When the universe conspires against you there's not much you can do. Especially not when you're already busy saving the world. So in all fairness, it wasn't his fault, was it?
It was quite obvious that she had to be of age first. He wouldn't even consider it being any other way. For all the brilliance of her mind, the slight disgust he had with all children also applied to her.
They both had to be out of school. That problem was solved quite thoroughly, and sooner than he had ever dared to hope. But, thank you, universe, for all intents and purposes he had killed the Headmaster, and neither of them was going to forgive him for that anytime soon.
And the firmest demand had been the conclusion of the war. This, also, had been complied with, again sooner than he'd hoped, and with a blaze of magic even he could give the Potter boy credit for.
There was a spark of something then. There'd been her cheek against his shoulder, and her arms around his waist. He had decided he'd brew a better version of that Sleekeazy junk, if only to keep her hair from creeping up his nose again. She had said that she knew, that she understood, and that she'd be back. She hadn't, of course. Being right about that gave him some form of satisfaction.
He hadn't ever thought she would really feel she had not done enough already. She just had to go and be a pinnacle of hope for the wizarding world. In a rare case of interest he hoped that the redhead she'd picked wouldn't know – everyone had suffered enough already. And there she went, in a veil and creamy lace.
He'd never thought she would go for a veil and creamy lace.
As she walked between the pews of happy, grieving people and he stood behind a pillar, he felt like maybe he should have done something.
But then the boy put back her veil and she laid her hand in his.