分卷阅读54（1 / 2）

“I love you,” Ginny is saying at the front of them all, choking back tears, one of the few times that Draco had ever seen her cry. “I love you, I love you, I love you, and that, Luna Lovegood, is not something that I was going to have the ability to stand with these people and say. We spent so long fighting. So long running.” It’s like her words are reaching out to the crowd, addressing everyone, wrapping everyone into this circle of love that she has in her heart, Harry most of all. “And now it’s over. There are some days—a lot of days—where I wake up and look around and don’t know what to do with myself, because there are so many empty places where the people I love should be standing, so many things that I can do now that had seemed impossible only a few months ago—and I don’t know how to handle it. But then I look at you and I know that it’s okay, because I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to love you, Luna. For the rest of my life, I’m going to love you.”

Draco squeezes his hand again, and when Harry looks over, there are tears shining in his eyes.

“I love you, too.” Luna is not one for speeches, not like Ginny, but she looks radiant up there, the happiness pouring off of her in waves to infect the rest of the crowd. “I love you with everything in me. I have for as long as I can remember.”

There’s a moment where Harry thinks she is going to cry, but then she shakes her hair back from her face and smiles that beautiful, watery, radiant smile and pushes through it. Not that it would have mattered. Luna does what she wants, whenever she wants, and if she wants to cry during her vows, there was nothing wrong with that. Weddings are the one place where tears are always a good thing.

In his head, he can hear Draco answering him. Not always, he would have said, if Harry had mentioned the thought out loud, and then he would have some story about some family member or another and their twisted love affair and Harry would stop listening half way through just to watch him, to see the way he talks and looks at the world and the way that he looks back at him, like Harry is the best thing in his entire world.

It’s rude, to do this at a wedding, but considering all the time that Ginny had to waste listening to Harry pine, he thinks he’ll be forgiven.

“It’s okay if you have to stick with maybe’s.” Harry has leaned over to whisper right into Draco’s ear, and other than a raised eyebrow from Fleur, who seems to have appointed herself the guardian of etiquette, no one seems to notice. “If you can never say it. Because I know. I know that you love me, and I know that I love you with every aching inch of my soul, do you understand Draco Malfoy? For the rest of my life I’m going to love you, and there’s nothing you can do about it now.”

Draco doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

Like Harry had said—tears at a wedding are always a good thing.

Draco

After the whirlwind of celebrations, Draco finds himself sitting across from Ron’s Aunt Muriel.

Everyone had warned him about her. About how mean she was, how she does not care about people’s feelings, how there is no comment (no matter how uncomfortable) that she will let go unsaid. Her one joy in life, according to George, is ruining an otherwise pleasant occasion by making people squirm.

“So you’re the Potter’s boyfriend?” She wrinkles up her nose. Draco can’t tell what about—him or Harry or the fact that they are together, or if she just didn’t like his cologne. So many things about him could be under attack in nothing more than a second and he wouldn’t even know what hit him. “I knew your father.”

This, at least, was not something that he would have seen coming. There aren’t many people here who would bring up a death eater at a wedding, especially when that death eater was a family member rotting away in Azkaban. But those people aren’t Aunt Muriel.

“And your mother. And your Aunt. I helped put her away the first time.” She’s taken over by a coughing fit then, one that makes her shoulders heave and bends her down to the table, clawed fingers curling around the table cloth to ease her through it. Draco is already on his feet with a glass of water when she waves him away, staring across the table again, her beady eyes steaming from the effort of catching her breath. “They had me on the Wizengamot committee.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. It’s not like it was much of a feat, sending Bellatrix to Azkaban. No one ever doubted that she was guilty. “Are you still?”

Wrong question. He knows it from the way she holds herself, her posture tightening. “No.”

“Why not?”