Chapter Text
A deep blue gem glints in the warm sunlight, set elegantly into a rose-gold band that’s wrapped around a dainty finger belonging to Rose Granger-Weasley.
It hadn’t been Draco’s first choice, but Rose Granger-Weasley is as stubborn as her mother, and talking her out of it proved to be impossible. The gentle swell of her belly is hidden by the carefully constructed dress, designed to have a high waist and voluminous bottom.
Shimmering fabric cascades onto Theo’s feet, shifting from blues to greens to yellows to reds, a rainbow effect that is subtle but distracting. Theo had chosen the fabric. He’d wanted the memories to be something he could look back on without wincing at poor colour choices, clashing fabrics, or ugly decor. Rose had been happy to let him, disinterested in the fuss of wedding planning.
“This is the only time I’ll be at a wedding where I’m important enough to be photographed,” Theo had said, holding the rainbow swatch up to various dress robe fabrics to find a match. Draco had known he’d go for midnight blue with some sparkle before Theo had made the choice. Theo could never say no to a good sparkle. “I want it to be perfect.”
Framed by a floral arch high above their heads, flowers of blues and dusky pinks hanging amongst the green, they stand before everybody. All their friends, family, colleagues. Pansy, Blaise, Luna, his friends, more Hogwarts alumni, Ministry workers, the Weasley clan in its entirety; they’re all here. This is the first Weasley grandchild to be married, so half the attendees have varying degrees of flaming red on their crowns. Draco swallows. Surrounded by this many Weasleys always makes him uneasy.
They’re unhinged, the lot.
Next to Rose is her mother. Draco meets Hermione’s eyes and, for a second, he forgets where he is and that he’s staring. Hermione looks away when the Official begins to speak, breaking their eye contact and driving a dagger into Draco’s chest.
The dressmaker has also expertly hidden Hermione’s swollen belly beneath a high waist and fluffy fabric. The bouquet in her hands sits above the swell, and Draco wishes he could hold her, comfort her, press his thumb into the wrinkle set between her brow.
What has he done?
The mess they’re all in is his fault.
There’s no backing out of this now.
“The rings,” the Official says, looking at Draco expectantly. Draco starts, heart racing, and pats the pocket set at his thigh. He pulls the blue box free and opens it to reveal two simple rose gold bands, a matching set, one to join the engagement ring on Rose’s finger, the wider one for the husband.
He’s shaking.
The sun is too hot.
He thinks he might faint.
He can’t have stuffed up this badly.
“Is there anyone who objects to this marriage?”
Draco reels. How are they already at this point in the ceremony? His head gives an involuntary jerk towards the onlookers, and he finds his son, Scorpius, seated in the front row alongside a distraught Ronald Weasley, grey eyes set firmly on Draco. Scorpius gives a wicked little grin, fingers twitching in his lap, rising, mouth opening theatrically with unspoken words. But he doesn’t say a thing. No one does.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the Official says. “You may kiss the bride.”
Theodore Nott Jr turns, beaming at his new bride, lifts the veil, and kisses Rose Granger-Weasley.
Rose Nott, Draco corrects himself mentally.
Rose spins to face their friends and family, her hand slipping delicately into Draco’s, lost in the sea of her wedding gown. Draco’s stomach lurches, but just as quickly as she’d done it, she’d taken her hand away, giggling and positively bursting with joy.
The seats have become people, standing, applauding, throwing confetti into the air, a blur of noise and colour and emotion as Draco remains glued to the altar, Hermione Granger at his side.
“I’m just glad it isn’t you,” Hermione says. It isn’t kindness or longing. It is genuine loathing. Face stoic, golden brown eyes following her daughter as she soaks up the deluge of adoration, Draco can feel the hate roiling off Hermione's body in sharp, jolting waves.
Desperate, Draco reaches for her hand, but Hermione steps down and follows the cheering, rowdy mass of people now herding beneath a large white tent.