Draco drew his hand back and threw the Charms with all his strength.
They hurtled out into the darkness, spinning, their bright chains tangling together. They seemed to hang for a moment over the Pit before they fell, soundless and shining, and were swallowed up by the blackness.
Draco stepped back from the edge. His bright hair shone in the moonlight and he was breathing as if he’d been running. “That’s it, then,” he said.
“That’s it,” agreed Harry.
Draco looked at him sideways. “Are you angry with me?”
“No,” Harry said, mildly surprised that it was true. “And in a way, I guess, it’s the best thing you could have done with them. It’s fitting.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because,” Harry said. “Now some part of you will always be flying.”
Ginny spent a bad night, her sleep fraught with peculiar dreams. In them, she was dancing, spinning out of control in the center of a huge ballroom while whispering voices mocked her from the shadows. She woke up with the sun streaming through the paned windows, her eyes swollen and her head aching.
Today, she thought, staring up at the ceiling. Today she would take the potion, after the wedding ceremony itself but before the reception. She would dance in Seamus’ arms tonight and she would be happy about it.
She thought of herself, dancing and smiling, happy and delighted, and her eyes filled slowly with tears.
The wedding itself went off without a hitch. It was small — much smaller than that evening’s reception would be — and took place in the rose garden which Narcissa had so carefully cultivated since Lucius had left the Manor. There were white roses everywhere: a trellis of them hung over the altar, Floating Charms kept bouquets of them spinning in midair, the rows of chairs facing the altar were girdled with them, and white petals lined the aisle where Narcissa walked to meet Sirius, who standing between Draco and Lupin and looking very pleased with himself. Narcissa — who walked down the aisle on her own — was beaming and looked beautiful, but the scent of the flowers made Ginny feel vaguely nauseated.
“Isn’t it lovely,” Mrs. Weasley breathed. She was dressed in stiff pink robes with a spray of yellow flowers pinned to her pink hat. She was clutching a handkerchief in one hand and Mr. Weasley’s arm with the other. “I do so adore weddings. Don’t you?” she said to Seamus, who was seated on the other side of her and looked handsome and golden-haired in tailored dark blue.
Seamus, who had once charmingly complimented Mrs. Weasley on her sweaters and told her how lovely she looked, stared at her with blank eyes and said, “Not really.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Weasley.
Mr. Weasley stifled a snort and Ginny turned her attention back to the proceedings. Narcissa had reached the altar and was standing beside Sirius. Remus was saying something to Draco, who was nodding in agreement. Draco’s silvery hair grew so quickly, she thought — just last week it had been short and now it was long enough to curl over his ears and fall in his eyes in that way that made Ginny want to push it back. If he had a proper girlfriend, she thought, and wasn’t carrying on this odd charade with Blaise, he’d have someone to see to his hair. Then she immediately felt guilty for thinking such things about Blaise, who was her friend, after all, and looked as pretty as an apple blossom today in a pink and white dress with a high neck. It was nothing like the garment Draco had gotten for Blaise, which Blaise planned to wear to that night’s reception: a low-cut red dress made of a material so slinky and expensive that it felt like snake scales slithering along your hand when you touched it. She had showed it to Ginny, who’d felt immediately envious. Still, you had to be a certain sort of girl to wear that color red and Ginny wasn’t at all sure she was that sort of girl. In fact, she was nearly sure she wasn’t.
The kindly-looking wizard who Narcissa had contracted to perform the marriage service had begun speaking. Ginny had gathered that he was some sort of distant uncle of Narcissa’s, but he rather resembled Dumbledore’s brother, the one with the unfortunate prediliction for goats.
At the moment, he seemed to be reciting some sort of poem. “Love,” he began firmly,
There was a sharp clatter. Turning, Ginny saw to her dismay that Seamus had bolted to his feet, knocking his chair backward. He was breathing hard as if he’d been running and was quite white-faced, sweat plastering his blond hair to his forehead. He turned abruptly and began shoving his way out through the seated crowd, nearly knocking people down in his haste to get away. Ron yelped with pain as Seamus trod on his toe, muttered a hastily
