MuggleNet Fan Fiction
Harry Potter stories written by fans!
Chapter Notes: A related piece to "Wedding Day". Note: there is some strong language in this piece, so please be advised.
The Île d’Ouessant stands just off the coast of Brittany in the English Channel. It is a nature preserve, a place of rolling hills and stark cliffs, many birds and few people. There is one town full of low stone buildings and cobbled streets. The world’s brightest, most powerful lighthouse stands at Creac’h, guiding ships to the great ports at Cherbourg and Troyes. Tourists come to walk the nature trails and admire the views. It is one of the last few wild places left in France.
In short, it is the perfect place for a wedding, if you’re a wizard.
Arthur Weasley stood at the edge of the field where his son would soon be married. Not for the first time, he gave thanks that the groom’s parents did not have to pay for the wedding. There was no way he could ever have afforded any of this. Great pavilions had been set up here and there: one for the groom’s party, one for the bride’s, one for the small army of caterers and support staff, and up near the cliff’s edge overlooking the sea, a canopy for the altar. Smaller tents were here and there along the sides, providing sideboards full of food and drink or simply places to sit out of the sun. Banners and pennants flapped from tent poles and ropes, showing either the Weasley silver scallop shells on a red field or the Delacoeur silver stars and chevron on a blue field. Guests milled around in the open spaces, talking to one another and occasionally calling out in greeting as a new person showed up. It wasn’t the Field of Cloth of Gold, mused Arthur, but it would do.
He spied Charlie and the twins, struggling with a large crate labeled “Explosives” in several languages. “For tonight, during the dancing,” said Fred by way of explanation as Arthur came close.
“I thought they were for the ceremony,” said George, then yelped as Charlie grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
“Right you two,” said Charlie, grabbing Fred with the other hand. “I’m the best man at this wedding, and if I see so much as a single spark from your direction, I will personally introduce you both to Norbert. He’s just shed his skin and he’s really cranky.”
Fred managed a look of hurt innocence. “Really Charlie, do you think we’d do anything to disrupt such a happy day? Don’t you trust us?”
“About as far as I could throw you.” Charlie heaved a little at the two. “Maybe not even that far. You’re the ushers; get that stuff stowed and then get dressed.”
The twins snapped to attention, gave perfect salutes and headed off towards the groom’s pavilion.
“Have you seen Ron and the others?” asked Arthur.
Charlie rubbed his chin with one burn-scarred hand. “Yeah, they just got here about twenty minutes ago. They’re getting dressed right now.”
“How do they look? Are they all right?”
“Well, Ron and Hermione look well enough. They’ve been staying with Mrs. Figg. Harry… Harry looks like pounded shit. Maybe it’s being back in that damned Muggle house, maybe it’s just nerves, but he doesn’t look like he’s slept in a week. You ask me, he’s about to fall apart.”
“I’ll have a talk with him,” resolved Arthur. “He needs to know he’s not alone in this. Now, you go see to Bill. I’ll be along in a while.” Charlie turned and walked off a couple of steps, then turned back.
“I should warn you, Dad, if anyone offers you a drink out of a hip flask, turn it down. Fleur’s got this crazy uncle, makes his own pear brandy. That stuff will burn the hair off your toes.” He grinned suddenly. “Pretty tasty, actually.”
Arthur smiled and nodded. “Thanks for the warning.” He watched his son stride off, then turned back to admire the sea view. He spotted a tall figure in formal robes standing at the cliff’s edge, the wind sculpting his unruly hair into fantastic shapes and then continually revising its work. He was looking out to sea, shading his eyes against the glare.
“There’s my man,” Arthur said to himself.
This was not a good day for Harry Potter.
Good days had been in very short supply lately. He couldn’t think of one since before Dumbledore’s funeral, actually. He had packed his trunk in a daze that day, aware only of the pain that rode in his chest like a hot stone, seeing Ginny turn away from him over and over again. He had sat alone on the train to King’s Cross, at least for the first hour. Then Ron had burst into his compartment, livid and sputtering.
“How could you do that to Ginny!” he raged. “She’s been mad for you since she was ten! How could you just drop her like that?’
“I’m trying to keep her safe, Ron,” muttered Harry. “I thought you could understand that.”
“Safe!” Ron dropped into the seat across from him. “Mate, if anyone’s going to keep Ginny safe, it’s her family. Me, Mum, Dad, and the rest of us. You’re not family, you don’t get to decide.”
“Fat lot of good you did Ginny in second year,” replied Harry nastily. “Four brothers at Hogwarts, and she still got taken in. With your track record maybe you should leave it to me.”
Ron’s face went deathly pale. “You bastard,” he said quietly. He sprang up and jumped on Harry with his fists raised. Harry managed to get a foot up into Ron’s chest and shove him backward. They grappled in the cramped space, pounding at each other’s shoulders and heads until the door slid open and Hermione grabbed them both by the ears. She dragged Ron back out into the corridor. Harry couldn’t hear much of their conversation, but he did catch “…has to work it out himself…“.
Yeah, leave me alone, he thought. Everyone just leave me alone. Safer that way.
The Dursleys collected him at King’s Cross, their normally sour expressions mollified somewhat by the knowledge that this was the last time. “We’re staying with Mrs. Figg,” Hermione told him before she left with her mother. “We’ll be along in a day or so. See you soon.” He was silent on the ride to Surrey and silent as he dragged his trunk up the stairs to his room. The days blurred into a week, then two. Ron and Hermione came over every day, trying to give him some friendly contact, but he just snapped at them or else stared blankly until they left. Ron’s anger faded eventually, but he kept insisting that Harry explain himself to Ginny. Of course Harry refused.
“She knows why,” he said every time the subject was broached. Eventually they stopped asking. Harry felt as if someone had wrapped him in thick wet wool. Food tasted like sawdust. Sleep gave him no relief, haunted as it was by dreams…
He rides a red charger, armed cap-a-pied and carrying a lance. His pennant, surcoat and shield all show the same dull red. The sun lowers at him through battlefield smoke. He rides alone against a horde, but he feels no fear, only a killing rage. He rides into the front line of attackers and they fall before him, struck down by his lance or his horse’s hooves. At first they are faceless, but then he begins to recognize them. Here is Peter Pettigrew, there Lucius Malfoy, there Severus Snape, there young Tom Riddle, each one wailing as the blow falls. There is Dolores Umbridge, there Scrimgeour.
The faces change again; now he strikes down Dean Thomas, Colin Creevey, Oliver Wood . They are not fighting now. They are pleading, calling to him to stop. He does not heed them, even though a part of him knows what he is doing and is screaming in horror. Now his friends are before him, and he cries out…
July fifteenth. Bill and Fleur’s wedding day.
“I’m not going,” Harry told Ron when they came to collect him at Privet Drive.
“Yes, you are,” said Ron simply, and took his friend by the arm. “Everyone’s expecting you.” He guided Harry to the bathroom and sat with him as he showered and shaved. Hermione handed clothes through the door. “Put these on. We’re going by Portkey from the Burrow, so don’t put on your dress robes until we get there.” Harry went along with what they told him to do, simply because he couldn’t muster the strength to resist. He really did not want to go to Bill’s wedding. Bill’s wedding meant bridesmaids, and that meant Ginny. Seeing Ginny might be more than he could take right now.
Still, he was here, in the big field overlooking the sea, wearing his best robes. Everyone looked so happy. A sudden anger swelled in him: how could everyone be so unconcerned, when somewhere out there was a madman plotting all their deaths? Mad-Eye Moody’s admonitions of “Constant Vigilance!” suddenly didn’t seem so paranoid. He shaded his eyes with his hand, looking out to sea, not quite knowing what he was looking for.
“How are you, Harry?” said a voice behind him. He whipped around in surprise, reaching for his wand. But it was just Arthur Weasley, hands shoved in the pockets of his dress robes.
“I’ve been better,” said Harry. “I’m back in my uncle’s house, there’s an army of murderous psychopaths looking for me, and everyone I care about is on a hit list. I’d say that under the circumstances I’m doing right well.” He picked up a handful of pebbles and began tossing them over the side of the cliff. “I shouldn’t even be here. I’m putting everyone in danger.”
“No, this is exactly where you should be right now,” replied Mr. Weasley. “You need sunlight and fresh air, and you need your friends. You look like you’ve been hiding under a rock.”
“Well, I’m not exactly good company.” Harry bent to pick up more pebbles. As he spoke, his voice turned to an ugly rasp. “I can’t spend five minutes alone in my room without checking the windows and under the bed. If I’m out of the house I’m constantly looking over my shoulder. I can’t stop thinking about them. You-Know-Who, Snape, that little shit Pettigrew, Bellatrix, even Malfoy. I want them dead. I want them all dead. I want their heads on pikes by Dumbledore’s tomb.”
Mr. Weasley looked shocked, but kept his voice mild. “You know, Harry, I think he’d prefer flowers.”
Harry ignored him. “They owe me. They owe me for eleven years with my pig of an uncle, they owe me for betraying and murdering my parents, they owe me for Sirius and Dumbledore, they owe me for trying to kill Ron and Ginny and Hermione, and they owe me for you. I’m the only one who can stop them, and God help anyone who gets in my way.” Harry barked a short, bitter laugh. “The only reason Ron and Hermione are along is because I couldn’t stop them. I’ll probably get them killed before this is over.”
Mr. Weasley reached out and put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Let’s take a walk, Harry. I want to tell you a story.” Harry turned and fell into step with the older man as they walked along the cliff’s edge.
“This is an old story,” continued Mr. Weasley. “I heard it from my friend Sir Nicholas, when I was a student at Hogwarts.”
“You were friends with Nearly-Headless Nick?” asked Harry.
“Oh yes. I was a Gryffindor, after all, and he was our House ghost. If it hadn’t been for him, I don’t think Molly would ever have noticed me. That’s another story, though. This is the tale of Perceval, one of only two knights ever to find the Holy Grail.” Arthur paused to see if he had Harry’s attention, then continued. “Tell me if this sounds familiar. Perceval lived with his mother in the forests of Wales. He knew nothing of his father, and really didn’t think to ask. Eventually he found out that his father was a famous knight, a member of Arthur’s Round Table. So, he left his mother’s house and traveled to Camelot, to ask King Arthur to make him a knight.
“When he got there, Perceval rode into Arthur’s dining room and demanded knightly armor and weapons. Arthur told him that he’d have to prove himself first. The dreaded Red Knight of Quinqueroi was raiding the countryside, stealing and killing and assaulting women. He’d even gone so far as to steal Arthur’s wine cup. Defeat the Red Knight and return the cup, and Arthur would make him a knight.
"Of course, since Perceval is the hero of the story, he managed it quite easily. He killed the Red Knight with a javelin, then took his armor and weapons for himself. But as soon as he put the armor on, he went on a rampage. He stole, he killed, he assaulted women; he even came back to Camelot and insulted King Arthur.”
Harry had been drawn into the story in spite of himself. “Was the armor cursed?” he asked.
Arthur shrugged. “The story doesn’t say. The point is, he’d turned into the thing he was trying to destroy.”
“Are you saying that I’m going to end up like Snape or Voldemort?” asked Harry. “There’s no way I’d let that happen. No way in hell.”
“I’m not saying it will. But you could end up like poor Mad-Eye, alone in a tiny flat surrounded by homicidal dustbins. Or worse, you could end up like Bartimaeus Crouch, so obsessed with revenge that everything else fades away. That’s where you’re headed if you keep this up.” Mr. Weasley gave him a considering look, then pointed over to the field full of banners and flags. “Do you see the red banners? Gules, three escalopes argent two and one. That’s the Weasley coat of arms. There’s a motto that goes with it, Dum Vivimus Vivamus. Do you know what that means?”
“While we live, let us live,” translated Harry.
“Exactly. Don’t forget how to live, Harry. You’re like another son to me. You’ve been a better friend to Ron than his brothers have been. As for Ginny… I know you had your reasons, but you made her very happy for a while. Don’t turn your back on us now.” Mr. Weasley threw his arms open in a sweeping gesture. “This is a happy day. This is a day to wear your best clothes and eat too much good food and drink too much champagne and dance with as many beautiful women as possible. This is a day for love, Harry, not grudges.”
“Love.” Harry’s voice was deadpan. “Dumbledore was always going on about how my ability to love was going to help me defeat You-Know-Who. What am I supposed to do, snog him to death?”
“Eat enough garlic and onions and it might work,” said Mr. Weasley earnestly.
Harry laughed at that, a real, solid laugh, not an ironic bark. It felt good. “I can see the headlines in the Quibbler: ‘DARK LORD LAID LOW BY BAD BREATH’.” Mr. Weasley was laughing too. The joke hadn’t been that good, but by now Harry couldn’t stop. He was fizzing like a shaken bottle of butterbeer. Every time he thought he could calm down he’d think of tinned sardines or gorgonzola cheese and off he’d go again. His sides ached and his cheeks hurt, but the pain in his chest had eased.
“Good,” said Mr. Weasley after Harry had finally calmed down. “You can still laugh. That’s a good sign. Now, I want you to do me a favor.” He draped an arm around Harry’s shoulders and they walked back in the direction of the wedding party. “I want you to forget about prophecies and curses and all that other nonsense for a day. Just be Harry.”
“Just be Harry,” repeated Harry, rolling that phrase around in his mind. He liked the sound of it. “Say, how does that story end, anyway?” he asked.
Mr. Weasley shrugged. “The way they usually do,” he replied. “Perceval eventually sorts himself out, completes his quest, and wins the girl of his dreams. Pretty standard ending.” Mr. Weasley paused. “Are you going to be all right, Harry?’
Harry took a deep breath. It didn’t hurt. “I think so, Mr. Weasley,” he replied.
“Good. And call me Arthur. I think you’ve earned that right by now.”
Harry reached up and draped his arm across Arthur’s shoulders in a sidelong hug. “Thanks… Arthur.”
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This story was inspired partly by Terry Gilliam's masterful film "The Fisher King". Arthur's version of the Red Knight story differs somewhat from the original epic poem by Chretien de Troyes, but hey, he's trying to make a point. The Weasley family motto is taken from Robert Heinlein's novel "Glory Road". Hang in there folks; Harry's still got to get through the reception line!
