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He loves watching her dance.
Hell, he just loves watching her full stop.
She fizzes with life and energy, her smile wide and her eyes bright as she twirls in the centre of the floor. He leans back in his chair, tucked away at a table to one side of the marquee, making no attempt not to stare. He’s sure he must look like one of those ridiculous Muggle cartoon characters with literal heart eyes, but he doesn’t care.
Her smartly-suited partner reels her back in, taking her in his arms. Even from his vantage point on the opposite side of the dancefloor, Harry can see the way that she gazes up at him adoringly, before settling contentedly against his chest. She looks so happy. That’s all Harry wants these days—for her to be happy.
A moment later, the band changes tempo and the spell is broken. Ginny takes half a pace back and rises on her tiptoes to say something into her partner’s ear. He smiles indulgently and nods, kisses her on the cheek and releases her. Then she’s striding across the floor, straight to where Harry’s sitting. Her long white dress billows around her as she walks, caressing her with every step and shrouding her feet. She could be floating across the floor on a cloud of satin. Given the beaming smile on her face, maybe she is.
Merlin, but she looks so beautiful.
According to Hermione, every bride does, but he’s sure none of them has ever looked quite as radiant as her. She’s practically glowing, in the soft light of the enchanted candles that hover overhead.
Now she’s a bit closer, he can read other emotions too. There’s determination in the set of her chin and mischief swirling in those molten chocolate eyes. He knows what she wants, and his heart plummets.
As soon as she’s within earshot, she confirms his worst fears. “You didn’t think you were going to get away with not dancing with me, did you?”
“I already danced with you,” he points out.
“That doesn’t count,” she dismisses him.
“How does it not count?” he protests. “Literally everyone was watching.”
“Exactly! That was our First Dance,” she explains, and he can hear the capital letters. “That dance is for everyone else. This is just for us.”
“You sure your dad won’t take you for another spin?” he asks, nodding to where Arthur is now chatting to Bill, glass of champagne in hand. “He’s a much better dancer than me.”
“Harry James Potter—are you telling me you don’t want to dance with your wife?” she pouts, but her eyes are still sparkling, giving her away.
He pulls a face, because he is no sort of dancer, something of which they are both painfully aware. “I’m more concerned about seriously injuring her to be honest.”
She laughs. It’s his favourite sound in the world. “Percy’s girlfriend’s a Healer, so I’m sure it will be fine.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, red like fire, like the sunset, like the blood he’d spill for her in a heartbeat. “Besides, I’m tougher than I look.”
“I know.” And he does. She’s stronger and braver than anyone he knows. He adores her.
“Come on, Potter—channel that inner Gryffindor and dance with me?” she asks, offering her hand.
He agrees. Of course he agrees. He doesn’t think he could ever refuse her anything, his beautiful wife of—he checks his watch—six hours. Best six hours of his life, he reckons.
The ring on his left hand feels heavy and alien as she leads him to the centre of the floor, but also right, like it belongs there . He tugs her back against him and gathers her into his arms, and that feels right as well. Like she belongs there.
Everything else seems to fade away; the band, the music, the guests. Everything but her and the feeling of her, the feeling of them.
He doesn’t think he’s ever been happier. He doesn’t think he ever will.