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SIYE Time:10:33 on 29th March 2024
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Epithalamium
By Northumbrian

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Category: Post-Hogwarts
Characters:Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley
Genres: Comedy, Drama, Fluff, General, Humor, Romance
Warnings: Mild Language, Mild Sexual Situations
Rating: PG-13
Reviews: 146
Summary: Weddings don't just happen, you know! They have to be organised, planned. Every little detail must be checked, nothing can simply be left to chance.
Hitcount: Story Total: 46530; Chapter Total: 4490
Awards: View Trophy Room




Author's Notes:
Thanks as always to Amelie. Warning, this chapter contains no Harry/Ginny. Additional warning: Dursleys (and another).




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Seventy-one Days: Répondez S'il Vous Plaît

‘The young couple next door have a new car,’ Petunia observed as she peered out of the living room window.

‘What?’ muttered her husband, briefly lifting his head from the Daily Mail. He snorted with annoyance. ‘They bought one six months ago, just after they moved in! These youngsters: they’ve got more money than sense, the lot of them!’

‘Except Dudley,’ Petunia reminded him. ‘It’s a little red sports car, and the other car is still on their drive. I think it must be for her.’ She paused, and continued to watch her neighbours. ‘It is: he’s giving her the keys,’ she announced triumphantly.

‘Two cars? Well, no point in us having two cars, is there? You don’t drive.’

‘No, I don’t,’ Petunia admitted. Her husband had already returned his attention to his newspaper, so didn’t see her face.

‘The postman’s arrived. He’s getting a lot of letters from his bag, at least a dozen. I think that it must be her birthday. He’s bought her a car for her birthday. The postman is talking to them, and he’s giving her all of the letters. She’s smiling. Now he’s showing them another letter. But he’s not giving it to them. Oh…’ Petunia took two steps backwards, away from the window.

‘Something the matter?’ Vernon asked, reluctantly raising his head from the paper.

‘The postman pointed at our house. I think they saw me, Vernon,’ Petunia told him.

‘They’ve seen you before,’ he reminded her. ‘You said that they came snooping around when they first moved in. Knew it!’ he added triumphantly, turning the newspaper to show her the headline. ‘Says here that single mother author lied about the help she got. Scrounging useless woman, and now she’s a millionaire! I subsidised her! She should give me my money back!’

‘They introduced themselves, that’s all,’ Petunia said, refusing to be diverted by her husband’s rant.

‘Busybodies,’ snorted Vernon dismissively. ‘They were snooping. They’re much too interested in other people’s business.’

‘They said hello, because we’re neighbours,’ Petunia told her husband rather sharply. He didn’t notice.

The letterbox rattled.

‘No bills due,’ grumbled Vernon. ‘Some advert, probably, or one of those begging letters from some so-called charity or other. Save the children, famine relief, or some such nonsense.’ He again returned to his newspaper.

Petunia sighed, left her husband reading, and walked out into the hall. She was struck by a sudden, worrying thought. What if the postman had been showing the neighbours their letter? It had happened before, and she had never forgotten the embarrassment of the incident. Suddenly anxious, she looked down at the doormat. When she saw the envelope, her heart missed a beat and she gave a short, high-pitched and worried whine.

The envelope was thick parchment and it was sealed with a blob of red wax on which the letter “W” had been embossed. It was very old-fashioned and unusual looking, and Petunia was almost certain that it was the same envelope the postman had shown to her neighbours.

From the hesitant and cautious way Petunia approached the envelope, an impartial observer would have suspected that she was worried that it would explode. Bending over to examine it more closely, she noticed that the letters R.S.V.P. had been neatly printed on the back. Carefully hooking a fingernail under one corner of the envelope, she flicked it over.

Unfortunately, at the exact moment the envelope landed with the address side up, Vernon bellowed, ‘What is it, Petunia?’

The coincidence made her jump, and she gave a brief squeal.

‘What on earth is the matter?’ Vernon asked, rather petulantly. She heard him begin to ponderously push himself upright, and so didn’t reply. He should see it for himself, so Petunia simply stared in silence at the envelope.

“Mr and Mrs V Dursley, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey,” the address was written in a small, neat hand which Petunia did not recognise. To her relief, there was only one stamp on the envelope; not only that, the stamp was of the right denomination, and it was correctly placed in the upper right corner of the envelope, exactly where it should be. With a still shaking hand, Petunia reached down and picked up the envelope.

She was still staring at it when her husband finally lumbered into the hall.

‘What…’ Vernon got no further. He saw the envelope in his wife’s hand, and his florid face instantly drained of all colour. He and his wife stared at each other in silence and remembered the many times they had seen similar envelopes. After several seconds, Vernon finally broke the tension-filled silence.

‘It’s been a long time since I’ve seen one of those,’ said Vernon hoarsely.

‘Yes,’ Petunia agreed.

‘Do you think that we could get away with burning it?’ he asked quietly.

‘We might just get more,’ Petunia reminded him. ‘And they might come the other way!

Vernon shuddered.

‘At least this one has been properly addressed,’ she said. ‘It’s even got the correct stamp on it.’

‘Do you think he sent it?’ Vernon asked.

Petunia shrugged. ‘It isn’t Harry’s handwriting,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he’s got a secretary to write letters for him.’

‘Secretary,’ Vernon snorted, and shook his head dismissively. ‘He keeps saying that he’s got a good job, but why should we believe him? I’ve no idea why Dudley bothers to keep in touch with him. We’ll just throw it out, shall we?’

Vernon held out his hand hopefully, but Petunia slipped a finger under the flap of the envelope and broke the seal. Opening it, she pulled out a rectangular card.

‘Mr and Mrs Arthur Weasley would like to invite Vernon and Petunia Dursley to the Wedding of their daughter, Miss Ginevra Molly Weasley, to Mr Harry James Potter.’ Petunia read the invitation aloud, and watched her husband’s face turn purple as she did so. ‘The wedding will take place at The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole on Saturday, 24th May, 2003, at 11:00 a.m. Répondez S'il Vous Plaît, to the above address.’

‘What?’ spluttered Vernon. ‘Wedding? Him? To that little ginger girl? Arthur Weasley! I know him, too! He’s the blundering fool who destroyed our living room!’

‘There’s a message on the back, too,’ said Petunia. She said, turning the card over and continuing to read. ‘As you, and your son, are Harry’s only relatives, I do hope that you will be able to attend. Harry has arranged to have any,’ Petunia hesitated and looked worriedly at her husband before continuing. ‘…Muggle post addressed to The Burrow to be intercepted and forwarded to us by the usual methods. You have raised a fine and upstanding nephew, you should be very proud of him. Arthur and I look forward to welcoming you to our home. Yours, Molly Weasley.’

‘Forwarded by the usual methods!’ Vernon tugged angrily at his moustache. ‘Fine! Upstanding! Proud! The woman is mad, just like the rest of them. I’ll just throw it in the bin, shall I?’

Vernon reached for the invitation, but Petunia kept a tight hold of it. Slowly, and very deliberately, she shook her head.

‘You’re right,’ Vernon grumbled. ‘I suppose we should write back, and tell them we can’t go…’ Vernon finally noticed his wife’s expression, and his voice trailed into silence.

‘He’s my sister’s only child, Vernon,’ said Petunia quietly. ‘I’ve… I’ve always regretted not going to Lily’s wedding, and … and we didn’t even invite them to ours.’

‘But, Petunia…’ Vernon began. He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Snorting angrily, he snatched it up, bellowed ‘What?’ and then instantly fell silent.

‘Morning, son,’ he began.

‘Yes, we’ve got one, too. Your mother has just opened it.’

‘But, Dudley…’

‘Your girlfriend, too? Preposterous!’

‘It is! Do you think that’s a good idea? What if she finds out that he’s a freak, that he’s marrying into a family of freaks?’

‘I don’t think that we should…’ Vernon sighed. ‘Yes, I think she wants to go.’ He looked pleadingly towards his wife, and shook his head in a desperate last-ditch attempt to make her shake her own. Instead, Petunia nodded.

‘Yes,’ she confirmed loudly, hoping that her son would hear. ‘If Dudley wants to go, then I would like to accept the invitation, too.’ She held out her hand; her husband rolled his eyes, sighed in resignation, and reluctantly handed her the phone.

‘Hi, Mum. Flash invitation, isn’t it?’ Dudley asked. ‘Mine says Dudley Dursley and Guest. I know that Daze would love to go; she really likes Harry and Ginny. If we’re going … well … er … I had a bit of an accident with my suit. I’ll need to get a new one. You’ll be able to persuade Dad to fork out the cash, won’t you? Got to go, I’ll speak to you tonight, okay? We can make plans then. Bye.’

‘Bye, Dudley.’ Petunia barely managed to speak her farewell before she was cut off.’

‘I just hope we don’t regret it,’ Vernon said grimly as Petunia put down the phone. He sounded as deflated as a helium balloon a month after a party.




The gates through which Lisa Smith was staring were Victorian, bow topped, and ornate. A fine curtain of rain shrouded the distant walls of the main building, obscuring the intricate details and making it look rather forbidding. As the queue shuffled forwards Lisa returned her gaze to the scrolls and finials of the gates, and to the large arched sign which surmounted the intricate wrought iron. “Macmillan of Lochwinnoch — est. 1375” was all the sign said. No more was needed. Macmillan wool, Macmillan the weavers, Macmillan cloaks and robes, any description was superfluous. Macmillan! The name was enough.

Lisa pulled her company-made cloak tightly around her and again moved towards the smaller door marked “Staff”. Everyone in the queue at the staff entrance wore identical cloaks, and they all had their hoods pulled up to protect them from the light, but incessant rain. The queue wasn’t long, it never was. But, like everyone else, Lisa was anxious to reach the shelter of the building.

‘Dreich day, hen,’ the gnarled elderly man on the other side of the large gate said to her as she shuffled past his shelter. ‘Och, here’s the wee boss,’ he added, before she could agree with him. He stepped forwards and smartly opened the large gate.

‘Morning McPherson,’ the young man drawled as he bypassed the queue of anonymous workers and entered through the ornate gate. His cloak was identical to the ones worn by his employees.

‘Morning, sir,’ McPherson said. ‘It’s a dreich day, I wuz just saying to the wee lassie.’

‘Yes, certainly,’ said the young man offhandedly. He glanced across, saw Lisa, and–to her surprise–gave her a fleeting smile. His eyes glazed, as if he were deep in thought. Lisa thought that he was about to speak, but McPherson’s attempt to close the main gate forced the young man to move.

‘Head in the clouds,’ McPherson muttered.

‘His mind is on other things. Personally, I think he’s lonely,’ Lisa told the elderly gatekeeper.

McPherson’s response was lost to Lisa, because the woman behind her snapped, ‘Get a move on, lassie.’ Lisa turned, and realised that while she’d been talking, the queue had moved forwards. She hurried through the door, picked up her card, and clocked in.

‘Morning Sharon,’ Lisa said, as she took her place in front of her loom.

‘Morning,’ her supervisor said, looking down at her worksheet. ‘It’s houndstooth twill for ye today, Lisa.’

Lisa began to set up the yarn in her shuttle. Once she was satisfied that everything was in its place, she raised her wand and set the shuttle flying. As the shuttle wove its way through the warp threads stretched across her loom, her mind drifted. Houndstooth, herringbone, gamekeepers, and tartans by the score, it was always the same. There were the minor variations in the warp and weft, but otherwise, the job was simple repetition. Her wand danced through the air, and the weft intertwined with the warp. The pattern slowly appeared, and another length of quality cloth began to take shape.

The good quality Scottish wool she was using to manufacture the cloth had been spun and dyed by others. It was possible that the wool was more than six months old, and that she had been the spinner, but it was unlikely. Now, after learning both spinning and dyeing, she was finally a weaver. Now she made the whole cloth, strong and fine and subtly patterned; and very traditional.

Lisa loved her work, she loved to watch the fine cloth appearing in front of her, but what she really wanted was to make something new and different. Another year or two, she told herself, and then she’d move to London and find herself a tailoring job. Once she’d mastered that skill, then she could finally set herself up on her own.

Her daydreams were interrupted by a sigh of annoyance. Worried, Lisa checked her loom, but she hadn’t made an error, the pattern was good.

‘Whet’s he daein’ noo?’ Sharon asked. Lisa followed the older woman’s gaze and saw the young Macmillan standing on the gantry at the far end of the weaving room. ‘The loon seems tae spend haff his day here.’

Like many of Lisa’s colleagues, Sharon, spoke in a rapid Scots dialect and made no concessions to Lisa’s Englishness. Lisa managed to catch only half of Sharon’s words, so she simply shrugged noncommittally. She watched the man as he watched her and, when their eyes met, she smiled at him. He looked startled and then smiled back. The smile was so brief that Lisa wasn’t even certain that she’d seen it, especially as he immediately turned away from her and left the room.

As she worked, Lisa continued to ponder the event. It seemed to her that the boss’s son had very little to do. He was supposed to be learning the family business, but the top man, “Big Rab” Macmillan wouldn’t let his son talk to the staff, or get involved with the production in any way. As a consequence, the “wee boss” seemed to fill in his days by drifting from building to building, silently watching everyone work. Lisa was convinced that he needed to do what she’d done. He needed to tell his parents that he wasn’t interested in the family business; he should do whatever he wanted, not what was expected of him.

When the first bell went, signalling tea break, Lisa followed the other witches from the weaving hall. The moment she stepped through the door she was approached by the young Macmillan.

‘Good morning, Miss Smith,’ he said, his voice was ponderous and portentous. ‘I wonder; may I speak to you privately for a moment?’

Lisa’s mind went into overdrive as she tried to determine what she’d done to be hauled in front of the management. Her work was good; in the six months she’d been weaving she’d had only one cloth marked down as a second, and that had been in her first week in the job. Had she misjudged him? Had he been annoyed by the fact she’d smiled at him?

‘Oh,’ he said, seeing her expression. ‘You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s, well…’ He sighed and looked around at the other weavers, all of whom were trying to pretend that they weren’t listening. ‘Let’s go to my office,’ he suggested. ‘Follow me.’

He strode off down the corridor; Lisa hesitated for a moment, and then set off after him.

‘Do you like it here?’ he asked, he didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder to see if she was there. ‘You’ve been with us for almost two years, and I’ve heard good reports. Keen, hard-working and ambitious, they say.’

‘Who says?’ she asked curiously. ‘Sir,’ she added, remembering who she was talking too.

‘People,’ he said vaguely. ‘Staff, you know.’ He stopped, and so did she. ‘Marching off ahead, very rude of me, sorry,’ he said apologetically. ‘You shouldn’t be behind me, it’s not right, come along.’ He motioned her to stand at his side. ‘I’ve begun to think that people who call me “sir” are teasing me. You can call me Ernie,’ he told her. ‘If… if I can call you Lisa.’

‘Okay, Ernie,’ she told him, wondering what on earth was going on. Ernie said no more; he appeared to be deep in thought.

They climbed a flight of stairs, and walked along a plush carpeted corridor which was unfamiliar to her. Ernie opened the door to his office motioned for her to go first. She began to move forwards, but he suddenly pushed past her and strode rapidly towards his desk. She was about to protest at his rudeness, but she remembered who she was with, and fell silent. That was when she saw the thing he was trying to hide from her. Her eyes were sharp and, although she had only a fleeting glimpse of the card, she managed to see two of the largest words before he turned the card over. Those words were Wedding, and Weasley, and they were enough.

He looked at her, and at the card he’d just turned over.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, I appear to have made something of a hash of things so far. I made a plan, wanted to impress, and changed my mind. But I forgot to hide the card. Stupid of me! Well it’s too late now, you’ve seen it, and now I’ll never know.’

‘It’s true then?’ Lisa said, impressed. ‘You really are a friend of Harry Potter. You really did fight alongside him.’

Ernie Macmillan puffed out his chest, and drew himself up to his full height, although he was not a particularly tall man.

‘Yes, true, all true,’ he said proudly. ‘But I thought that you’d know all about it, after all, you’re a Smith, and a Hufflepuff.’

‘I was fifteen. I couldn’t have stayed, not that I wanted to. I was terrified,’ she told him.

‘Surely Zacharias took care of you…’

‘Zacharias?’ she said dismissively. ‘Those Smiths are distant relatives. He’s my third cousin twice removed or something. I don’t think that I’ve ever even spoken to him. He certainly didn’t acknowledge me at school. We’re the poor relations.’ She looked into Ernie’s face. Something was troubling him. Unsure what it was, she simply pressed on. ‘Half the factory thinks that you made it all up,’ she told him.

‘Made it up?’ he said, his eyes clouded and the corners of his mouth drooped despondently as he lost himself in memories. He shuddered. ‘Why would I make up something like that?’

‘Lots of people claim to have been friends with Harry Potter when they were at school,’ she said. ‘They think it makes them important.’

‘I am important,’ he said. ‘I’m the Macmillan heir. Father says…’

Lisa couldn’t keep the amusement from her face. ‘I stopped listening to my father a long time ago,’ she said.

‘Yes, well, I can’t I must…’ he hesitated. ‘Why are we talking about our fathers? You have work to do, and I... Are you busy tonight?’

‘Tonight? I’m…’ She stared at him and cursed her own stupidity. ‘Are you asking me out?’

‘That was the idea,’ he said abruptly. He was trying to keep his voice flat and emotionless, but he wasn’t quite succeeding. ‘That’s why I asked you here. Didn’t want to do it in front of the staff. Not making a very good job of it, am I? But I haven’t had much practice.’ He looked into her face ‘Thought you’d guessed, after all… Invitation! Should have impressed you. Did, I think.’ Lisa opened her mouth to speak, but he ploughed on with his increasingly nervous-sounding monologue. ‘You look confused, worried. Don’t think that you have to say yes just because I’m the boss’s son. I’m not going to sack you if you say no.’ He allowed himself a wry smile. ‘I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Completely powerless, that’s me. All the same, if you say no, I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell anyone I’d asked. Awkward, you know? Also, I should probably tell you that I wasn’t exactly a close friend of Harry, knew Neville Longbottom much better. But I was in Harry’s year and… Well, you’ve seen the invitation. I wish you hadn’t.’

By the time he’d finished, she was laughing. ‘Just let me say yes, okay? Where are we going?’ she asked.

‘I’ll book us a table at Merlin’s Circle for seven this evening,’ he told her happily. His smile lit up the room for a moment, and then it was replaced with his usual blank, slightly worried look.

‘I’d have said yes even if I hadn’t seen the invitation to the Potter/Weasley wedding,’ she assured him.

He nodded gruffly, but Lisa could see the insecurity in his eyes. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven, at your house,’ he told her, suddenly brusque and business-like as he regained control. ‘I’m afraid that I’ve made you miss your break, sorry. You’d best get back.’

‘You don’t know where I live,’ she said.

‘Your address is on file,’ he said. His response was curt, but the creases in the corners of his eyes were enough to make Lisa believe that he was trying to tease her. ‘You’d best get back to work quickly, Lisa. I can’t even overrule the supervisors; it would be very bad form.’

‘Seven tonight, bye, Ernie,’ she said.

As she dashed down the stairs, Lisa tried to make sense of what had just happened. Merlin’s Circle Restaurant! It was ridiculously expensive. What could she wear?

When she strode back into the weaving hall, everyone was waiting for her.

‘Whet wis tha’ aboot?’ Sharon demanded.

‘Nothing important,’ she lied.
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