Hermione looked up at the sound of an owl, carefully putting Rose in her highchair. Absentmindedly, she summons a bowl of cooling porridge from the counter while she checks the letter for traps, before she began carefully untying it from the owl’s leg. The owl was beautiful, she had to acknowledge, Pitch black and very regale looking, he seemed to puff up, offended that she even dared to question the safety of a letter he was delivering. Hermione didn’t know what breed he was, but he was stunning. That did not mean however that she would assume the letter was safe. It has been six years since the war ended, and although a lot of Hermione’s paranoia had faded, it never disappeared. And with her daughter in the room, she was taking no chances.
Rose was her and Ron’s miracle baby. Years ago, when the conversation of little feet happened, when they felt it safe enough to try, they had assumed it would be easy. Ron was a Weasley, and she knew her parents hadn’t struggled in her conception, so when they felt they were ready, they tried. And tried and tried and tried. They always failed. It got to the point where they went to a Healer, afraid something might be wrong.
And there was. The diagnosis was that her body had taken to much damage during the war. They had proclaimed she would never have children. No little feet. To say she and Ron were devastated would be putting it mildly. While they never wanted a brood like Mrs. Weasley, they had wanted children, had wanted their home to be filled with running steps and little laughs. She didn’t know what she would have done if she didn’t have Ron. He had been her pillar through it all. Insisting she was enough for him even as he mourned as well. When she had gotten pregnant, they almost didn’t believe it. It had been nine months of heightened paranoia, afraid that something would go wrong, and then there she was. Their perfect miracle baby. Deciding her name was tricky, Hermione wasn’t sure if they should use Rose at all. But ultimately, they wanted to honour their friend, and wanted their daughter to be strong and kind, just like her namesake.
Giving Rose the bowl and making sure she was eating; Hermione opened the letter. And immediately had to sit down. She wasn’t sure if she had shouted for Ron, or if she had through sheer force of will, managed to communicate with her husband telepathically. But one moment she was sitting down, and the next Ron was crouching next to her in concern. She didn’t know what to say, so she just handed him the letter. She could see the shock on his face, but now that her shock was fading, she didn’t know if she wanted to laugh in glee or hex something. What she did know, was that she was going to punch Rose when she saw her next. And she was going to see her. For in Ron’s hand was a wedding invitation. The first letter they had received from Rose in years. But Hermione was happy, so happy that Rose still thought of them, that she wanted them at her wedding. And she had understood, when she had gotten the goodbye letter years ago, why Rose had done it. That doesn’t mean she isn’t going to give her a piece of her mind. Hastily she summoned a piece of parchment to confirm their attendance and to warn her they were bringing Rose. Sending Rose letters by owl post was impossible, so she didn’t want to lose the chance to finally communicate with her friend. Ron leaned over her shoulder, adding bits and pieces that in her rush she forgets to add. And at the bottom she very carefully adds. We miss you.We have and will always love you. Ron and Hermione.
The owl seemed to be bored as he hopped on the table, but he quickly snatched the letter when she offered it and then he was gone. Breathlessly Hermione leaned on Ron. The whirlwind of emotions had stolen her breath, but she couldn’t help her giddy smile. And neither it seemed can her husband. They were going to see Rose again, for the first time in years. After all the worry that plagued her, worry about how her friend was doing, was coping, finally she will be able to see her with her own eyes. And after this, there was no chance that Hermione would let her friend run away again. That she knew was something she and Ron were in firm agreement on. The spell was broken by the sound of Rose’s spoon clattering on the floor. And so, life goes on. But even as Hermione cleaned her daughter’s face she couldn’t help counting down the days to the wedding.
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Severus sighed as he paged through his mail, another day, another school year. He still didn’t know why he agreed to come back to teaching when Minerva offered. He didn’t even like children. But, he mused, as he looked at the students in the hall, Potter and Draco was a great motivator. If only so that their story never got repeated. The war had changed him greatly. While he would always be a harsh and strict Professor, heavens help the moron who decides to be prejudice in his presence. Slytherin or otherwise. He knew the cost of bias, could still feel the ache of his missing arm, and refused to be party to it. Although he might have changed, the world around him seemingly didn’t. For the first year everyone was skittish, the muggleborns traumatised, and the adults trigger happy. Still, like all things, time eventually smoothed down the rough edges, and now six years after the war, you can only see it if you paid attention.
Seeing an owl land in front of him, Severus raised a brow. Usually, the Professors’ mail is delivered in a single delivery. So, it was strange for this owl to deliver a letter after he had already gotten his mail. It was a beautiful Sooty owl. Pitch black and by his expression, haughty. Severus did not know this owl, and while it might be paranoia talking, he wasn’t taking any chances. Checking the letter for potions or spells, he untied it under the owl’s unamused glare. When the owl declined leaving, Severus heaved a sigh. Great, the owl probably needed a reply. Feeling very irritated by the inconvenience, and feeling his colleagues beginning to take an interest, he opened the letter. You are cordially invited to witness the wedding… Severus could honestly state that he had not expected this. Had thought that he would never hear from his godson again. Yet, here in his hands, was the proof that it wasn’t so. He remembers the resigned and defeated young man claiming he couldn’t chain Rose to a monster. And hopes, desperately hopes, that this means that Draco is healing. Even as he writes his acceptance, and the fact that he might be bringing a companion, Severus starts planning.
It is Saturday and Minerva wouldn’t mind if he left the castle, he wasn’t on duty. So, after breakfast, and a brief explanation to the Headmaster, he heads out. Twisting on his heels he apparated to a small well to do manor. The building and surroundings are immaculate, he knows the house elves keep it precise. Although it looks perfect and picturesque, Severus knows it’s just a cover for the sadness clinging to the woman who owns it. The very woman he is here to see.
The door is open when he reaches it, so he heads to the drawing room, knowing this was where he would find her. A simple “Narcissa” is all he does to acknowledge the woman sitting there, and in return he receives a brief glance and a raised brow. “Severus.” She purses her lips, attempting a smile, but only managing a twitch of her lip. She was a haughty as ever, posture proud but Severus knew it was a façade. Narcissa never really recovered from the war, where she lost everything, including her son. But that was why Severus was here. He hoped this was something he could fix for his godson.
He remembered with startling clarity running into her years ago. The war was scarcely over, and the population was not kind to Death Eater sympathizers. He had never seen the woman look so haggard. Although she tried to hide it, Severus could see something was very wrong. While they had been on opposite sides of the war, they had been friends, he was her son’s godfather. And so, he approached her. He wasn’t sure why, it might have been because he was sincere in his offer of help, but the story came spilling out. Of Lucius, of all the years of abuse, the fear she had to live through, the games the Dark Lord played. And the worst of all, her thoughts on Draco. He had never known his godson hadn’t told his mother what he was doing, hadn’t told her why he was doing it. But it hurt him to hear Narcissa think her son had become her husband. A man that hurt and haunted her.
He could respect that Draco didn’t want to hurt her, but he couldn’t let the assumptions stand. He wasn’t one to meddle in other’s affairs, but he had failed his godson so many times, he couldn’t bear to fail him with this.
She didn’t take it well. Not in the sense that she blamed Draco, but in the sense that she blamed herself. Hearing that Draco had been a spy the whole time, made her crumble, and he hadn’t understood why, until she told him of the last conversation she had with her son. The last words she said to him.
And that was why Severus was here. He doubted Draco had invited his mother to the wedding, not with how things stood between them. But he also knew Draco loved his mother, and hoped by asking her to accompany him, things could finally be resolved between them.
He wasn’t really sure how to start the conversation, so he settled on “I received a letter from Draco.” It was like seeing a painting coming to life. Where once was a stilted and tired expression, now resides a desperate craving, an unquenchable need to know more. Severus would not deny her this, not while knowing how desperately she wants to make amends. “He is getting married, to Rose Potter, in a month.” Narcissa tried to smile again but she can’t stop crying. Severs lets her have the moment and then softly states. “I have replied that I am bringing a companion, if you wanted to come.” Seeing the naked hope blooming in her eyes, Severus knew he made the right choice.
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Rose could not stop pacing; she also could not stop looking at the clock. It was only when Draco folded her in his arms that she calmed. Still her nervousness was palatable. “Rosie” He muttered in exasperation. She understood, she really did, this has been going on since she had woken up at four, unable to rest properly because of her nerves. And Draco had sat with her through it all, letting her nerves smash into his calm façade. She knew he wasn’t calm at all, was just as nervous as her, if not more. But he tried, and she desperately loved him for it. Nonetheless, it was still a half an hour until two. The time Hermione and Ron would arrive with their daughter. And hadn’t that been exciting news. She ached a bit that she missed it, but knew it was her choice, her decision. And she doesn’t regret it. Hermione and Ron had each other to help deal with the war. Draco only had her. She had refused and still refuses to let him deal with it alone. Even if it meant not being able to be there for her friends on that journey.
Fifteen minutes. Before she could get worked up again, Draco carefully cradled her face, looking into her eyes with reassurance. She was sure he could see just how afraid she was of their reaction, of their judgment. She had just upped and left, after all, and had only written to invite them to her wedding, so she could marry a man they thought of as an enemy. Yes, she was nervous. They had been writing letters since, opening the lines of communication, and that’s what let them to where they are now, waiting for the portkey to bring her friends to their home, two weeks before her wedding. She hadn’t wanted to see them for the first time on her big day, that day was for her and Draco. But she had wanted them there, so when she asked if they could come beforehand, she had been ecstatic that they had said yes.
This leads her back to now. Ten minutes. “Rosie, it’s going to be fine. Everything is ready, nothing is going to go wrong, and they didn’t seem mad in their letters. Everything is going to be ok.” As he rested his forehead against her in reassurance, she couldn’t help but reaffirm that she loved this man with her whole being. He was just as afraid as her, if not more. Her friends’ opinions of him had never been positive. But he was trying, for her, and she couldn’t stop herself from kissing him. Two minutes.
And then there they were. Rose wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but they looked the same, just more relaxed and peaceful. She couldn’t stop her eyes welling up with tears, and when Hermione handed the little toddler to Ron, she threw herself into her friend’s arms. “I’m sorry’ She hiccupped, not sure for what she was apologising, but feeling safe in the arms of one of the three people alive that knew her best. When she pulled back, she could see Hermione crying too and couldn’t stop herself from laughing in relief. When Ron approached, she dragged him along, careful of the child in his arms. The three of them were huddled for a moment, laughing and crying, until she made herself pull back, so she could do the introductions. They knew who Draco was of course, but they didn’t know him, and she didn’t know the adorable kid sleeping in Ron’s arms.
Seeing Draco standing there looking unsure, her smile turned soft, trying to reassure him, even as she reached for his hand. He hesitated, looking conflicted, before taking her hand and letting her pull him along to where Ron and Hermione were waiting. Her heart hurt for him, even as it warms from that sign of trust. She knew intimately the demons he struggles with, knows how he fears being proven correct, that he is a monster. It had been one of the main reasons why they had run away without leaving a way to contact them. It cut them off from their past, gave them a clean slate. And here he was, allowing her to reopen the past, allowing himself to face judgment, because she wanted her friends to witness their marriage. He wanted her to be happy, even as he struggled to accept that he was enough, that he made her happy. So, she smiled at him in faith, knowing that she wasn’t leading him to the slaughter. She had warned her friends after all, and she would not have invited them to their home without being sure that they wouldn’t hurt Draco.
Seeing a tentative conversation starting, Rose smiled softly, content. She hadn’t realised how much she had longed for the day that her friends, her family, accepted Draco. And she can see they are trying. There were a few little hiccups, but no ill intent, and it made her heart soar, that she can have this. And as she watched Ron laugh at something Draco was saying while Hermione rolled her eyes, she was happy, really happy. She knew not everything was perfect, but perfect is what you make of it. And this moment, seeing Draco smile at Hermione, and have Hermione smile back? It was perfect.
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Draco was staring at the ceiling in contemplation. Rose was in his arms sleeping, but he cannot seem to drift of. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling. Bemused? Confused? Totally bewildered? He knew Rose had said it would be fine, that Weasley and Granger, although she wasn’t Granger anymore, would not hold the war against him, but he honestly didn’t think it would be true. After all Rose is hopelessly optimistic, you only need to see the faith she has in him to realise it. He had been sure her friends would be polite, but distant. Not being rude for Rose’s sake but not getting close either. But that’s not what happened. And Draco is really not sure how he feels about it. He had met Hermione on the battlefield time and time again, had fought Ron to a standstill. He was sure they still had those scars. And yet, although it was tentative, they were trying, was getting to know him. It was bizarre. He expected them to see him as he was, a monster, someone who was chaining their friend to a hopeless cause. But there had been no subtle digs, no ill intent, and he didn’t know what to make of it.
The worst was when Rose the toddler had woken up. The proud parents had delighted in showing her of, proudly introducing Rose to their daughter, letting her hold her and get acquainted. The problem had come in when it was his turn. He was thankful, so very grateful that Rose knew him so well. Because in the pause when Ron had held out the babe for him to hold, he had frozen in terror. Rose had smoothly stepped in, angling the toddler so that they both could see her and talk, introducing him as Uncle Draco but never, not once, letting her touch him. And he was so thankful. He knew she didn’t agree, knew by the sadness in her eyes that she hated it.
The truth is Draco couldn’t handle holding the child, fearful of tainting someone so innocent, with the darkness clinging to his soul. Fearful of hurting someone so fragile with his bloody hands. But Rose understood, even while she didn’t like it. What surprised him was the flash of understanding, that decorated Granger’s face in that moment, as was the sadness that followed it. She hadn’t tried handing him the child again, and neither did Weasley. Instead, if the toddler wanted to talk to him, they angled her to him, never getting close.
He hadn’t expected the acceptance. Was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But he had to admit it was nice, having people to talk to. People who knew about the war, and his role in it, but still treating him as human. Because they knew who he was, what he did, and still trusted him to hold their daughter. Yes, Draco didn’t know what to feel. He gathered Rose closer to him as he began to drift off. He was feeling hopeful, even as he tried not to be.
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The letter fell numbly from his hands, he desperately gathered every shred of his composure and left the room. Voices were questioning something in the kitchen, but he didn’t return to find out what they were asking. Draco didn’t really know where he was going, he just needed to move. He could hear footsteps behind him, but it was a distant realisation. A whirlwind was blowing through his mind, a raging storm. And he was so afraid to find out if he would be able to endure it.
“Draco?” Someone questioned softly, even as he stared blankly at the hand on his arm. Following the limb to its owner, he met green eyes that were sparking with concern. Rose. Breathe, just breathe. He could feel her touching his face, realised he was standing on the shoreline, but all he could focus on was trying to breathe. When he finally regained control of himself, the first thing he sees is Rose. Rose who was waiting patiently, knowing not to rush him when he gets like this. Affection dashes through him in a burst. Love for this impossible woman, who never runs from his demons, from him.
His mouth is dry. Distantly he knows it was a panic attack. Nothing new, nothing they haven’t dealt with before, it was something both of them struggle with. So, he can’t quite understand why this feels so different, why he struggles to voice his thoughts. They always try to talk about it. After the first few fights caused by misunderstandings, every time one of them breaks down, they talk about it. So why was this so difficult?
He hadn’t thought of his mother in a while. Had made peace with the fact that he will never see her again. He had accepted that she was better off without him, accepted her decision to denounce him as her son. It was why he was so caught off guard when he had written to Severus about the companion he was bringing, only to find out its his mother. Draco didn’t know what to say, how to explain. He was drowning from the strength of his emotions. He did the only thing he could. Gather Rose in his arms and use her steady presence as an anchor. And she lets him. Let’s him hold her as she runs her fingers through his hair. She doesn’t tell him its ok, doesn’t offer any empty platitudes. Just lets him hold her, reminding him without words that she was there, and that they would face it together.
It's what finally allows him to talk, to explain. In the beginning Rose had asked after his mother. She had known how much he loved her. But he couldn’t talk about it. Only telling her that his mother thought he was like his father. The conversation ended there and neither had brought it up again. But this time he has to talk about it, has to talk about the last things his mother said to him after the war. Things he had thought he would take to his grave. But this impossible woman in his arms, needed to know. He desperately wants her to understand, to help him deal with this, just as she had done with the rest of his damage. So, he talks, and he talks, the sun was high in the sky by the time he was finished. He was drained, he was tired, and he honestly wanted to forget that this morning ever happened. But he can’t.
Rose doesn’t tell him it’s ok. She doesn’t sprout tales about love or forgiveness. Sadness is painted on her face; grief for him crinkling her eyes. But her eyes are steady with determination and resolve. Promising him they would weather this together. That they would survive it.
Draco closes his eyes and breathes Rose in. The sent is familiar and comforting, and it allows him to regain his calm. “I need to invite her over before the wedding.” He mutters. He knows Rose was about to protest, knowing how much his mother hurt him, but he stands firm. “I will not allow any drama to happen on our wedding day.” Rose purses her lips but doesn’t argue. It was the reason the Weasleys had come beforehand as well, to ensure that if there were hard feelings, it could be sorted before the day. Still, he takes a moment to find his strength. Leaning on the one person who had been his pillar for years and breathes. Yes, he hasn’t thought of his mother in a while, wasn’t sure how this was going to go. But at least he had Rose in his corner, and he knew there was no better defence anywhere on earth.
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Rose didn’t fidget, didn’t do anything to show her nerves. They were once more in the foyer waiting on a portkey. Draco was standing next to her, his posture loose. A response that means he is ready for a fight. She knows, because her limps are loose and ready for action too, a trained response after years of war. She knows, knows that this will not be a physical fight. Knows the preparedness is unnecessary but Rose cannot stop her reaction, and she cannot fault Draco for his.
She had asked Hermione if she minded spending the day on the mainland to give Draco the chance to catch up with his mother. She didn’t breathe a word about the fact that they were not on good terms, but Hermione’s ability to understand her needs transcends mortal minds. She had promised to take a family day trip to the mainland and had stated that Rose only had to let her know if they needed to stay away for a few days. Rose doesn’t know how, but she is incredibly grateful for who ever was looking after her, that she had such understanding friends.
Still, the fact remains that Rose can’t force herself to relax and cannot offer comfort to the man next to her. She knows nothing she says would help him now, not until he faced this particular demon. Rose trusts Professor Snape. She hadn’t always, but war changes things. Still, she trusts him, trusts that he has Draco’s best interest in mind. Therefor she will wait before casting judgment. She takes Draco’s hand in hers. Trying to ground them both. It will be ok. And if it isn’t, then she will make it ok. Because there is nothing on this earth that she loves more than Draco, and no one is allowed to make him question himself, not even his mother.
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Draco can feel Roses hand in his, uses it to ground himself. He is especially glad for it when the clock chimes twelve and the foyer in front of them is no longer empty. Even as his eyes drink her in, he has trouble recognising her. Physically she looks the same, a few more grey hairs, a few more frown lines. She is standing straight, proud and had a haughty look on her face like always. But Draco knows his mother, knows her as only a child could know his mother. And the woman before him doesn’t resemble the strong woman he knows. The woman who had weathered years of abuse, a woman who had done her best to prepare him for years of the same. A woman that doesn’t bow her head for just anyone. And while superficially the resemblance is there, something is missing. Something had gone wrong, because the woman with a steel spine looked fragile.
And Draco couldn’t stop himself if he tried. In two steps he was in front of her, reaching out to touch her before letting his hands fall, unsure of his welcome. But he couldn’t stop his concern from showing, the fear that rises up in him at the sight of her. Before any fight, before any of his fears, she is his mother, she had raised him, shielded him, loved him, and seeing her like this was wrong.
The sight of Draco reaching for her seemed to be the last straw, because like a dam bursting, his mother falls to pieces. Draco can barely hear her apologizing as he gathers her in his arms, trying to fix something he doesn’t know if he can. He searches for Rose, who is still standing where he left her, fear rising in him like the tide before the moon. He doesn’t know if he can fix this, doesn’t know if his mother would let him try, but he desperately wants his mother back. He doesn’t care about what she said, doesn’t care if she hates him and wishes he was never born. He wants her to be the woman who raised him and not this shadow in his arms. Rose looks on solemnly, but as he meets her eyes, he can see the promise there, that he was not alone, and that they will figure this out together. So, Draco lets his mother cry herself out, gathers her in his arms and heads to a prepared guestroom.
He doesn’t let himself falter until he’s downstairs again, safe in Rose’s arms. There, he lets his head rest on hers, and breathes. Of all the things he had expected, that hadn’t made the list. He wonders now if he had made the right choice, not telling his mother years ago what really happened. He cannot get the image of her breaking down out of his mind. He doesn’t think he ever will. “I need to fix this.” He knows he doesn’t need to say it, Rose had always understood him without words. But these words were just as much for him as it is for her. “It’s not your fault.” Was all she replied with even as her hands squeezed his in acknowledgement. He tries to believe her, he really does, but the shadow his mother had become haunts him. He doesn’t believe her at all.
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Rose sighs as she leaned on the kitchen table. She had just come back from finding Hermione and Ron and asking if they minded staying away for a few days. She had offered to book them a hotel, but Hermione waved it away, saying they will do a boat tour of the Greek islands. Bless Hermione and her friend’s goodwill because she didn’t know what she would do if that had caused problems. She didn’t know what to do for Draco, how to solve this problem.
She hadn’t known Narcissa well, only knew the things that Draco had told her, but this was tearing her fiancé to pieces. She was so glad that there was still time before the wedding, glad that Draco had the foresight to handle the reunion first, because this would have probably ruined everything, and she wanted their day to be happy. For them to have that happy day to look back on when things get rough. Still Draco was not handling this well and she didn’t know what to do. Narcissa was still asleep, exhausted from her crying, and Rose suspects a few sleepless nights. Draco has retreated to the shore again, probably staring at the water for the answers to life.
She knew better than to disturb him now, not with the incident so fresh in his mind. Later, she will talk to him later. After he had time to think about it, when he would be open for support. For now, the best thing she can do for him is normalise things. And that means cooking dinner. She had found the best thing for an emotional time is routine. So, she makes some pasta, and puts it under a statis spell. Then she heads to the guestroom that Narcissa is staying in and runs a bath. She is sure the woman would not appreciate being seen as anything but composed. She carefully puts a pain reducer next to the bed and gently wakes her.
She had been really upset with the woman, when she heard what she said to Draco. But she can’t hold onto her anger or animosity. The woman in front of her was drowning in her mistakes, was drowning in her guilt. Her dislike had no place here. Not with Draco so torn up about it. So, Rose puts it aside and focuses on the woman coming to. She can see when the situation catches up to Narcissa, can see the walls come up in defence but says nothing. Rose smiled softly at the woman, doesn’t let her haughty expression deterrent her and mentions that dinner is ready soon, says that the bath is full and that the potion next to her is pain reducing. She can see the confusion in Narcissa’s eyes but says nothing. As she turns to go, she hears a faint “Is Draco alright?” For that she gifts Narcissa with a warm true smile. “He will be” she promises and means it.
She finds him on the shore. Like many times before, he is staring at the water, a frown decorating his brow, pain pinching his eyes and grief troubling his mouth. She hates it when he does this to himself, when he blames himself for everything, for things he cannot control. But she says nothing, just stands there next to him until he shifts his weight to lean against her. Slowly she takes his hand and shift her weight so that she presses back.
The silence lingers a moment still before he breaks it. “I should have told her.” He was trying to seem unaffected, but Rose can hear the pain concealed underneath it perfectly. Slowly she lifts her hands to his face bringing their foreheads together. It was something they did often, a way to bring comfort, reassurance. Still, she knew nothing she says now will ease this; he needs to talk to Narcissa. And she can tell him until she is blue in the face that it was not his fault, he won’t believe her. So instead, she focuses on what she can do for him now. She softly kisses him, a promise that he was not alone. “Your mother is taking a bath, dinner is ready, and you are not alone, I’m not going anywhere.” He kisses her like he was drowning and she’s the only thing keeping him treading water. But she doesn’t mind, will always be there to keep him strong. So, she kisses him back, pouring all her love and trust into it, hoping it reaches him as she intends. By the thankful smile, he gives her, it does.
They reach the kitchen just as Narcissa descends the stairs, she is immaculately put together, not a flaw to be seen. But her eyes rove over Draco, as if afraid he was just a dream. The fear in her eyes couldn’t be hidden no matter her expression. And when Draco offers her his arm, Narcissa bloomed. A real smile gracing her face and relief colouring her eyes. Rose knew it wasn’t all fixed, couldn’t be, but as she served the pasta for dinner, she had hope that it will be.
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Draco breathed as he stood in front of the altar. He was standing in the clearing he proposed in. The trees decorated with fairy lights and a type of gauzy fabric creating a picturesque scene. The sun had set, the stars were shining brightly, candles lined the isle. The full moon glowed overhead, illuminating the night, minimizing the need for external light. He could hear crickets and the waves crashing on the shore. The buzz of insects and sounds of the wildlife. His heart was pounding, and if he didn’t have immaculate control of himself, he would be fidgeting.
He could see his mother sitting in the chair in the left row. Severus seated next to her. She was beaming in pride even though her face revealed little emotion. They had gotten the chance to talk, a chance to clear the air. It hadn’t immediately fixed everything, but he could finally see the steel straitening his mother’s spine again, can finally recognise her as the woman who raised him.
Ron and Hermione were seated next, and yes, he had finally stopped calling them Weasley and Granger. It was difficult to keep such distance when they were honestly trying so hard. He finally could understand why Rose was so good friends with them.
As if on cue, a soft tune started playing, and Hermione hurried to crouch in front of the isle. And then there was little Rose throwing flowers and running into her mother’s arms. It was probably a cute display, but it couldn’t keep his attention. Because as if rising from a dream, Rose stepped out like a vision. He had to remind himself to breathe. It was difficult to swallow passed the emotions tangling in his throat. It looked like she was floating down the aisle, and all that was missing was a halo. He knew her dress was probably pretty, that she had spent months designing it, her hair was probably perfect, especially after spending hours in the room with his mother and Hermione. But all the visual signs of beauty paled in comparison to the love shining in her eyes, love for him. She honestly could have stood there in a paper bag, and she would have been just as perfect, because she was perfect for him.
And Draco loves her, loves her with a desperation that should scare him, but it doesn’t, because he knew she would never use it against him. He trusts her, trusts her with every part of him, the good, the bad, and the parts that scare him. But she had never been scared of him. So, he trusts her now, as they stood in front of the alter, trusts her when she says he is perfect for her. Because he loved her when he was sixteen, too young to understand what regret was. Loved her at twenty two, scarred from war, unable to believe in anything but desperately wanting to belief in her. Loves her now at twenty eight, with shadows still haunting his soul but able to bear it because she was right there beside him. He will love her until his dying day, will forever try to chase her laughter, will always try to be her home.
The minister claims he may kiss the bride, the magic bond snaps into place, binding them ‘till death do them part. But all Draco can do is stare hopelessly into Rose’s warm eyes, knowing for all his regrets, he will never regret this.