By the time I returned to the Three Broomsticks, I was far beyond pleasantly tipsy.
Walking in a straight line had become more of a suggestion than a reality.
To be fair, I blamed Hagrid.
One does not survive several glasses of homemade firewhisky and emerge untouched. Especially not the kind he brewed. I was fairly certain that particular bottle could strip varnish off furniture.
As for Hagrid himself, I had left him sprawled across the floor of his hut, snoring loudly enough to rattle the windows, one arm thrown around Fang like they were lifelong drinking companions.
A touching image, really.
The tavern was quiet when I stepped inside.
The last patron had already gone, leaving behind the lingering warmth of conversation and the faint scent of butterbeer soaked into old wood.
Candles flickered softly along the walls, casting golden light across the empty tables.
And there she was.
Rosmerta.
She stood near the counter, sleeves rolled slightly, cleaning one of the tables by hand instead of using magic.
I paused, and just watched her for a moment.
The easy way she moved, the familiar rhythm of it.
So simple and comfortable.
So homely.
There was something deeply unfair about how beautiful she looked doing something so ordinary.
I made my way toward her, not entirely trusting the floor beneath my feet.
The room tilted slightly.
Or perhaps I did.
When I reached her, I wrapped my arms around her waist from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.
She immediately leaned back into me without hesitation.
The sort of closeness that comes from years rather than passion alone.
"You're late," she murmured.
"Sowy," I mumbled into her neck.
The word came out terribly.
Tragic, really.
"I wov you so much."
Then I kissed the side of her neck.
She laughed softly, warm and fond.
"You're drunk," she said. "You're lucky Aurora isn't here."
"So lucky," I agreed gravely.
Then, because subtlety had abandoned me several drinks ago, I said:
"Rosie… let's get married."
Her hands paused briefly against the tablecloth.
Then she shook her head, smiling to herself.
"Maybe when your mind is clear," she said gently. "You're too drunk to think properly."
I frowned.
"No."
I straightened slightly, doing my absolute best to focus.
"My mind has never been clearer."
She glanced back at me with amusement in her eyes.
But also curiosity.
Dangerous combination.
"I should've asked you a long time ago," I said quietly.
The words surprised even me, because they were true.
Painfully true.
"I was planning something grand for your birthday," I continued. "A spectacle. Flowers. Music. Probably fireworks. Something unforgettable."
Her smile softened.
"That sounds just like you."
"Yes," I admitted. "It does."
I rested my forehead lightly against the side of her head.
"But then I realised something."
She waited.
"Our relationship was never about grand gestures."
The tavern felt quieter somehow.
Smaller.
Just us.
"It was never about performances," I said. "Not really. It was always the quiet moments."
I looked around the room.
This place, these walls, so many years…
"So many nights like this," I murmured. "Simple. Easy. Comfortable."
My arms tightened around her slightly.
"Just the two of us."
She turned in my arms then, slowly.
Her eyes searched my face.
Not teasing now.
Not amused.
Just watching.
"You really mean that?" she asked softly.
"Yes."
There was no hesitation.
No performance.
No charm.
Just truth.
"You really want to marry me?"
I smiled.
"Who else?"
Her eyes glistened.
And Merlin help me, that nearly undid me entirely.
"Let's do it now," I said suddenly.
She blinked in surprise.
"Now?"
"Yes." I grinned, slightly crooked.
"Let's sneak away. Just like old times."
A soft laugh escaped her.
"Like when you used to sneak me upstairs after closing," I added. "Back when you were just the pretty barmaid who pretended she didn't like me."
"I did like you," she said.
"You absolutely did not."
"I absolutely did."
"You threw a drink at me once."
"You deserved it."
"I was being charming."
"You were being unbearable."
"Fine," I conceded. "But you still let me into your room."
Rosmerta shook her head, smiling despite herself.
There was affection there, the kind that does not fade and instead only settles deeper.
Then she inhaled slowly and nodded.
"Alright," she said.
I blinked.
"…Alright?"
"Alright," she repeated, her smile widening. "Let's do it."
For a moment I simply stared at her. I had expected hesitation, or perhaps negotiation. Not an immediate agreement.
"You're serious?" I asked.
She laughed softly.
"I think you're rubbing off on me."
I grinned.
Magnificent.
"But," she added, pointing a finger at me, "you are the one telling Aurora afterward."
I paused, that was a reasonable condition.
Also a terrifying one.
"…Future Gilderoy's problem," I said confidently.
Rosmerta rolled her eyes, then she reached for my hand.
And just like that, with the tavern still smelling faintly of old ale and candle wax, we slipped out into the night together.
Quietly.
Like we had done so many times before.
Only this time, we were running toward something instead of away.
…
After reassuring Rosmerta that I was perfectly capable of apparating, I straightened to my full height and placed a hand dramatically against my chest.
"Rosie," I said with great dignity, despite swaying slightly, "a few cups cannot stop the great Gilderoy Lockhart."
She gave me a look that suggested she was still deciding whether to believe me or escort me directly to bed.
"You can barely stand upright."
"Standing is optional," I informed her wisely. "Love is not."
That earned a laugh.
Excellent.
Confidence restored.
I took her hand and pulled her closer.
"Come along," I said. "I know exactly where we're going."
Her brow lifted. "You planned this?"
"Absolutely not," I said honestly. "But I remain brilliant under pressure."
Before she could question that statement further, I apparated us both.
The world twisted sharply around us.
The familiar squeezing sensation wrapped tight around my chest, and a second later we stumbled into existence in a quiet Muggle town several miles away from Three Broomsticks.
Cold night air greeted us immediately.
The streets were nearly empty.
A handful of lamps glowed weakly along narrow stone roads, their light reflected across damp cobblestones. Small houses sat dark and silent beneath the night sky, curtains drawn, chimneys faintly smoking.
Peaceful.
Sleepy.
And, more importantly, discreet.
"There," I said triumphantly, pointing.
At the end of the street stood a small chapel, old stone walls, and a narrow steeple.
Warm candlelight faintly visible through stained-glass windows.
I had passed it once before during a previous visit to the town.
At the time, I had merely admired the aesthetic, but now it felt strangely perfect.
Rosmerta followed beside me, amusement clear in her expression as we approached.
"You are absurdly determined tonight."
"I am inspired."
"You are intoxicated."
"That too."
We climbed the chapel steps and I knocked firmly.
Nothing.
I knocked again.
But still nothing.
Rosmerta folded her arms. "I think everyone is asleep."
"Nonsense," I said.
Then I began knocking with considerably more enthusiasm.
Eventually, after what felt like several full minutes, a light flickered somewhere inside.
Footsteps shuffled slowly toward the door. Several locks clicked, and the door creaked open.
Standing there was an elderly priest who looked to be at least eighty.
Thin, sleep-rumpled, and wrapped in a heavy robe.
He blinked at us through his half-moon spectacles, looking deeply unimpressed.
"What is the meaning of this?"
"Good evening," I said brightly.
"It is nearly midnight."
"Yes," I agreed. "Excellent romantic timing."
His eyes narrowed and Rosmerta pressed her lips together, clearly trying hard not to laugh.
"We would like to be married," I announced.
The priest just stared at me like I was telling a joke.
Then his gaze moved between us.
"You are strangers."
"Not to each other."
"You are not members of my congregation."
"Spiritually, perhaps we are."
He frowned harder. "You are clearly not of this religion."
"Love is a universal religion," I said confidently.
The priest looked profoundly unconvinced.
Then he squinted at me. "And you are drunk."
"A temporary condition."
"A very visible condition."
Rosmerta coughed into her hand to hide another laugh.
I placed a hand over my heart.
"My good man," I said sincerely, "we are deeply in love."
He crossed his arms. "You could come back tomorrow."
"Tomorrow lacks spontaneity." I countered.
"You could return sober."
"Debatable."
His expression suggested he regretted opening the door at all.
For a moment I feared defeat, which would have been unacceptable.
So I leaned slightly closer, and subtly, very carefully applied just the faintest touch of magic.
Nothing overwhelming.
Merely a gentle nudge.
A whisper of persuasion woven into charm.
The old priest blinked and his posture eased slightly, shoulders relaxing.
Then he sighed a long, deeply reluctant sigh.
"Young people," he muttered and I smiled.
Victory.
He stepped aside. "Fine. Let's get this over quickly."
Rosmerta looked at me as we entered the chapel.
The interior was small but beautiful.
Wooden pews lined both sides of a narrow aisle. Candles burned softly near the altar, filling the space with warm amber light and the faint scent of old wax and polished wood.
The priest shuffled ahead toward the altar, muttering under his breath as he prepared.
Rosmerta moved closer beside me, then leaned near my ear.
"I still cannot believe you convinced him."
I smiled roguishly. "Nothing a little charm cannot fix."
She raised a brow. "Charm?"
"The magical kind," I whispered, then winked.
She shook her head immediately, laughing softly. "Unbelievable."
"I prefer impressive."
"You are impossible."
"And yet you're still marrying me."
That earned me a fond look, one of those quiet looks that lingered.
The kind that made the room feel warmer somehow.
Then the priest coughed loudly and looked at us disapprovingly.
We both looked up and he was glaring at us over his spectacles.
Apparently conversation during sacred ceremonies was discouraged.
Rosmerta straightened instantly, and I followed suit.
The priest nodded once, satisfied that order had been restored. Then he opened a worn book and began the ceremony.
His voice echoed gently through the empty chapel.
Formal and steady.
His words carried through candlelight and silence.
And for the first time all night, despite the alcohol and the spontaneity and the reckless absurdity of it all...
I felt entirely clear-headed.
Because somehow, impossibly, this felt right.
…