Muggling Along by ProfPosky
Chapter Notes: Everything you recognize is Jo's.
The day of the wedding dawned a grey pearly white. In number 12, Grimmauld place Elizabeth was awakened by a delicate cough.
“Are you awake, dear? Are you? We’re having a party today!”
The voice could barely contain its delight. Elizabeth was half afraid and half excited to open her eyes. She might as well, though. It was the first step on who knew what journey.
On the other hand, it really wasn’t. There hadn’t been a distinct first step. There had just been a next step on journey she was already on, and it led logically to lying in this damp, lumpy bed wondering who or what was calling her awake on her wedding day.
She smiled, and opened her eyes. She was doing this; she might as well do it. “Hello,” she called, “who or what are you?”
“Over here, dear. I was out last night, or I would have welcomed you to Grimmauld place. Not that I have been here very long myself. One of the refugees, you know. Death and destruction, death and destruction. I hear all about it from my portrait in Hogwarts! I can travel between the two, you know. We all can, Dear.”
“About six words of what you’ve said make sense,” Lizzie murmured from under the blanket. “Is the sun up yet? I can’t tell with those black drapes”
“The family seems to have been rather--funereal. Of course they’re all gone now, every last one of them. No loss, well, except for the last. He was a Gryffindor. A bit prone to --violence, but it turns out he was alright in the end. Forceful, and Handsome as well. Sirius Black,” she ended, with a whisper.
“Yes, this house is seriously Black. Dark, at least. Or maybe it just seemed that way to me last night.”
“Oh, no, dear, you were correct. It is a very dark house, the Black house, in fact,” the voice said, smugly.
“Is it really? I couldn’t tell when I got here last night.”
“Oh, the outside isn’t black. Not that you can tell. It is covered with 19th century coal dust, I’m told. No, it belonged to the Black family, time out of mind.” The voice sounded as if it were swooning. “Now it belongs to The Boy Who Lived.”
“It would have to, wouldn’t it? I mean, if he were dead, wouldn’t it belong to someone else?”
“The Boy Who Lived! Harry Potter, dear, THAT boy who lived.”
“Never heard of him. Is he a friend of Mr. Moody’s?” Lizzie offered sleepily.
She heard a thunk, and finally opened her eyes and sat up. There did not seem to be anyone in the room. There did not seem to be any thing in the room (She had been warned about a small humanlike creature who lived here sometimes--dirty, unkempt, crazy and not to be trusted.) She didn’t see anything that could have made a thumping noise. There was a portrait on the wall, a heavy woman in a pink dress, lying on the rose patterned carpet in the frame.
No, can’t be, she thought.
And then she saw it. The woman lying on the floor opened one eye. Seeing that she was observed, she shut it quickly again, screwing it up tight.
“I wonder what she’d think,” Lizzie said aloud, “if she knew I were a Muggle.” There was a sort of gurgling sound, and she smiled. The woman was now totally relaxed on the portrait floor. Fixed her magic little wagon,she thought with some satisfaction.
Coming down the stairs in her jeans after her shower, she found the house in a total uproar. Mr. Moody must be a very popular person, to be friends with all these people. It was a depressing thought.
She was not a popular person herself. She had been, at least, she thought she had been, back in school. There had been other girls to gossip, swap hairstyles and shop with. There had been boys who asked her out. Somehow after college things had gone downhill. She didn’t think that she had a friend left in the world. What she had were people whose names she knew, and whom she occasionally ran into at the supermarket when she was home for a visit.
Mr. Moody, however, seemed to have more friends than she could count. So far she’d seen a girl with bright pink hair, another with a long, thick mane reminiscent of the hair on a Christmas angel, a thin, weedy looking man who ought to be fainting any second, and a pair of red-headed boys who seemed to be irritating everyone else. From her vantage point in the stair landing, it was a scene of barely controlled chaos, a bell ringing every now and then, a woman shouting about filth and a multitude of people running around with things in their arms bumping into each other, tracking, back tracking and generally getting into each other’s way.
No one seemed to notice her where she sat on the steps. She heard a few things she might not have otherwise.
“Is she up yet?” The angel-haired girl asked.
“I don’t know. Did you see her when he brought her in last night?” the girl with pink hair responded.
“No, he had her disillusioned.” Yes, that was what he’d called it when he did that broken-egg thing on her head. Had it worn off? Probably not, she’d been a lump under covers when the lady in that painting had been talking to her, and no one had noticed her since.
Who didn’t want to be invisible? Childish, perhaps, but she was enjoying this no end.
“Do you think she’ll like everything? Do you “ do you think she likes Mad-Eye?” the pink-haired woman asked anxiously.
“Well, they were friends to begin with, so I suppose she does,” Angel-hair said. Then she sighed. “She’d better, really. I mean, if she makes him miserable…”
“She won’t. Nothing makes Mad-Eye miserable. He’s just “ Mad-Eye. He’s too worried about Voldemort to worry about whether his wife fancies him or not. I mean, as long as she’s decent “ Do you think she’s decent?”
Angel Hair shook her head uncertainly. “I don’t know…I want this to work for them. Of course he hasn’t thought it through. He’s a man, after all, probably figures he’ll marry her, leave her at home, and go on like he always has. Wait till the first time he comes home late and she wants to know where he’s been. Well, we’ll just have to help her. It’s not that easy, getting used to the wizarding world, you know. I was only 11 and I brazened it out, but I was a witch. She’s not even a Squib. There’s simply no place for her in this world and she’ll be stuck in it exclusively till Voldemort falls. I say, no matter how obnoxious she may be, we stick by her, for Mad-Eyes sake.”
“Done, Hermione. Although I really hope she’s not obnoxious at all. Maybe she’ll be really lovely and we’ll be so glad to know her. I’ve never actually known a Muggle, myself, if you don’t count my relations.” Just at that point in her explanation, the girl with the pink hair tripped over the edge of the carpet, the doorbell rang, that woman somewhere out of sight started screaming again and one of the red-haired boys called down the steps.
“Oi “ she’s gone! Someone better Floo Mad-Eye and…”
Elizabeth debated whether to continue her spying or not and decided against it. “Actually,” she called out to no one in particular, “I’m right here. I think I might need another egg on my head?”
Pink hair, who had regained her feet, whipped out a wand and pointed it at Lizzie’s general direction, going on her voice, probably. She murmured something Lizzie didn’t quite catch. A funny sensation flowed over her body and she wondered briefly if that had been what his magic returning had felt like to Mr. Moody, who was, seemingly, known to his friends as Mad-Eye.
As she became visible--perhaps evident was a better word--all eyes were upon her, and most of the mouths were forming little round choir-boy “o’s.” There was a moment of silence, and then the older girl spoke.
“Nymphadora Tonks.” She stuck out her hand. “I suppose you must be Miss Stewart. Well, until about noon, at any rate.”
“And I’m Hermione Granger. Pleasure.” It was clear from her head movements that she would have stuck out her hand, but her arms were full of material. “That fool is either Fred or George. There’s another one about “ they’re twins. Remus is around here somewhere, and I think that was Professor McGonagall coming in.” A tall pointed hat was making its way up the staircase with a tall, angular woman beneath it. She stopped and stared at Elizabeth, and her mouth also made the little “o.”
“Minerva McGonagall,” the woman supplied, “And you would be Elizabeth Stewart. Come, dear, there’s breakfast in the kitchen downstairs. You’ll want to have eaten and dressed before the priest arrives.”
She motioned to Liz to move down the stairs, while Nymphadora burst out, “A Priest? Really? Hermione, you should have told me! I’ve never met a priest, either!” She seemed delighted.
“A Jesuit, no less, Tonks, although he comes recommended by Miss Lovegood and may be a bit out of the usual run.” The Professor was motioning. “Come along, come along, child, we must keep things moving.”
“Coming here?” Elizabeth asked, surprised. “I thought we were just going back to that Government building today. It was what Mr. Moody said when we were there yesterday.”
Minerva looked at her piercingly. “Mr. Moody is very persistent in his security measures. He would have said that if he were planning to marry on the moon, just to throw them off. Whoever they might be, although I believe in this case we know exactly who they are.”
“The Death Mongers,” Elizabeth provided.
“Eaters, yes. No, you’ll be married here. I think I almost have him convinced that he can safely take you to Hogwarts for a honeymoon. There are a few people in residence, but the place is huge, you’d be very much on your own “ far better than a crowded Muggle hotel, not that he’d take you to one of those with Mulciber after you."
As this was being said, Lizzie was being chivvied down the stairs and into the kitchen, where a woman with flaming red hair was pretending to be paying strict attention to a huge frying pan full of scrambling eggs. The scurrying she’d heard directly before entering the room seemed to indicate to Lizzie that this woman might have been listening at the doorway, but it didn’t bother her. Curiosity was evident in every line of the woman’s back.
“Molly, this is Mad-Eye’s Bride. Elizabeth Stewart, Molly Weasley.”
The woman whirled around and smiled at her as if she had been practicing this. It was almost convincing“there was just a little bit of concern about the edges of her face to give her away. “What a pleasure to meet you. I’m the mother of all the redheads you’ll run into today, well, except for my husband, of course, I’m not his mother…not that all my redheads are here, because one of them is out and about with dragons and another…”
“Is busy building a career as a professional git. And Bill is just busy. George Weasley. Pleased to meet you. Don’t mind Mum, she doesn’t normally have much to do with Muggles and now we’ve got one right here in the nest, it’s a bit unsettling for her.” He grinned at his mother who swatted at him with a tea towel, obviously embarrassed.
She was torn between saying some thing and saying nothing, and decided on the latter. Her entire response was, “Elizabeth, and I’m pleased to meet you. Please, everyone, call me Lizzie.”
She took a seat at the table--not as far as the very bottom, but not at the top, either --more like squarely in the middle. She was determined to be squarely in the middle. Let them accuse her of whatever they wanted, they would anyway, it was generally how things went, but she would trod the road of moderation. Well, she would trod it as long as she could.
She ate a portion of perfectly cooked eggs and bacon, with a crisp piece of perfectly toasted bread, lightly buttered. She drank very nice, hot tea that actually tasted like tea, unlike Moody’s, and tried to ignore the sideways looks and outright stares she was getting from everyone in the kitchen in turns. It was conspicuously quiet.
Hermione Granger cleared her throat. “Has Remus eaten yet? Was it a hard night for him?”
Tonks answered, “No, he had his potion, but it’s never easy. I think it really takes something out of them.” She turned to Elizabeth and said, in a challenging tone. “Remus is a werewolf.”
This was clearly a crucial juncture. She picked up her cup, sipped, and said “I’m sorry to hear it’s difficult for him. I hope he’s feeling better.” She continued sipping her tea. I hope they don’t think that’s cold, or cheeky. I don’t care he’s a werewolf, if they don’t, but I can’t quite say that, can I ?
There were more little “o’s” George broke into a smile first. “Knew Moody would pick a good one! Gorgeous and brains, too.”
She gave him a sharp look, but he didn’t seem to be laughing at her--with her, maybe. She smiled tentatively back at him. “Well, a little lady in a picture on the wall told me this morning that you’re having a party. I’m sure that he doesn’t want to miss that. I’m sorry that having me here is getting in the way. I suppose Mr. Moody will come and collect me soon. Oh no, it’s here, isn’t it? Well, maybe there’s a small room we can duck into, and be out of your way.”
“It’s your wedding, you know,” George said, realizing her mistake, “it’s not another party. We’ve been at it since yesterday. Mum here is just about beside herself because Hermione is having it catered and she knows Mad-Eye won’t eat the food. Fred and I are helping her with the pudding though. There’s a big fancy cake, I just now finished it.” He smiled proudly.
“My wedding?” She seemed aghast. But then, they’d been friends with Mr. Moody for quite a long time, hadn’t they? Of course they’d want to make a party for his wedding.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” George said, amused. “Nothing really grand. We’re going to be taking movies with that camera of yours my dad is very excited about that, and I think they found you something nice to wear. The whole parlor is off limits to all of us. Mum put a spell on to turn us purple if we so much as peek. Hermione is having a right old time spouting out bits of information only she and Mad-Eye would care about in the whole wide world, and”
“And I am here to help her prepare for the festivities.” Minerva said “so we will repair to your room and let everyone here do their part.” Everyone smiled at her, she smiled back, and then all fell to eating.
Minerva went upstairs with her after she’d had her fill, and when they got to the room, put a small paper bag on the bed. “I’ve brought you a scarf.”
“A scarf? Do witches get married in scarves?”
“Not generally, no,” said Minerva in her best teacherly fashion. “The marriage ceremony includes an exchange of gifts. The groom provides something symbolic of the home he is bound to provide for you, and the bride, that is, you, give him a gift symbolizing textiles. They were traditionally the responsibility of the woman in a Wizarding marriage. Of course, this is all very out of date, but we aren’t taking any chances. I’ve brought you a scarf. All you have to do is sew a button on it, and that…”
“So I’m supposed to give him a piece of clothing made by my hands?” Lizzie asked.
“Yes, but as I said…”
“And would the socks I knit him for his Christmas present count? I mean, the socks I’ve knit for next Christmas. He’s already worn a hole in the ones I gave him last year.”
Minerva seemed surprised. “You’ve knit him socks? Yourself?”
“Yes, I do it all the time. They’re much nicer than store-bought. And his last twice as long, because he’s only got the one foot,” she explained.
“You routinely knit socks? Without magic? No, that’s a ridiculous question--twenty four hours ago you didn’t know there WAS magic,” Minerva corrected herself.
“Yes, I knit them from my handspun wool. It’s a very soothing hobby, spinning, and people generally get use out of what I make for them. So, are those socks alright? If Mr. Moody is at his house he could get my cardboard box from the bottom of my bedroom closet--he doesn’t have to know what’s in it. Although I’d love to give him this scarf, too. I can sew these buttons on like this…” she was already lost in arranging the buttons in a sort of abstract modernistic design, which Minerva realized, was actually quite attractive.
“I’m sure a sock or socks would be appropriate,” Minerva said wanly.
It was a harried few hours later that Lizzie made the acquaintance of Father Bruce, the celebrant.
“Oh, honey, I’ve done dozens of these ceremonies. Well, I’ve married dozens of people…only three were Muggles, though. Oh, it doesn’t matter, I have the instruction book right here, and that Miss Stranger has just outdone herself with all these little bits of paper with things I have to remember. Now before we get started…. During the ceremony I have to weigh something of yours, something that represents what you are bringing to the marriage… What do you suggest?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but he parted his very pink little lips before she could actually form a word and said, “Witches usually use their wands, but it’s not always the best idea, you know. I mean, if it’s your other attractions that have got him to the alter, they might be a better bet. I have even,” he said in a confidential undertone “on occasion weighed lingerie….”
“No, thank you, I think you can weigh my spindle. It’s the closest to magic I’ve ever done, spinning, and you use a spindle like you use a wand for magic, yes, I think I’ll…”
“What is spinning?” he asked, his abnormally tiny hands clasped in front of his tall, rotund form. “I don’t understand?”
She stared at him. “Spinning. Making yarn or cord out of wool, or cotton, or jute, or flax…”
He waved his little hand. “Fine, Fine, I have no idea what you’re talking about, but whatever, just have a backup, honey, in case it doesn’t work. Now hmmm. Hmmm. Hmmmm. I have to ask you if you have ever been married, ever been divorced, ever been dead….”
She was prepared for this to be odd, and went right along with it. “Never married, never divorced, never died. So far.”
“Hmmm. Hmmm," his bright blue quill made a note, and he forged on, looking at his paper rather than her. “You do understand that the marriage will have to be, Hmmmm, consummated…. Can you stand it?”
“I have to be standing? Really? And will there be witnesses to that?” Perhaps teaching teenagers for so many years had got the best of her better judgment, after all. Father Bruce was doing his little fish mouth routine again. She took pity on him.
“I’m fine, but you’d better ask the groom. I think he’s rather dashing, but you never know what he’s thinking of me.”
The groom, when it was his turn to be interrogated, did not respond as well.
“Consumated? No, we don’t need to do that, surely.” He seemed a bit pale at the thought. “She’s a pretty young girl, she can’t be wanting to…I mean, I’m a bit rough about the edges and torn up and…it surely won’t be that sort of…”
“Well,” said Father Bruce, with a breezy and somewhat aggrieved air, “You wanted this to be something the Ministry can’t annul, didn’t you? And you were trying for a Unicus, whatever the hell that is, and these little yellow notes are telling me that that means you have to,” at this point he threw in a rather rude hip gesture, “at least once, and who knows, honey, if she likes it she might want to make a regular thing of it, so… you tell me. Do you want to get married, or not.”
That was the question? Whether he wanted to get married or not? That hadn’t started out being the question. It had started out very neatly. He wanted to protect this woman. He owed this woman protection. Marriage had seemed drastic, but the only choice. Now it was getting more and more complicated.
Bravely, he put every horrid story he’d ever heard from unhappily married wizards out of his mind. Think of Arthur and Molly. Think of Arthur and Molly. They adore each other after all these years. Of course, they probably started out adoring each other. Well, maybe I can adore her a little bit. She’s very pretty and
She was nice. She was a nice person., taking in his fish, watering his garden, coming over for a sherry at New Year’s, or having him in for lunch and cookies on Christmas. Molly and Tonks and Hermione, they would do things like that. They would take pity a decrepit old fellow and rush up to him in a park, telling him of a sale on tea bags, because the old codger had never had the heart to explain that he had more than enough money to live on, appearances to the contrary. She’d been nice about having to marry him. She’d be nice about this, too. He’d find a way to make it up to her.
“Yes,” he said simply.
*************************************
The hour was upon her. What had started out the day before as unbelievable was happening at that very moment. She’d just had the most unusual shower of her life, bathing under the spray from five magic wands, and using a large, stiff thin bath sheet with an elaborate crest in one corner to toweling off.
“No wonder Dung didn’t try to pinch these,” was the cryptic comment Tonks had made when they shook it open for her. They’d all been very nice about not staring at her, too. Then she put on her own, entirely unremarkable underclothing”Hermione had wailed about forgetting the lingerie”and now…
Now there was the dress. It was beautiful. It was, actually, beyond beautiful. It floated in the air over her head and settled around her, and then--he swore it did, she was sure it did, adjust itself to fit her.
Minerva picked up the veil and settled it on her head. A small “ooh” escaped the red-haired girl, Ginny, who had arrived after breakfast. Everyone else was just--silent.
“Now, we will go downstairs and wait in that parlor I showed you. Everything is ready. Wait here on the landing, and when you hear the call to be married, come down the steps, wait for Alastor, and then walk into the room, just as we practiced. There will be a few more people. Stand by the table with the scales.”
She placed the spindle, which she’d decorated to match the dress, in Lizzie's’s hand. The others smiled, wished her well, and went downstairs, but Minerva held back a moment.
“Are you sure you want to do this? I can hide you in my rooms at Hogwarts. It’s not a perfect solution, but it is a choice,” she said, a little pucker between her eyebrows.
Lizzie looked at the older woman. Like all the people she’d met that day, Minerva MacGonagall seemed strong, but stressed. There was an active tension in her face which matched Hermione’s, Mr. Lupin’s and Tonks’. Even those silly red-headed boys had an undercurrent of worry that they almost perfectly concealed”almost, but only almost.
“No. Unless you think Mr. Moody would really prefer it that way. Whatever he wants, really. I’m just the idiot who ran up to him in the park. He shouldn’t be stuck with me…unless he doesn’t mind,” Lizzie said, andlooked away.
Minerva looked at her. “But what do you want?”
What did she have to loose, really? “I want…to marry Alastor Moody.”
Minerva patted her on the shoulder. “Good girl. I’m sure you would have sorted into Gryffindor.” She sniffed once into her handkerchief and, with that cryptic comment hanging in the air behind her, swept out of the room.
Moments later, the call came. “We stand here in waiting. Who comes this day to be married before us!”
She counted to three, as she had been told, and started down the steps. She heard Alastor Moody’s wooden foot clumping as he ascended the stairs, but did not turn to look at him. At the door of the parlor she stopped. She felt him come to rest beside her, and take her right had in his right hand.
“I, Elizabeth Annu Stewart, come this day to be married before the witnesses of the Wizengamot of Britain and the Christian Church!” she called out, in her strongest voice.
“I, Alastor, Albus, Arthur Moody come this day to be married before the witnesses of the Wizengamot of Britain and the Christian Church,” Moody growled, as if daring any one to question him.
“Enter among us and declare your consent.”
They advanced through the door together. She dared a look at the groom, and he was serious, until he saw her looking at him. Then, he flashed her a little grin.
That little grin married her, right there.
There was a table with a set of scales upon it. The let go of each other’s hands to stand on either side of it.
“I come here freely and without reservation to enter into the sacrament of marriage. I will remain faithful to my vows and accept children as they are given me. I will live as a member of the Magical Community, subject to its laws and protected by its mandates, as long as my life endures in this land,” she intoned solemnly.
“And I, as a member by birth of the Magical Community, come here freely and without reservation to enter into the sacrament of marriage. I will remain faithful to my vows and accept children as they are given us,” Moody replied, equally grave.
Father Bruce, dressed in a magnificent set of liturgical robes, responded, “As you have come here freely and without reservation to enter into a marriage ruled by the laws of the church and of the magical community, and as you have identified yourselves, and have previously established your freedoms to marry, we now establish the worth of your bond. Please place your wands “ er, your wand, and your spindle, on the dishes of the balance.”
Moody placed his wand on the balance, which flew immediately down. In fact, it gave the impression that if it could have continued down to the kitchen floor, three flights below, it would have, with such a thump did it land on the table.
Minerva had explained this to her, saying, “We’re actually weighing that which cannot be weighed physically, and the balance is functioning magically. It’s the weight of Moody’s magic that’s being set against the weight of yours. When your spindle doesn’t budge the scale, the celebrant asks Moody if he accepts an inequality, and he will say that he accepts you and does not count the cost. He could, of course. In days gone by all this was written into settlements and the price of the magic that is missing from one party would be made up in land, or services, or some combination, but no one with any sense would stand for that today. So don’t worry when the scale doesn’t move.”
Lizzie held her breath when she placed the spindle on the plate, just hoping that it didn’t roll off. It didn’t. Pale wood and thick cream colored silk satin ribbon against polished silver it sat there, and then, oddly, slowly, the balance moved. Everyone who saw it had a story they told about it ever afterwards--the magical balance moved. Moody’s wand, laden with Magical power as it was, did move up. In fact, it moved up until they were more or less equal--that is, the balance would not stop moving. One moment her spindle was a bit higher, one moment, his wand.
“And then, if you believe it,” Dung would tell the story later, “He held out his wand hand to her, and she took it in hers, and wouldn’t ye know, lads, the balance stopped even right there, like it was speakin’, an’ the preist had ter shut his mouth an’ think on it before he could go on.”
“Hmmmm. Well,” Father Bruce looked down at the little post-it note in his prayer book and squinted., “as the balance notes no inequality, so here there is none, neither to hold an advantage, neither to serve in consequence. Equally giving, equally receiving, the binding of these two people is both lawful and magical. Step forward.”
They stepped forward, stopping in front of a small table, on which were three clear crystal bowls, two medium sized, with some clear fluid in them, one, larger, empty. Alastor placed his wand tip into the smaller bowl on the right, while Elizabeth placed the tip of her spindle into the smaller bowl on the left.
“Witnesses, come forward and be charged.” Six people advanced to Liz’s side; Minerva, Hermione, Tonks, Molly, Ginny, and a dotty-looking woman she had met only seconds before she dressed, a Mrs. Figg. She knew that the six men crowding next to her groom were Remus Lupin, Mundungus Fletcher, that Boy Who Lived that the portrait had been talking about, and three Weasleys: Arthur, Ron, and one of the twins. She was not sure which one. “Who stands for the Muggle?”
Mrs. Figg spoke, nervously. “I, being a Squib with no magic of my own, stand for the Muggle.”
“And who stands for the Wizard?”
“I, who have survived the Killing Curse, stand for the Wizard,” said the young man whose name she still was not sure of.
“We stand for the woman, that she shall not be deceived, nor shall she bring upon us disgrace,” the women then chanted in unison.
“We stand for the man, that he shall not be deceived, not shall he bring upon the name of Wizard disgrace,” the men echoed.
“Then know your charge is to regard these pensieves, which reflect the minds of those whose wand and spindle rest within them, do you see any hint of cloud or discoloration, stand forth and make it know, upon peril of your own disgrace”
“And so we shall do.”
After all of this hullabaloo, the vows should have seemed anticlimactic, and yet, the sense of excitement and anticipation only grew.
“Marriage, being a contract between two people, is, as such, a matter for the community as well as for the individuals involved. The magical community, which must hide itself within the world and all humanity, has more reason than others to hold marriage both sacred and sacrosanct. It is within marriage that children are born and raised, and it is in the interest of this community that any children be given a proper magical education and indoctrination into our ways. Therefore, I ask you once more, before we proceed with the vows, if you have any doubts, reservations, reasons, indecisions, disenfranchisements, disabilities, liens or leanings as to your own willingness or ability to enter into this marriage.”
She refused to look into either bowl.
“I do not” Moody spoke in a clear voice.
She looked up at him. His face, bent down, was the same face she’d known for four years. He gave gardening advice. He was tender with his plants, and hHe squashed the offending beetles with an impartial vitality. They died quickly. He was merciful to bugs.
His face looked like it had been chewed over by numberless mongrel dogs. Scarred, bits missing, it had never frightened her, not even the first time she’d seen it. That astonishing blue eye which had been whizzing in a distracting way since he’d tapped himself on the head the day before was still, boring into her. It felt like the sun on a stiff limb, it was magic, and she knew it was not the magic these people had to themselves, but the magic of maleness facing femaleness.
“I do not,” she said, clearly as well, but also firmly, as if daring anyone to gainsay her. She heard a gasp. Then she heard another.
“It’s turning blue!” Mrs. Figg called out.
“They’re both turning blue,” that boy added.
“Blue? Blue? These little notes don’t say anything about blue. Are you sure it’s “ no, you’re right, that’s blue.” Father Bruce had started rifling through the Post-it notes on his book, but had stopped when he saw the bowls.
Liz looked down. They were blue, alright, an amazing blue that was neither turquoise nor cobalt and yet, like a night sky, both at once. The contents were swirling as if they were being stirred, or going down a drain, but the bowls were simply sitting there “ the contents were moving of their own accord.
“It’s all right, Father, see, there,” she heard Hermione whispering loudly, blue is very good, actually. You can go on.” She slipped back into her place among the women, and he went on.
“Alastor Albus Arthur Moody, do you take Elizabeth Annu Stewart to wife, to defend and delouse, provision and perplex, incite and inspire, domicile and delight, through all time and chance?” the priest asked.
“I do.” Moody opened her palm, placed something in it, and closed her hand gently around it. It felt like a key.
“Do you, Elizabeth Annu Stewart, take Alastor Albus Arthur Moody to husband, to dry and demand, invoke and illumine, soothe and sustain, clothe and kin, through all time and chance?”
“I do.” She handed him the pair of socks she had discussed with Minerva MacGonagall. It seemed not enough. She took his free hand, his right, and laid it on top of the socks in his left, still keeping her hand closed around what she thought was a key. Her eyes did not leave his face. Her gaze darted about--he had a shock of hair gone rampant over his left brow, there seemed to be a wry smile tugging at his lips, although you could only see it in the twitching of his cheek.
“And shall you neither take advantage one against the other?” The voice seemed to come from far off, and surprised her by its volume.
“I will raise no wand against her.”
“I will raise no torch against him.”
“And see ye witnesses any doubt or distraction?" Father Bruce continued.
“I don’t,” said Mrs. Figg, simply.
“Nor I,” provided the boy.
The two bowls rose in the air, contents still swirling, and poured themselves into the third bowl. There was gaping as this happened, as if it was unexpected, then what was the third bowl for?, The contents whiled for a moment, more, and then vanished. Lizzie watched, amazed.
“Then as an agent of the Wizengamot of Great Britain and the Holy Christian Church, I affirm as witness that you have declared your marriage before us and that it is legal and binding, pending consummation.”
The priest folded his prayer book and tucked it under one arm, then folded his hands. He waited a moment.
“You ought to kiss her,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth, “that’s what Muggles do.”
“Do they?” He looked at her, his head tilted a bit to the side. She nodded, unable to speak.
“Well then, I can’t start out by disappointing you.” He lowered his head and kissed her.
It was a light kiss. It did little more than brush her lips, it perfectly matched the dress, the décor, the odd, archaic ceremony…and it promised more. When it ended, she had to hold on to him for a second, while her head cleared.
George--or Fred, she still was not sure, broke the mood with a cat call and thumping applause. Everyone else joined in. She let out a breath and sagged against her husband, who put his arm around her waist.
“Your Wedding Feast, Madam Moody,” The Wesley brother said with a bow, and the food came floating into the room, the platters setting themselves on a table that had been set up in a corner. Molly Weasley turned to her, all concern.
“You don’t mind that it’s laid on? Hermione said you wouldn’t, and I would have been happy to cook but with my son’s wedding looming over us Hermione took it into her head not to tell me until this morning and the food was already ordered.” She looked sincerely distressed, as if catered food were a disgrace of some sort.
“I am honored that with a wedding in the family coming up you made the time to attend! No one could expect more than that from you, with your own son getting married soon and all those details to be worked out! Is it one of the twins?” Lizzie asked. Talking about her children ought to make Molly like her, she thought
Across the room, Tonks was talking to Lupin. “She seems alright. Look how she sort of seems to just fit right in his arm there, as if she was made for it. She certainly doesn’t seem to have a problem with us all being magical.”
“Moody says she asked him outright about the Devil,” he replied. “I suppose that gets points for sheer guts. I mean, what if he had said yes? Can’t be easy for her.”
`
“You would know better than most of us, Remus, about being on the outside. Tell me, do you think they have a chance of being really happy together, or is it doomed? All formality and separate bedrooms after tonight?” The question went beyond the subject at hand, and Lupin could not decide exactly how to answer it. He was saved from having to by Hermione, who came up to them both and steered them toward the table.
“If you two would start filling your plates, I think we can get everyone to follow. Arthur Weasley has to go back to the Ministry in 20 minutes and I want him to eat. Then the Bride and Groom have to feed each other the cake, and throw the garter and the bouquet and…” she was beside herself with excitement. “I’ve done a bit of research and there ought to be dancing and photographs and …”
“Hermoine, relax. It’s going really well. You did a brilliant job,” Tonks said. “but what on earth was that with the water changing color?"
Hermione smiled. “It couldn’t have gone better. Usually there are little threads of cloud, and that’s considered alright, so long as none of them are round and larger than a sickle. Just having it clear is exceptional “ but blue! And both of them!” She was nearly beside herself with glee. “Blue denotes truth and trust. In other words, they committed fully, mind and heart as well as legally. They can’t be separated. Not by law, not by death. They really are one person. That’s what happens when the two bowls pour into the third. Usually the couple has to do it themselves.”
“Do they know they’re inseparable?” Remus asked, concerned.
“Moody does. What he told her, I don’t know. There was no guarantee it would happen, although I was hoping at least for clear. But blue! The Ministry can’t even question it! Any action they take against it will result in automatic magical penalties! Unless they want it to start raining frogs in their lobby and offices…” Hermione’s delight was palpable, and Tonks laughed out loud.
“So anyone who tries to disturb the bond?” asked Dung, who had come up behind them.
“Regrets it. Something happens to them, in direct proportion to the level of mischief they tried to cause. And since the death of one of the partners is a serious insult to the bond, anyone who tries to kill either one of them will face a magical penalty equally serious. And it happens automatically, there are no people involved at all. I couldn’t have come up with something better if I had tried!” Hermione could barely contain her excitement.
“So he’s protecting her, then, live or dead, you might say?” Dung asked.
“Oh, definitely!” Hermione responded. “Go get some food, Dung “ they’re going to want to be leaving eventually."
Staring down at the food on her plate, Mrs. Figg seemed nervous. “I never feel Muggle food is entirely safe, even after eating it all those years,” she said, scowling. “Lovely wedding otherwise. And on 24 hours notice, I’m told. Do you see how she looks at him?”
Minerva managed to nod, her mouth full of seafood salad. She swallowed. “I would never have thought it was arranged, if I didn’t know that already. Do you think she might have been carrying a torch for him for years?” She seemed to have an almost academic interest in the problem.
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Figg responded, “Maybe she never realized it. Or maybe she’s just happy to be getting married. I understand she’s a little old for a Muggle. Maybe she wants children.”
Minerva sprayed seafood salad all over the front of Mrs. Figg’s ancient Weddings-Funerals-and-World-Cup-Victories Robes. This was followed by coughing--the sort of deep, out of one’s feet coughing which leads bystanders to remind one to give up smoking. It went on for four or five minutes, and was followed by a great deal of “ARE you alright?” and, “Let me get that off your robes!” so that it was a good quarter of an hour before everyone returned to their own conversations and she could get back to the thought, but she did. “Mad-Eye a father, Arabella? Mad-Eye with children to protect? Is the Wizarding World really ready for that?”
“I doubt it,” she said, simply, “and let me get that shrimp off your sleeve.”
While their old head of house had been turning violent colors and scaring people, Fred and George had transported the cake from the basement kitchen and placed it on the table. Hermione was there now, trying to bring the small crowd to order.
“Everyone! Everyone! Your Attention, please!” Eventually everyone, except for Arthur Weasley, who had already left for work, turned to face her. She smiled beneficently at them all.
“There are a few Muggle customs some of you may not be familiar with, but without which I’m sure Elizabeth would not feel her wedding complete. Would you come to the front of the room, please, Elizabeth?"
The bride smiled and shrugged, and then, leaving her husband behind with Remus Lupin and Harry Potter, went to stand next to Hermione.
“It is a Muggle custom, at weddings,” Hermione began, “for the Bride to throw her bouquet into a crowd of unmarried women. The one who catches it is supposed to be the next to marry. I’ve got a bouquet for her here, and now all of you except Mrs. Weasley--No, George, you and Fred can’t, I’m sorry…Yes, yes, I will get in the crowd myself, although, honestly…”
She handed the small tussie-mussie to Lizzie, who waited till they were all assembled four or five feet from her. “All the single ladies, I’m afraid. Don’t hold back, now,” Lizzie said, “age is no barrier to romance.”
The twins pushed Minerva MacGonagall and someone pushed Mrs. Figg, so that there were five women standing there. Lizzie turned around to face the wall, counted to three, and tossed. She heard and astonished “Oh!” and turned around. Arabella Fig was holding the flowers. Fred and George were congratulating her profusely. She seemed almost appalled. “Now who would I be marrying at my age?”
“Never you worry, Figgy. Someone’ll show up, jus’ when ye leas’ expect ‘im,” Dung provided. She glared at him.
“Now, Professor Moody has to throw the garter!” Hermione squeaked in delight.
Elizabeth, who had not been wearing a garter moments before, suddenly felt one on just below her knee, and almost jumped. Mrs. Weasley gave her a tiny nod, and Lizzie sighed in relief, realizing she must have put it there. “I have to sit in a chair, and my husband takes the garter from my leg and tosses it to the assembled single men.”
Mad-Eye cracked another smile. “Off her leg, you say?” He pulled his wand out of his suit pocket “ in deference to her he had worn the black suit rather than his robes-and called out clearly “Accio Garter!"
She gasped as the garter started twisting on her leg and began to laugh as it made it’s way down her leg, over her shoe and flew through the air to his hand. “All of you then, behind me,” he commanded, and, turning, flung it backwards over his head. Dung caught it.
“You’ve got to put it on my leg.” Mrs. Figg said, amazing everyone who thought the event was over and who were ready for the next of Hermione’s planned activities. “I’ve seen it on Muggle television. You’ve got to put that on my leg, because I caught the bouquet.”
“Al’ righ’ then, Figgy. Pull up yer robe.”
Having never seen it done, Dung didn’t play for laughs. Very seriously, he knelt down , picked her foot up off the floor nearly unbalancing her, and slid the garter up Arabella Figg’s leg to mid-calf, where he stopped decorously. “There. I do it right?”
Lizzie nodded, bemused.
“Now it’s time for the cake!” George “ or Fred “ called out. "You two, stand over here. Even I know how this one goes.” Turning to face the crowd, he explained, “They have to feed each other the cake. Now, there are three layers, and each layer has a different flavored filling “ lemon on top, marshmallow in the middle, and Tiramisu on the bottom. Which do you pick?”
“Hard to choose,” Elizabeth replied, “it’s so pretty. Did you have some way of knowing that I prefer butter cream to fondant, and that I like sugar paste flowers better than frosting?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I copied it from a magazine I bought this morning.”
“So this is a magic cake? Is it non-caloric??” she asked hopefully, and all the women in the room laughed. “No? Well, you can’t have everything. I pick the tiramisu!”
“Stand here, then, and here’s the cake server. One of Dad’s little Muggle treasures. Not sure why he wanted it, but it comes in handy now. You stand next to her, Mad-Eye.”
No one sang “The Bride Cuts the Cake,” so she just hummed it to herself. She took up the fork, and handed one to Mad-Eye. “We each take a piece, and feed each other.” She cut a slice of the cake, put it on a plate, and lifted the plate between them. “One, two, three…” her lips closed over the cake, sliding it off the fork and onto her tongue. It was not delicious. In fact, she almost choked on it. I can’t let them see how awful I think it is. Let them find out for themselves. She swallowed.
Something very strange was happening to her husband. He was growing fur.
She glanced around. George and Fred were laughing uproariously, but everyone else was nervous, and Molly was raising her hand to whack them on the head. Remus Lupin was quicker off the mark, and pulling out his wand yelled ”Levicorpi. He looked quickly over at Lizzie.
“They’re famous for this sort of thing. You two are just momentarily enchanted. I’ll deal with them and you’ll get an apology later.”
Looking down, she realized that there was soft red fur on her arms, and glancing at Mad-Eye, his nose had elongated so that he looked like…
“A fox! You turned us into foxes? That’s hardly a compliment to Mad-Eye, or me either, for that matter. Or are you too young to realize that?”
All eyes snapped back to her. “What would we have turned into if we ate the top layer?” she asked, correctly assuming that each choice had had its perils.
“Canaries,” Harry said. (He had introduced himself after the ceremony.) “Wasn’t the top lemon? That would be canary colored, wouldn’t it? And the marshmallow layer-was that ducks?”
“Albino Alligators,” was the reply from one of the suspended men.
Harry turned to her. “Probably chose tiramisu for the third flavor because it sounded better than cinnamon. Don’t worry, if it’s anything like their Canary Creams, it’ll wear off in a minute or two.”
“Well, I’ve always admired red hair. Does it look well on me? Or is it hard to tell, with the nose?”
Lupin was over with the Weasley twins, whispering tersely to them and flicking his wand at them repeatedly, from what she could see. She looked over at Tonks, who seemed at a loss for whether to cry or explode in anger. She smiled, afraid that if she said anything it would set the poor young witch off. She settled on “The shedding seems to be the worst part.”
Sure enough, the hair was coming off in tufts, and falling to the floor. It made Mad-Eye looke even worse than usual for the few minutes it took, and then everything was back to normal. Everything was normal, that was except the two upside-down men, the distressed group of guests, and the glowering Were-wolf.
“Why don’t I save us all some time.” She said, suddenly brave. “You two that was an idiotic and insensitive thing to do. And I once kissed a bullfrog to see if it would turn into a prince, so don't expect to make me screamt. Now, Mr. Lupin, if you would indulge me, would you let them down? I’m sure you can do something to keep them from sneaking off and you can ream them out later. I’m sure they deserve it. But in the meantime, if I haven’t missed anything anyone wanted to say,I’d like to dance with my husband.”
She looked at him over her shoulder, daring him, and he nodded, slowly. The assembled crowd, after a stunned moment, started to hum. She didn’t know the tune, or what sort of dance it was, but she moved into the circle of his arms, placed her hand up on his shoulder, kept her eyes on his face, and began to dance, backwards, and in high heels.
Author's note: The last line refers to something said about one of Fred Astaire's dance partners, which was that she did everything he did, but "Backwards, and in high heels."