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“We’re getting married,” says Ron, and Harry just blinks.
Then he says, “Oh”.
There’s a silence between the three of them. Hermione has her hands clasped around Ron’s arm, her fingernails digging into his skin. Harry’s sure that when she finally lets go there will be little red nail marks imprinted on Ron’s flesh like tiny little bites.
“Yeah,” Ron says, as though answering a question. “I proposed.”
Harry knows there’s something he should say, but all he can think of is how hot it is wearing the silly oversized jumper he found in his drawer. He watches the two of them or a little while longer, and finally his brain clicks into gear.
“Congratulations!”
“Yeah,” Ron says again. Hermione smiles a nervous smile. She has lipstick on her teeth. Harry remembers a time when that would have been strange, Hermione wearing lipstick.
“It was amazing,” Hermione says, because that’s what should be said. Hermione excels at propriety. “We were out at dinner. The ring was in my cake!” she exclaims, clasping her hands a little tighter.
“That sounds great,” Harry says. His brain seems to be thawing, because he’s able to say, “do you have a date?”
Ron looks relieved. “Not yet,” he says. “We’re thinking next summer, maybe.”
“You’ll be there, won’t you Harry?” Hermione asks, the uncertainness of her voice a mark of how much they've drifted apart.
Harry looks up at the two of them. They stand there, arm in arm, identical nervous smiles on their faces. They seem like a single entity. Harry remembers when it was the three of them like that, and briefly he wonders when exactly did he break from their unity. Or did they break from him?
Ron shifts his feet a little.
“I’ll be there,” says Harry.
-
Ginny answers the door as soon as he knocks, but her face changes a little when she sees that it’s him.
“Harry,” she says, and lets him in.
“They’re getting married,” Harry says, because he likes to think they still know each other well enough to ignore politeness in unusual circumstances.
“I know,” says Ginny. “Hermione called.”
They stand facing each other in the tiny hallway. There is a run in the carpet fabric next to Harry’s left foot, and the creamy coloured threads are haphazard.
“It’s next summer,” Harry says. “Probably.”
“I know,” she says. Her brown eyes are curious.
Harry remembers when the sight of him made those brown eyes twinkle. And when the sight of her made him feel warm inside. Their love burned brighter than anything he’d ever known before, but it ended long ago. Their passion turned bitter and cruel words spilt from both their lips. They went out smoking fiercely, and when they were done everything was covered with dust.
“Do you want a cigarette?” Ginny asks.
Harry doesn’t often smoke, but why not? He takes one, and Ginny offers him a lighter. It seems absurd, this muggle way of doing things, but apparently they don’t smoke well when lit by magic.
Harry breathes in smoke and exhales numbness.
“Do you want to go outside?” Ginny asks. “I shouldn’t smoke in the house, really.”
Harry follows her through the tiny hallway, through a small, cramped yet homely-looking kitchen and out into the little garden. There is a patch of square grass in the centre, bordered by bricks, a shed and a garden bed. On the bricks are three rickety wooden chairs. Ginny sits in one, and Harry sits in another.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” says Ginny.
(The last time they saw each other Ginny was crying, Harry was cold and telephone was ringing).
“No,” says Harry. “We haven’t.”
Ginny flicks her cigarette. “Why are you here, Harry?” she asks. “Is it because of Ron and Hermione?”
Harry remembers when they knew each other so well they never had to ask why. They asked what and how and when but never why.
“I think so,” he says. “They’re getting married.”
“I’m happy for them,” Ginny says, smoke curling out of her lips. She looks so different now, sitting on that rickety chair in this small, sparse garden. Her hair is shorter (she cut it), and her clothes are different, too. They suit her, Harry thinks.
“Me too,” he says. “Are you going to the wedding?”
“Of course.”
Her answer comes so quickly Harry feels ashamed. He stubs out his cigarette and examines the small square of grass, wishing he hadn’t come.
“Are you?” asks Ginny.
“I guess,” says Harry.
-
They end up kissing on Ginny’s bed, messing up her shaggy woollen blankets. Sunlight creeps tentatively through the window and dances in Ginny’s fire hair.
Ginny giggles. “Your lips taste like ashes,” she half-complains, her fingers twisting in his hair.
She is warm and familiar, Harry fits with her like they’re puzzle pieces. He kisses the sun off her lips and loses himself in the heat of it.
When Ginny lies back on the bed beside him, maybe a minute later, maybe an hour, Harry lies by her side.
He knows the heat is just the sunlight and the warming charms and heaters and whatever else. It’s not their heat, it’s not their fire. It’s manufactured and fake, but he can’t bring himself to care.
When he kisses her again she tastes like ashes too, and bitter apricots. Tomorrow she will taste like regret.
Harry lets himself out when she falls asleep.
-
Ron calls him the next day.
“You broke her heart again you fucker.”
The words are harsh but Harry deserves them.
“I know,” he says, and Ron is cut off in the middle of his rant. The breathing on the other end of the line is short and angry. Harry waits for his next words.
“Why?” Ron asks simply.
Harry says, “I don’t know.”
He knows he should say it won’t happen again, or I’m sorry. He really should call Ginny, he knows, and apologise.
Ron says, “well don’t bother coming to the wedding,” and hangs up.
Harry listens to the dial tone for five whole minutes, before returning the phone to its holder and hanging up his end of his friendship.
-
It doesn’t end like that of course. Hermione calls him three hours later and she begs him to ignore it.
“He didn’t mean it Harry,” she says, but Harry can hear Ron in the background and he’s snapping at Hermione that yes he fucking did.
“Sure,” Harry says, half-amused.
“Honestly,” says Hermione. “We really want you to come, and if you won’t do it for Ron, do it for me.”
It’s times like these when Harry remembers that they used to be brother and sister, he and Hermione. They didn’t fit like puzzle pieces, they didn’t merge into one whole; he and Hermione fit like trees and earth, like waves and sand.
“I’ll come,” Harry says. The words fly out of his mouth before he can stop them, and take to the air. Hermione breathes a deep sigh of relief, and Harry relaxes a little.
“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione says, and her voice is sincere.
Harry hears Ron in the background. Well, if he must.
-
It’s a small ceremony. Mr and Mrs Weasley and Mr and Mrs Granger are there, of course. And Bill, Charlie, Percy and George. Hagrid is there, trumpeting loudly in the back row, his tears forming actual puddles as they splash from his whiskery beard onto the ground below. And Ginny is there, and her eyes are twinkling again. She has met someone, she tells him, and her hair tickles his face as she reaches for his hand and places it on her belly. Harry can feel a small swell beneath her dress, he can feel the life beneath the stretched skin. Ginny smiles at him and he feels something within him that lets him smile back.
Hermione and Ron get married in a garden. They don’t have a best man or bridesmaids (once, this would have bothered him), and they have a priest only because Mrs Weasley desired one. They kiss beneath a willow tree, and the air is filled with cheers.
After the ceremony they mingle until the light fades. Hermione and Ron leave and the crowd applauds, small as they are in number. Harry watches their chariot (golden as gold horses with silver manes – Hagrid’s present) as they rattle off towards the gate out into the world together.
When everyone leaves he sits under the willow tree in the dusk and closes his eyes. The grass smells like summer and dirt and sandwiches. The sky sounds like birds and the air tastes like endings.