry wondered what they could be talking about with such solemnity. They rose when Harry entered.
As he looked at them, Harry wished he could violate his vow of silence to express his gratitude properly. But he realized in that moment that words were not necessary. They could not have expressed a tenth of the feelings surging through him now.
Sirius grasped his hand, pulling him into a rough hug. Over his shoulder, Ron smiled at Harry; though, Harry would reflect much later, with his mouth far more than with his eyes.
Sirius released Harry and looked him over.
"You look just like your dad, God rest his soul."
He seemed to want to say more, but, Harry supposed, the Charm of Silence prevented him from doing so. But, as if to eschew words, a single tear formed in the corner of the ex-marauder's eye, at once mourning his lost "brother" and embracing that man's son, his godson, whom he loved as his own.
With a last clap of his hand on Harry's shoulder, Sirius stepped back. Harry's eyes met Ron's, and the two friends studied each other for a moment. The redhead's smile had faded, leaving his face virtually unreadable. His blue eyes were sober, burning with a light born deep within his soul. After a moment he extended his hand before him, raised high. Harry clasped it in upright fashion. And, almost as at an unspoken accord, they smiled.
With a last look at Sirius, Harry pulled his hood into place. Then, exchanging a brief nod, Groom and Best Man Disapparated with a soft 'pop.'
As Hermione emerged from her scented bath, Ginny Weasley draped a towel around her as Molly Summoned a comb and brush from the bathroom sink.
"I really wish you'd let me use just a little Sleekeazy's, dear," Molly opined, brush poised weapon-like. "Just a touch."
If Molly thought Hermione's imposed silence would diminish her argumentative prowess, she was soon set to rights. Hermione flashed a seemingly benign look that could have pierced a cast iron cauldron. Molly nearly flinched, ultimately sighing as she set to work on Hermione's hair.
This was a point from which Hermione would not swerve. Only once in her life had she felt the need to alter her appearance for benefit of another, a motive calculated by vanity and insecurity. She had since outgrown such adolescent bugbears. Harry had fallen in love with her exactly as she was, and it was that girl -- that woman -- he would find waiting for him in the Soul Chamber, and none other.
As Molly worked, each swipe of the enchanted comb stripped a sheet of water from Hermione's long brown hair. Likewise, the Charmed brush added body and luster as it moved back and forth under Molly's magical direction (though diminishing none of its abundant fullness, over which Molly continued to "tsk" as she worked).
Presently Ginny took the towel from around Hermione, and with it every drop of water from her smooth skin. The red-head then folded the towel and left with it draped over her arm.
Molly instructed the brush to give Hermione's hair a final touch, then Banished it, with the comb, back to the sink. Smiling her thanks, Hermione walked out into the bedroom.
Ginny stood holding Hermione's wedding robes. Hermione allowed Ginny to dress her as Molly waved her wand, making pastel pink and white rose petals appear and fall into Hermione's hair. Per centuries-old tradition, Hermione wore no trace of make-up. But there was no lacking, for her natural, earthy beauty was beyond need for artificial enhancement.
Descending at last, the three found Arthur Weasley waiting for them in the living room. And behind him --
Hermione nearly cried out. She flew down the stairs and fell upon her parents, who, to her utter astonishment, were draped in the most elegant wizards' robes she had ever seen. They locked in a three-way embrace as tears flowed from Hermione's eyes, ably replacing the words of love she longed to speak. Her mother pulled a handkerchief from her robes and handed it to Hermione.
"Oh, my," Mrs. Granger said tremulously, her own face now damp. "You look positively radiant." She looked into her daughter's eyes as she applied a second handkerchief to the young girl's cheeks, and she smiled. "I remember seeing that look once before. In my mirror, the day I married your father. If I wasn't certain before how much you love Harry, I know now. The eyes never lie."
Her eyes once more clear, Hermione stepped back a pace to appraise her parents' unexpected attire.
"So, what do you think?" Mr. Granger said, smoothing the shimmering fabric of his black satin robes elegantly. "When in Rome, eh?"
"I daresay," Arthur put in, "you make a better wizard than I do a Muggle."
"Thanks to you, Arthur," Mr. Granger returned. "Deuced comfortable, these robes. Chap could get used to them."
"Arthur, Molly," Mrs. Granger said earnestly, "we can't thank you enough for all you've done for Hermione."
Molly waved her hand in a dismissive gesture.
"Not at all, dear. She's a lovely child. And she has the both of you to thank for it. A mother knows these things."
Arthur glanced at his watch and his eyebrows rose. "My goodness, almost time." He reached into his robes and withdrew a small object as white as Hermione's robes.
"A rose for a portkey!" Molly nearly gasped. She'd known a portkey was required, as Ginny was still underage and not yet licensed to Apparate. But a white rose!
"I've not lost all the romance in my soul, Molly dear," Arthur said. He handed the rose to Ginny, checking his watch again. "Timed to activate in one minute."
As Ginny turned the rose meditatively between her thumb and forefinger, Arthur placed his hands on Hermione's shoulders and smiled in that way fathers reserve only for daughters.
"Lovely," he said in a soft choke. "Blimey. If I feel this way now, I can't imagine how I'll feel when it's Ginny standing here on her wedding day."
As he bent and kissed Hermione's cheek, Ginny released an all but inaudible sob. Hermione then pulled her hood into place and stood beside Ginny.
At a nod from Arthur, Ginny extended the rose so that Hermione could grasp the stem just under the snowy petals. With a suddenness that made the Grangers gasp, the two young girls vanished with a sound softer than a child snapping its fingers. The girls' parents stood for a moment, then all moved toward the kitchen, thence into the back yard to await the arrival of the guests.
And, Merlin willing, the bride and groom.