Isn’t everything meant to be white?
Harry inhaled a deep, full breath of saltwater air.
The night was in full swing, and, really, Percy had outdone himself. Harry had no idea Ron’s brother was such a natural at decor, but he truly had an eye for it. When Hermione entered the hall earlier to take in the anticipated damage, it took a good fifteen minutes to help coax her jaw off the floor.
Though, in her defence, Harry supposed it was rather important that the bride-to-be loved her wedding venue.
When Ron finally popped the question, and it was time to get into the nitty-gritty of planning, he and Hermione couldn’t sit down and settle on a colour palette to save their lives. For starters, Hermione never had enough time. Harry thought she was far too busy as Head of the Department of International Magical Co-operation to even get married. And he’d seen her one too many times hunched over a two-way parchment, no doubt responding to countless questions or confirmation of approvals for tens (Harry wouldn’t dare flirt with the idea of hundreds) of documents while getting ready this morning.
On the other hand, Ron wasn’t too pressed, which was quite a shock considering his no less prominent position as Head Auror. When Harry questioned why that was, Ron had simply shrugged and confessed to putting a twenty-four-hour block on all owls and Ministry correspondence. He’d looked Harry dead in the eye and said, “It’s my damn wedding, mate. I’m marrying the woman of my dreams—no emergency is important enough. Not today.” And, well, Harry could hardly blame him for that.
Still, the intricacies of wedding planning were something that definitely seemed to elude both of Harry’s very bright, very in-love friends. Hermione had gone as far as to ask if pink was a poor choice in colour because, “Well… Pink is a cheesy romantic colour… right?” But when pressed to pick a shade, she nearly drove herself to an early grave sifting through swatches. Needless to say, Harry never wanted to see another shade of pink ever again.
Ron seemed baffled by the idea of weddings needing colour to begin with, “Isn’t everything meant to be white?”
When Percy had overheard that comment halfway through the floo, he stepped right back out of it, threw his robe on the Burrow table, and promptly declared that he would be the one to oversee Hermione and Ron’s wedding arrangements.
This led to the tasteful shades of navy blue, ivory, and gold all throughout the carefully selected venue. The building sat on a charming little border coast in a shared wizarding sect of England and Wales. Its interior had ample space for more than a few tables, each thoughtfully adorned with magical flowers that shook every so often to release a soft shimmer in the air and all the accompanying tableware to hint at a fine meal planned. Throughout the day, the airy floor-to-ceiling windows and welcoming French doors (that led out to a beautiful patio similarly decorated and had a spectacular ocean view) had ample light shining into the venue. And now that night had come, the soft glow of bluebell flames and their warm amber counterparts lit an all too inviting path out to the sandy shore.
Harry had been standing in the sand, watching Ron and Hermione laugh and clumsily sway back ‘n forth, her head pressed against his, when a sudden weight on Harry’s shoulder made him flinch.
Harry turned only to come face to face with someone he’d never met. But that hadn’t been unusual today. Harry was accidentally designated the bride and groom’s bloodhound. If you found Harry, you found Ron and Hermione. He seemed to have a keen sense of where they were at all times, and word spread quickly. As the evening was slowly but surely ending, and people were determined to wish well and congratulate the happy couple for a final time, Harry was in high demand.
He wouldn’t lie, it was a little awkward meeting so many new people. Hermione and Ron may be Harry’s best friends, but they certainly didn’t share his content with just having each other. They were social butterflies in a way Harry would never entirely be, and Merlin, it was impressive. He’d thought Bill and Fleur’s wedding was big.
So, the unknown face was expected; what wasn’t expected was what the unknown face said, “Mr Potter. It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. Ms Granger has told me a great deal about you, and though she intended to introduce us earlier, I couldn’t bring myself to disrupt her happy day.”
“It’s Granger-Weasley, now.” Harry couldn’t help himself; a slight grin tugged at his face. He had been waiting for today just as long, after all, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to milk it for all it’s worth.
Mr Unknown hadn’t thought to introduce himself, though he clearly knew Harry well enough to pick him out of a crowd. The man had a classically handsome face, with the most ridiculously charming swooping curl of hair that hung just so over his forehead and warm mahogany eyes that glowed like dying—wow, how many glasses of champagne did Harry have today?
Harry continued, “And um, I’m sorry. Please don’t take this the wrong way. I have no idea who you are,” and immediately regretted it. Way to go, scarhead; you’ve just blown this to hell and back.
But Mr Unknown didn’t storm off all offended and pretentious like his pretty face and careful words implied he might. Instead, he simply laughed (and damn, it was a nice laugh) and said, “Of course, Ms Granger-Weasley. And that’s quite all right; she mentioned that you weren’t very involved in Ministry affairs.” Mr still Unknown held out his hand, “My name is Tom Riddle, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister.”
Harry’s brows inched up and up until he was sure they’d left his face and were floating to join the stars. He switched his drink to his other hand and carefully took Riddle’s, despairing at the cold touch he no doubt passed from the chilled champagne glass.
Tom Riddle. Hermione had mentioned him more times than Harry could count. Sometimes in angry mutters under her breath, but more often as a person she strongly thought Harry should become acquainted with. Something about similar backgrounds and similar odd senses of humour and, “Really, Harry. I have eyes. He’s goddamn good-looking, and I think you two are a perfect match.”
However, Harry was nothing if not stubborn and did his damnedest to avoid a dreaded introduction at all costs. He wasn’t looking for a relationship.
Right?
Suddenly, Harry couldn’t quite remember.
“Yes, yeah, Undersecretary Riddle.” Harry nodded, maybe a little too fast, “A pleasure. Hermione has mentioned you. I didn’t know you two were close?”
Actually… Harry used his every last sober brain cells—brain cell—to think. They weren’t close, he was pretty sure, and it was odd that Hermione would invite a random (let’s be honest, coworker) to her wedding. Especially one she didn’t necessarily have a great working relationship with.
Harry remembered how strict she was with picking invites for colleagues versus friends and family. She had developed a very efficient system of columns and rows from people I work with and would like to have in attendance to people I work with that need an invitation for politically advantageous reasons all the way to people I work with, who, if I see at my wedding, there will be blood. Harry thought it was pretty solid. And Tom Riddle hadn’t made any of the lists, last he checked.
Then it dawned on Harry that Riddle’s missing name was most likely intentional. He had been bamboozled. If Hermione weren’t looking the happiest he’d ever seen her (and that included her absolutely ecstatic reaction to her N.E.W.T.s), Harry would tackle her to the ground in an all-out brawl. Muggle style.
“We’ve had an accommodating and understanding working relationship over the years,” Riddle responded. And Harry knew enough political jargon translation to hear that we barely tolerate each other, but somehow a grudging respect remains, loud and clear. “I certainly hope good words were exchanged.”
Good words? Harry wanted to cry. If good words were a desperate attempt to get Harry into Riddle’s pants, then, yes, good words—great words, even—were exchanged.
Harry downed a bit more champagne for his suddenly parched and dry throat, “Well, you know Hermione.” His laughter was a touch strained, “When she gets started, it’s a full-on report. Everything from a to z.” Oh no… “Hope she didn’t say anything too embarrassing about me.”
Riddle nodded with an air of wry understanding, “Yes. Rest assured; Ms Granger-Weasley did not give me your entire life story.” Harry couldn’t believe Riddle was going to continue saying Hermione’s name like that, but hearing it gave him a warm and fuzzy feeling. “I have wanted to meet you for quite some time. Outside of just her influence.”
What? Harry thought.
So, “What?” Harry said.
Riddle’s eyes widened for a moment, and he blinked once as though caught off guard by himself. Which, Harry thought, was pretty unfair because no one should be more caught off guard than Harry right now. Riddle quickly corrected his slip and diligently started to backpedal his way out of what he’d just said, “What I mean by that is, I’ve been a long-time fan- admir- or, I suppose, supporter. Of yours.”
Riddle was not doing a very good job explaining himself. And, Harry had a feeling, judging by the flustered fluttering of Riddle’s now rapidly blinking eyelashes, that Riddle wasn’t too used to not explaining himself well. He continued, “Not in any untoward way, of course. Merely, your research into Death and its adjacent forms, magic or otherwise, and your published findings in the scientific journals as well as your extensive work into broadening wixen understanding of Defensive Magic along with your tenure as Hogwarts’ Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor are astoundingly impressive.”
By the end of Riddle’s explanation, he’s nearly panting and out of breath. Hell, Harry’s breathless too, but probably for different reasons.
Not too many people acknowledged Harry’s…odd hobbies. But, honestly, it was kind of nice. Everyone hated to talk about Death and its use in magic and how it generally affected wixen at large. The only people he could happily pull into a conversation about it were the Unspeakables in the Death Chamber, but even then, it was a small pool to pick from. And Harry didn’t get access to Level Nine often.
Don’t get him wrong, people reached out to Harry regarding his Defense work, and that was all fine and well, but it was his job. Mostly. Yeah, he put in a few extra hours, and he did like his job, of course, but Death magic was definitely his passion project. So as much as he enjoyed talking shop about Defense, the pure excitement he felt delving into his other known pursuit was unparalleled.
He managed a small “Oh,” before a shout of his name pulled his attention.
“Harry! Mate! Come over here and help me throw my wife into the ocean!” Ron yelled out, laughing and holding Hermione by the waist as she desperately tried to break out of his grip.
“Harry James Potter, if you even dare—“ Hermione broke her threat with a started scream when Ron picked her up and spun her in a dizzying circle.
Harry sighed and shook his head, a smile wide and pleased taking over his face. His eyes strayed back to Riddle, who was watching him with rapt attention. “Mr Potter, you are understandably occupied. It is an important day for your friends and family, and I wouldn’t want to keep you,” Riddle didn’t seem like he meant that. He looked like he didn’t care at all about the day or time or place or anything. Harry felt himself turning red at the realisation that he wouldn’t mind spending the remainder of the night talking with the very handsome Undersecretary Tom Riddle, either.
“However, I’d like to continue our conversation if you’re amenable. Perhaps you’d allow me to owl you...,” Riddle suggested, trailing off deliberately.
Harry was nodding before Riddle was even done speaking. “Absolutely,” Harry said, “Please do.”
Riddle’s answering smile could hang the moon and the sun and all the other stars. “It’s settled, then. Have a pleasant evening, Mr Potter. And please give my regards to the bride and groom.”
Harry stuttered his way through a similar goodbye and watched Riddle return inside the venue and meander to the designated apparition point. Harry caught himself sighing wistfully and wanted someone to slap him. What was he doing acting like a love-sick teenager for a man he’d just met?
Hermione’s giggle in his ear warned him with enough time not to flinch as her head gently rested against his shoulder. Her arm slipped around his waist as Ron appeared at his other side and copied the gesture around Harry’s back. Ron’s head knocked Harry’s own as the three of them settled into a familiar hug.
“Soo, Harry,” Hermione started. She was clearly drunker than ever, but her brain was still sharp as a tack. “That was totally Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, Tom Marvolo Riddle, that you were chatting to for an awfully long time. Anything you wish to share with the class?”
Ron made a confused sound, “Wait. That was Riddle? Bloody hell, I hardly recognised him without that stick up his ass.” Ron sounded significantly less drunk, and Harry was nearly impressed.
Hermione scoffed delightedly, “Ron! You can’t say that about theSenior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, Tom Marvolo Riddle; the sand has ears, shhh.”
“Guys,” Harry sighed, “He was just being nice because you—“ Harry side-eyed Hermione’s far too innocent face, “forced him to chat me up and have been an absolute menace about getting us together for ages now.”
“Sue me for trying to get you an advantageous match, Harry.”
“This isn’t the eighteen hundreds, and you aren’t my ma’-ma set on finding me a diamond of the first water, Hermione.”
“What’s a diamond of the first water?”
“He means a hot debutant ready to be wed, Ron; keep up.” Poor Ron had never looked more confused. “And I know, Harry, but you’ve just spoken with him, right? So you’ve gotta see what I’ve been saying after all…” Hermione swung her free arm up and down in a sort of squiggly line, “that.”
Harry hated that she was absolutely right. And he wouldn’t have ever believed her before actually meeting Riddle like this. But, “Like I said, he’s just being nice. He offered to owl me. But I doubt he’ll follow through.” There was no chance in hell that someone with Riddle’s face and Riddle’s connections and Riddle’s position in the ministry would seriously be interested in someone like Harry.
Hermione lifted her head and looked at Harry very deliberately. She slowly combed over his expression, lingered on his eyes for a while, and frowned, “You really think that.”
Ron moved and patted Harry on the back. “Listen, mate. I don’t know anything about water diamonds or debutants or whatever it is that you two are going on about with Riddle,” He started walking into the venue backwards, arms held out wide as he continued, “But! I do know that whoever you were standing over here and talking with was not the notorious ministry hardass to the Minister. That bloke definitely had the hots for you.”
Hermione whooped, “That’s my husband!” And as soon as the words left her mouth, Ron’s eyes got all soft and watery like they did during the big reveal, the ceremony, the ring exchange, the magical vow, the—like they did all day, really. She trailed after him, and they walked back in together, their broad smiles lighting up the night far brighter than any of the bell flames.
Harry chuckled to himself as he followed them in. Who cared about anything else right now? All that mattered was his two best friends, happy, hand in hand, glowing like stars in the sky.
He’d worry about Riddle tomorrow.