elithien: senlinyuwrites: elithien: It’s a fact that Malfoy cried the most on their wedding da

elithien: senlinyuwrites: elithien: It’s a fact that Malfoy cried the most on their wedding day “It’s just a wedding, Mother,” Draco said in a bored voice when his mother stepped back to study the way his cloak was draped over his shoulders for the eighth time, her eyes suspiciously shiny. “You’ve attended dozens. There’s no reason to be emotional.” Narcissa’s gaze flashed piercingly as she looked up at him. Her expression was calm, but there was a burning intensity in her blue eyes, and a tiny scrap of lace gripped tightly in her left hand. “I doubt I’ll be the only one crying today.” She raised an eyebrow. “Your father cried so much, we had to stop in the middle of the vows so he could compose himself.” Draco rolled his eyes and looked away, jaw tensing. “I’m not my father, ” he said, his voice clipped. Narcissa’s mouth pursed and she turned her attention to straightening his boutonnière and adjusting the placement of his cloak for the ninth time. Draco sighed and forced himself to endure it. “You’ve managed to plan the entire affair down to the millisecond. If the stress of spending an hour discussing whether the napkins should be champagne, cream, ivory, or alabaster didn’t break me, I doubt that standing in place, smiling on cue, and reciting lines will have any effect whatsoever.” His mother gave a small, disdainful sniff that was loud enough that Draco knew he was intended to hear it. He refrained from rolling his eyes as he turned to stare at the enchanted mirror in front of him. “Lovely, lovely,” the mirror crooned at him. He ignored the simpering that began emanating from the glass as he studied his reflection. It was understandable why his mother was emotional. Draco could see his deceased father in his face. The same narrow features and grey eyes. Draco always made a point of keeping his hair carefully short. However, as he stared at his reflection, dressed in traditional wedding robes, he couldn’t deny that if their wedding portraits were placed side by side, Lucius Malfoy and he could have been twins. Draco turned away from the mirror, running his thumb over the heavy Malfoy signet ring on his right index finger. ”I’ll need to go check on the bride, ” he heard his mother say. The ceremony would take place outside. Draco could see the pergola from the window, wreathed in flowers and only a dozen yards away. The guests were already there, mingling and beginning to seat themselves. His chest tightened and his fingers curled into a tight fist. The excessive quantity of planning and traditionalism was enough to drive any wizard mad. He forced his hand opened and turned away, looking for a distraction. The door clicked. Draco glanced over his shoulder to see Theo, perfectly pressed, with a sly smile on his thin face. “Cold feet? Any second thoughts? As Best Man, it’s my duty to provide whatever services I can. I brought Firebolt 8000 if you need a quick getaway.” Draco fixed Theo with a cold glare. “Fuck off.” Theo waggled his eyebrows. “You know what you remind me of right now?” Draco did not know, nor did he wish to. He was beginning to keenly wish he’d chosen someone else as Best Man. Even Weasley would be preferable. “Sixth year,” Theo said. “When you were walking around acting like everything was fine, and then having an emotional breakdown every night in bed.” Draco rolled his jaw and tried to ignore him. Theo was grinning like a madman. “You mum slipped this me,” he extracted a familiar, lacy handkerchief from his sleeve with an elaborate flourish, “in case you need it during the ceremony.” Indignant rage flooded across Draco’s chest. He snatched the offending scrap of fabric from Theo’s fingers and it burst instantly into cold blue flames. “I. Am. Fine.” Draco’s voice was a low snarl as he dropped the still-burning fairylace onto the floor and stalked past Theo in order to head outside. Theo managed to stop grinning like a lunatic by the time they reached the faintly glowing places on the manor lawn that they had been instructed to take. Draco’s mouth was beginning to feel irritatingly dry. He internally cursed Theo for distracting him so much that he hadn’t thought to drink any water before coming outside. The guests were seated and there was a brief pause as the quartet completed one piece and then began playing the slow, traditional melody that made the hair on the back of Draco’s neck suddenly stand up. He turned sharply on his heel, his shoulders squared and tried to ignore the photographer practically kneeling at his feet, snapping one blinding photo after the next. Draco’s jaw twitched with suppressed irritation as he focused on the rhythm of the music, mentally counting out the cues for brides’ maids that he stared past, and a crowd of red-haired flower girls that stumbled along shyly, dropping fistfuls of flower petals in uneven heaps along the aisle. There was a pause. The harp strings trilled and a shiver ran straight down Draco’s spine as he stared down the aisle. Waiting. The harp trilled again, and his heart stalled and then crashed painfully against his ribs. She should be there. The second harp trill was the cue. Maybe she’d changed her mind and run. He forced himself to breathe and blinked. When he reopened his eyes, there she was. Hermione stood a dozen yards away, standing at the far end of the aisle, utterly resplendent in her wedding robes. A flower crown was set on her uncontainable hair, and she moved slowly forward across the grass. The guests all stood and turned to watch her, but Draco hardly noticed as he stared, heart in his throat, while Hermione walked towards him. She was beautiful. Beaming. Dressed in traditional wedding robes. Everything about her magical. Every inch of a her a witch. Draco could scarcely believe there’s been a time when he somehow thought she somehow didn’t belong in the same world that he did. It was like trying to imagine the world without the sun. She was as radiant as the dawn. Like a goddess from a myth. Wild. Untamable. Brimming with life as though she called it forth. She stared down the aisle at him, her gaze unwavering, her face was wreathed in smiles. Her eyes were shining, and every bit of light in them made his heart pound harder. Draco’s eyes were burning to blink but he couldn’t let her go from his sight for a moment. His throat was so thick he could barely swallow as he stood watching her. She was halfway down the aisle when the corners of his eyes pricked sharply and she abruptly swam in his vision. Hot tears were suddenly streaming down his face. He shook his head slightly, trying not to be obvious and willed them to stop before he visibly made a fool of himself in front of a newspaper photographer. It was no reason to be emotional. If anything the tears were brought on by the stress. The past forty-eight hours would be enough to break most men. It was just a wedding. Wizards had been having them for centuries. He continued to stare through swimming eyes at Hermione. His wedding. To Hermione. She was going to marry him. Hermione Granger was walking down the aisle towards him. She was giving herself to him, taking him as her husband. To have and to hold. Both now and forevermore. In a moment, she would be by his side, her hand outstretched to take his. They would stand together, hands held fast as they united their souls and bonded their lives. She loved him. Despite all the reasons in their past that she had not to, she had chosen to love him. Draco’s throat contracted and his shoulders shook. The camera flashed. Still unable to look away from her face, Draco pressed the heel of his hand firmly against the corner of his eye as he waited for her and cried. I’m deceased -- source link

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