A/N: Hello, my dear readers. Here, as a late holiday present to you, I present to you a story that has been floating about my head for some time, one very near and dear to me. Alas, but I'm only writing a section of it (I was even going to write more, but it's been too long and I NEED to get you a present this year). A few notes of background before I allow you to enjoy your Christmas present, please. First off, J. K. Rowling and I reached a parting of the ways with the publication of book 5. The experiences of her Draco are not the experiences of mine (whose story so far consists of Death Eaters Don't Cry; Tapestries Tear; and And Then There Were Nine and the one-shot Reindeer Pause, which comes after this one chronologically). His relationship to Alana is pretty much recounted in TT and Pause. Also, because of this severance, there are certain events which never took place, primarily deaths, but I doubt any of you will complain about that. Nonetheless, whether you are familiar with the history or not (I assure you it can be read without, or maybe rather, reading the other works won't really give you all the information you need yet anyway), I hope you appreciate the sweetness of this ficlet nonetheless. In sum, I tell you to enjoy.
Yours forever, Tsona
Alana reached out and lay a gentle hand, be-ringed, upon Draco's arm. A shiver of pure elation shot through him, making each invisible hair stand straight as an arrow shaft, at her warm brush. The glow of her joy eradicated the winter chill that crept in through the doors of the church, flung open onto the December night. Unable to contain himself, Draco glanced down at her, beaming, with love, yes, but with a selfless pride that was perfectly un-Malfoyish, too.
She was stunning. Her white satin gown offered life to her already roseate face, as did the cold draft; she could have been a carnation in tissue paper ready to be gifted. Her dark eyes twinkled with the radiance of gems. The perfume of the single white rose amid the bouquet of homegrown holly sprigs she clung to wafted upward about her, making them both giddy. Classy though it was, the ensemble was simple-- simple, Draco recalled, because, she said, the holiday celebrated a god's humble birth and He was to be emulated for what He underwent for Man.
Alana eased herself onto tiptoes in her heeled shoes and placed a soft kiss upon his cold cheek. As she drew back to meet his questioning but not accusatory glance, she whispered, "You look like nice, too, Draco."
He accepted the compliment with a smile and she turned her attention to the peopled pews of the church. Draco followed her gaze. The Weasleys' bright heads were prominent among the throng. Only Percy had failed to show, something for which Draco was half-thankful. Alana's mother sat listening in silence to Molly's hushed prattle, bringing another grin to Draco's lips. He had so feared Mrs. O'Toule would refuse her permission and shatter this moment for them. But the smile she had flashed him as she had paused to embrace her daughter was sincere. Neville had found a seat beside Ginny Weasley. Draco was reminded just how very like her mother she was, looking at them; their gestures and the tilt of their heads were much the same. Draco was certain if Ginny had not been so engaged in her own conversation, she would have cringed to note the likenesses. Arthur and Bill, his gilded fang earring glinting warmly in the candlelight, chuckled at some story George was relating to them. George was wearing a knitted hat with earflaps, Draco knew, to hide the gaping hole where his left ear ought to have been and which might upset the Muggle priest. Bill's heavily scarred face looked not at all intimidating full of laughter.
In the next pew up, Hermione and Ron sat alone, both still with glowing faces, Ron still looking sheepish, as if he had been caught stealing some priceless treasure. They were holding hands, Draco knew, and needed no more to communicate fluently. Will we look like that soon?
"Harry!"
Absorbed in his observations, Draco had failed to hear the distinctive loping plod of Harry's too large boots. Even years later, liberated from the hand-me-downs of his cousin, he still chose clothes that didn't fit. He slunk into the church with his shoulders drawn in against the cold, a horridly orange Chudley Canons scarf slung about his neck. He grinned at the greeting and went over to grasp Alana's hands briefly in his stubbornly unmittened ones; he only ever wore gloves in Quidditch matches anymore, claiming that anything softer than the leather eased his calluses so that it would become painful to play. He murmured a brief, "How are you?" to which Alana, too rushed away on her own emotions, could not reply, before he turned to Draco.
They looked at one another a moment before each moved simultaneously to pull the other into a rough, brotherly hug that made Alana giggle girlishly, too long the proponent of just such a gesture.
"I guess it's your turn next, eh, mate?" Draco ribbed as they broke apart.
"I'll need a girl first. But I have to say," he cast Alana a glowing look, with rascally glittering eyes, "you may have found a contest here that I can't beat you in."
Alana colored, but Draco, grinning back in like manner, cast an eye into the church, murmuring, "I don't know."
Harry actually laughed aloud, his joyous peal ringing in the stone narthex. "Don't you start playing matchmaker for me, Draco Malfoy. I might just have to leave your fiancée a widow before she's married. In no seriousness, of course," he added quickly with a nod to Alana, who pouted and stuck out her tongue at him so that her elegant ensemble became a girl's play costume.
"I do hate to interrupt such a touching display of youth."
The drawling sneer froze Draco's blood more thoroughly than the winter chill ever could.
Harry, never one to panic when confronted, turned with crossed arms to this new actor in the tableau. Eyes narrowed, he countered with a very hard, "What are you doing here?"
"Can a man no longer come to his only son's marriage ceremony?"
Draco shut his eyes against the deliberate clicking of the man's heels, his breathing coming shallowly, only vaguely aware of Alana's hand tightening on his arm. As the tattoo came to a halt, however, he could not resist cracking an eyelid to peek.
"Hello, Draco."
Lucius Malfoy stood before him, swathed in his usual, fully black ensemble, hardly appropriate for a wedding, even one Draco was sure he couldn't celebrate. He was resting a gloved hand upon his serpent-headed cane. Draco feared his father must have seen how his eyes went first to the heavy, fanged ornament.
"I must say," Lucius continued lazily as he drew off a dragonhide glove and fell to examining his immaculately kept fingernails, "that I was surprised not even to have been notified of this union, that I had to get my information secondhand. Most embarrassing for me, Draco."
Draco was trembling faintly and could feel the sweat rising to the surface. "You disowned me," he petitioned. "I hardly thought it would matter. I didn't think you would care."
"Disowned or not, you are still the sole heir to the Malfoy name and it'll be your blood and your --" he cast Alana a cold glower "-- wife that shall continue it. In that respect, I want a say."
"Please, sir," Alana interrupted, stepping forward a bit. Draco tried to grab her back. "My name is Alana O'Toule and--"
"I know who you are, girl. Don't think me so uninformed, just because I didn't hear anything from you."
Draco cast his eyes out into the crowd once more. Who would possibly have contacted his father? Alana had, in truth, petitioned Draco to tell his parents about their intended marriage, but he had refused and she had eventually caved into his obstinacy. His eyes fell on Professor Snape, looking highly uncomfortable, as he always did in social situations, and sitting by himself. Draco had been honored that he had agreed to come at all, but now....
"My informant," Lucius sneered, as if following Draco's thoughts, "could not come. But he tells me to inform you he will be in contact soon. He wants to meet your chosen bride."
Draco nodded numbly. His mind had begun to process a second possibility. A pale face rose from the darkness of obscurity. But.... Draco tried desperately to read the Dark Lord's mood from his father's expression, but could not in the face of marble.
"Well, then," Lucius continued, perhaps reading the shocked horror in his son's face and knowing that his message had been correctly interpreted, "if any of you have any more to say, speak now, or forever hold your peace." He emphasized the last phrase lightly, his eyes fixed upon Draco's, allowing the words to spiral, drilling themselves into Draco's mind. He cast one more cool eye over Alana. Her slight recoil was enough to draw a sneer from her soon-to-be father-in-law, who nodded briefly to Draco and strode off into the church on sharp heels to a back pew. Draco half wished God were not so slow to vengeance.
"Ooh, I hate that man!" Harry spat. "Sorry, Draco."
Draco shook his head mutely, still numb.
"The way he looked at me... it was like knives! Do you think he'll do anything, Draco?"
"No," Draco assured her promptly, turning her away from the sanctuary. He spoke with more confidence than he felt and didn't think the sight of Lucius Malfoy sitting comfortably in the pew would help restore his peace.
"If he does," Harry offered, "I'll squash him."
Draco tried to conceal a smile and ran the back of his fingers along the smooth plane of Alana's cheek, looking into her dark eyes. "This is love," he whispered to her. "He can't mess with that."
"I hope you're right."
"I am." He lay his lips against hers, drawing from them the rush of heat and strength that had sustained him through these last few years. Her hands crept up to encircle his neck and drag him further down. "I am." She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling again with warmth.
"All right," Harry murmured uncomfortably. "I, erm, think I'll just... go sit." Alana and Draco laughed. Harry paused in the doorway of the church to say, "Try and control yourselves until after the ceremony, eh?"
"No promises," Draco laughed, but Harry nodded, apparently aware that this was the best he was going to get, and retreated into the chapel.
As he did, the bells began to peal over the silent earth, calling the people into the church.
Alana looked up. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth formed a silent, "Oh." She appeared young, a child full of wonder, and Draco, filled with love for her and for the innocence she possessed, slipped his hand into hers.
"It's 'The Holly and the Ivy.' One of my favorite carols. It sounds pretty on the bells."
Draco nodded, not really having comprehended her sentence, having been too busy perusing her face, but ready to agree to anything she said, and brushed her cheek again. "Are you ready?"
Alana turned her attention away from the ceiling to gaze at him. In silence, she nodded. "I've been ready."
Smiling, Draco led her to stand in the doorway of the church and, as the silvery chimes faded away, the silence was filled by the piping of the organ. Alana wrapped her hand around his arm, and he, to support her, placed his hand upon hers.
What tune the organist played, Draco was never really aware. He floated more than walked between the pews of the church, as if borne on the fragrance of the pine garlands and wreaths, of the flickering candles that leant a vibrant orange glow to Alana's cheeks, and the rose that trembled in her clenched hands. He was never truly aware of much but the softness of her grasp on his arm, of the sense of her beside him. The altar, draped in a snowy brocade, drew nearer and the priest, garbed in matching robes, smiled at them as they approached. He felt Alana draw him slowly down onto his knees and did not resist. Her head bent forward, her tawny hair falling down over her shoulders to dangle as a gold lace veil across her face. Uncertain, he copied her gesture and the priest lay a hand upon his head and hers.
"God, bless these, Your children. Guide them as they enter tonight into the union that can best emulate the fullness of peace and love that we shall experience upon Your return. Keep them from the ways of the wicked. In Your name, O God --"
"Amen," chorused the congregation.
"Amen," Draco recited, late.
Alana tipped him a smile through the loose strands of her hair as she raised her head, and rocked back onto her heels, drawing him upward and back so that they stood below the priest as he looked out upon the crowd.
"Love," the man pronounced with a paternal smile as he glanced down upon Draco and Alana, standing silent and attentive, clasping hands. "It has been said to conquer all." Draco's eyes flicked sideways with a grin to land on Dumbledore, chuckling and looking very much out of place in a bright purple suit; for all he had done to better wizards' relations to Muggles, he had never been able to blend in among their society. "The Lord Himself declared Love to be His Name and blessed marriage as the holiest of institutions when He drew Eve forth from the side of Adam. Yet, we must be careful," the priest warned, "not to forget that the union of a man and woman, however blessed and joyous, is but a shadow of the union we will all one day have with God should we not falter in the path of righteousness. The role of husband and wife is not merely to bring pleasure to one another--" there was an awkward titter from the congregation "--oh no. Husband and wife have a second, ultimately more important task: to prevent one's partner from straying from the way of God. It is always better for a spat to occur than to allow one's partner to lose sight of the Kingdom of Heaven.
"It is in this task that true love manifests itself, for true love can survive the Devil's every temptation, the weighty task that God assigns to those He bonds together.
"Alana and Draco, I am led to understand, have already faced a number of obstacles, and surmounted them, the one helping the other. I have every faith that, if God has seen fit to draw these two souls together, they will continue to withstand the Devil's tricks. Yet, I do not know these two as well as I should like."
Draco chanced a glance into the priest's face. The sermon had taken on the tone of a charge and his eyes implored the crowd to truth. Draco was sure he knew what was coming and bit his lip in anticipation.
"If any of you should know of any reason why these two should not be joined together, one mind and one body, speak now or forever hold your peace."
Perhaps Alana noticed his anxiety because her hand tightened on his, almost certainly meant as a reassuring squeeze, but it betrayed her own tension. Like Draco, she was surely recalling Lucius Malfoy's veiled threat and was preparing to hear the slow, arrogant drawl echo through the waiting congregation, through the silence broken only by women's sobs, Draco thought perhaps Molly's and Mrs. O'Toule's.
But the dissent never came.
The priest continued, a smile shining on his face. "Are you ready?" he asked in whisper, his eyes on the couple below him.
Draco and Alana nodded, relieved.
The priest returned it with one of his own, then told the congregation, "Alana and Draco have chosen to write their own vows to one another. Draco, if perhaps you'd like to go first?"
Draco nodded and took a deep breath before turning to face Alana. She was more radiant than he had ever seen her, her eyes shining in her rosy face, waiting, patient. Emotion threatened for a moment to take hold of him, but he swallowed it down before it could render him speechless. "Alana," he said, taking both her hands in his, "I hardly knew where to begin this. There's so much I need to tell you, and it was only the thought that I'll have a lifetime to say it all that allowed me to even write this.
"You have been there for me. You came to me at I time when I most needed a friend, when no one else would. You stood by me, through... through everything." Looking into her eyes, his well-prepared speech was rushing from his head, all of his mind filling instead with her image, with the gentleness of her fingers in his hands, the way the candlelight caught on her hair, spinning it into gold. "You-- you are the only person I've ever been able to share everything with, the only one I never kept secrets from. I trust you as I've never trusted anyone else. And-- and, losing you, being away from you for so long--" His hand traveled up her arm and came to rest against her cheek. "It only taught me how much I need you. And I won't forget that lesson. Each moment, every day, I'll always be thankful for you-- for all you've taught me, for-- for-- everything." There was more he wanted to say, but the immensity of it all finally overwhelmed him, tied his tongue. He was forced to drop his eyes and shake his head in silence, signaling her to go on as his hand dropped and he bit back the tears that dampened his eyes. His father would likely kill him if he saw.
In the silence of the hall, Alana's hand reached up to cup his cheek and turned his head upward. A finger strayed upward and brushed back the wetness from his eyes. Her own glistened as well, moved by his speech. She swooped upon him to lay a fortifying kiss on his cheek. Then, her hand found his again, holding it tight, before she fumbled into her own choked vow.
"Draco Malfoy, I--" She took a great gasp of a breath and Draco got the sense that she was trying to keep her voice steady, to remember the oration she had composed, fighting the same battle he had. "You," she tried again, her voice low, a murmur that broke over him with all the gentleness of an ocean wave's last, frothy sough. "There is so much of you that other's don't see, that I'm not even sure you can see. You're humble-- yes, humble," she added, catching his quirk. "You're brave, so brave. You're gentle and you're strong. There's an inner strength in you that I love, an unquenchable flame that has been too often cooped up. You feel everything with your whole heart, which I love though I know you think that a weakness. You have such a strong sense of what's right, and you won't back down from it under any circumstance, will fight for it. I know you're not... perfect," she blushed pink as Draco tipped her another, acknowledging smile, "but whenever I look at you," she drew a shuddering breath, "I only see my knight in shining armor, the one I've dreamed of since... forever.... I can't imagine anyone better, any better man to give my heart, my life, my... everything to."
Draco returned the pressure of her hand, knowing she'd understand the gesture of thanks, of reassurance, of love. Her wobbly smile assured him she'd received his message.
"Then," the priest beamed over the crowd, "do you, Draco Alexander, take Alana Kathryn to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold? In sickness and health? For richer or poorer?"
"I do," Draco proclaimed, the assertion confident. His eyes were locked on Alana's, which were glimmering again. She gave a small sniff.
"And do you, Alana Kathryn, take Draco Alexander to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold? In sickness and in health? For richer or poorer?"
"I do," Alana quavered, clearly holding back a sob.
"You have the rings?"
Draco nodded and withdrew a small, black velvet case from his pocket. Smiling, he gently took Alana's hand in his own and she obliged him by spreading her fingers, so that the golden band slid easily onto her left ring finger. Alana spared him a smile and removed the second ring from the box. As she slid the band about Draco's hand, she leaned forward to whisper, "What does it say?"
The engraved runes were darkly shadowed in the dim light of the candles. "I'll tell you later," he assured her.
"Then, in God's Name, I pronounce you husband and wife-- what was the phrase you used?-- bonded for life." There was an appreciative, murmuring laugh from the throng at this familiar phrase thrown into the homily. "May you treat each other with respect and walk together toward the Gates of Heaven." It seemed an attempt to wrest the ceremony back into a language he understood. He didn't seem to be able to resist this last plea, this last reminder of whom he served, but the crowd, the bride and groom were waiting for another announcement. "You may now kiss the bride," the priest told Draco, giving him a gentle smile.
Draco answered him with a broad grin, then returning to Alana, wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her nearer so that she quavered in his embrace. Her lips were parted slightly, waiting, ready, but he stalled the caress for a moment to murmur formally, his eyes locked on hers, in a voice that would only reach her ears, "Mrs. Alana Malfoy." Her trembling lips received his with a fierce flash of fire that flared inside the two of them, melding the two bodies together as the circle of the arms tightened around the other, a melding of spirits and of bodies.
Draco was only vaguely aware of the answering applause from the congregation; of the heavy sobbing that was not quite drowned in the acclamation; of the pealing of the bells overhead, tolling midnight. They drew apart to regard their friends, their families as the chimes faded away. Ron and Hermione seemed to have been unable to resist reliving their own first kiss as husband and wife. They were still locked in one another's arms, Hermione sobbing into Ron's sweatered chest. Bill was standing behind them, looking a little lonely; Fleur had been obliged to remain at home with young Cédric and Victoire, though she had sent along her and the children's congratulations. Tonks was beside him, nearly jumping in her jubilation, her spiky hair a cheerful bubble-gum pink; Lupin was home with Teddy. Molly and Mrs. O'Toule had broken down completely and were weeping openly, clinging to each other. Mr. Ollivander, applauding as loudly as anyone, stood beside his wife and daughter, Kari, with her date. Harry was beaming up at them; he gave Draco a thumbs-up, which he returned with a grin, his thumbs being too deeply entwined in Alana's hand to imitate the gesture and very happy to remain there. Only one person didn't look thrilled at the union.
Lucius Malfoy sat alone in a pew near the rear of the church. He dropped his eyes to the floor as he saw Draco's gaze move in his direction. A niggling question jumped into Draco's mind, but he ignored it as Alana began to steer him back down the aisle, still hand in hand, this time not as fiancés, but rather as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy.
They passed beaming faces, the feeling of joy like a fire's warmth around them. Though their procession was slow, unhurried until the last few steps which they took at a run, the crowd passed in a flash of vicarious euphoria, a blur of riotous, warm color. It was a relief to break out into the open air of the church stoop. Draco grabbed Alana about the waist, the satin of her gown riding up to cosset his fingers, and twirled her about in the cool December air, before dropping her gently onto the iron handrail, where she perched like a bird, beaming, proud.
She bent forward and wrapped a hand around his neck, drawing him closer, and lowered her lips onto his, a warm blossoming of passion that spread to the very tips of his fingers as they curled in her hair. Alana broke away from him, grinning kittenishly, satisfied. Something cold landed on his cheek. He wondered vaguely whether he had begun to cry.
Alana reached out with a white finger and brushed the droplet away, leaving instead the warm imprint of her caress. "Snow," she breathed.
Her eyelashes were lowered to veil her glowing eyes and, sure enough, white, lacy flakes fell and clung to them, tangled in her loose, tawny hair.
"The promise of renewal, the wiping off of the slate," he muttered, touching her rosy cheek, running the bare backs of his fingers along the smooth plane.
"Yes," she cooed, nestling into the caress.
"Tabula rasa," a curt voice behind Draco corrected.
Draco turned, the chill of disquiet stealing into his veins. His father's expression would have been more appropriate for a funeral, solemn, grim, and white as death in the cold air. Flakes of snow stood out vividly on his dark suit.
"Did those tutors teach you nothing?" he spat.
"They did," Draco assured him. His fists clenched at his side, his shoulders tensed, but he kept his voice level. "Tabula rasa refers to the mind at birth, free of preconceived notions. I still have to carry around your baggage." The last bit escaped him in a hiss of venom.
His father frowned and took a few steps forward. Draco moved between him and Alana.
"Peace, boy. I've not come to hurt the girl."
"I can't be sure," Draco reminded him, though his shoulders did drop an inch from their tense sentinel.
"I've only come to fulfill my duty as father of the groom. Give me a moment and then, with luck, you'll never need to see me again."
"Let's hope," Draco agreed darkly.
His father reached beneath his cape and withdrew a mokeskin, drawstring bag. Prizing it open, he reached in. Draco braced himself, but his father only withdrew a small, dark portrait, the size of a postage stamp, which grew larger as it hit the open air.
"It is a tradition going back centuries," Lucius Malfoy recited, his tone ceremonial, "that some heirloom of the Malfoy family be passed to whomever enters into it by marriage. It is hoped this heirloom will remind that person of the grandeur of the family that they have contracted themselves to." The formality dropped from his voice and Draco could almost have sworn that the December chill hung icicles on his next words. "Since I discovered your plans to wed, I have scoured the house for something worthy of this connection. Most of our family's possessions seemed far too grand to be besmirched by you. Ultimately, I decided upon this."
He withdrew his wand and prodded the painting. Its occupant gave a grunting snore and cried, "Whassamatter? Where'm I?" As he leaned forward in his winged armchair, light fell more fully upon him. He was clearly a Malfoy, with a pale, pointed face and high cheekbones. His elegant clothes looked to be from the later half of nineteenth century and his blonde hair, liberally and regally streaked with silver, was tied back with a ribbon so that his tired, blue eyes were unmasked. They blinked as they found Lucius, who held the painting with the tips of his fingers, once again swathed in dragonhide, and looked quite revolted. "Ah, Lucius. Come for me at last!"
"Hello, Father."
Draco started and stared at the man in the painting, who was still glaring at his son, his blue eyes icy. "Grandfather?"
"What's that?" The man's eyes swiveled round to find Draco. His gaze was critical. "You'll be Lucius' son, then? The boy Lucius felt it was so important I never taint with my ideas of camaraderie with Muggle-borns that he killed me to prevent it?"
Draco felt his jaw drop. He'd never heard this.
"Killed?" Alana repeated weakly. Draco felt her hand clamp on his shoulder, whether to give or seek comfort he couldn't be sure.
Draco's grandfather turned to regard her, a little suspiciously. "Who's this, then? She's not a Malfoy."
"Actually," Lucius murmured, "she is. Draco is newly married. And you," Lucius added, extending his hand, with the portrait in it, toward Draco, "are the heirloom I'm giving to her."
"Your... your ancestor?" Alana asked, uncertainly. "Your own father?"
"It does seem slightly unorthodox," Draco's grandfather opined. "I seem to recall giving your Narcissa a diamond necklace of your mother's."
"What better reminder of the family than an ancestor? Take him," Lucius declared. "I don't want him."
"That," the painted man snarled, "is obvious." He turned a softer gaze upon Draco. "Well, boy, if you're not planning on locking me away in a dusty, dark high tower room, I consent to come."
"Without legs, I don't very well see what you could do about it anyway," Lucius sneered. He shook the outstretched painting at Draco, who took it with a look of alarm, fearing for the health of its occupant, who had toppled off his chair with the violence of the quake.
"We haven't got a tower--" Draco muttered as his grandfather stood and dusted himself off with all the dignity he could muster.
"Actually, I don't think we have anything," Alana interrupted with a small laugh.
Draco bit his lip. "You're welcome to come with us, though, wherever we do go," he tried cordially. Alana murmured her agreement.
"Well, that's settled." Lucius tried to wipe his gloved hands off on the edge of his traveling cloak, as though the portrait's wooden frame had somehow contaminated him. He did not say so much as a "goodbye," as he strode off into the night, turning on the spot several feet away and Disapparating with a small pop.
Draco stared at the spot, his fingers so tightly clenched on the wooden frame that he wondered if he'd have splinters when he finally put the painting down. He could still see the whirl of his father's cloak, as an afterimage, a pall of darker black against the darkness of the night.
"Draco?"
"Forget about him, boy," the painting commanded. "He isn't worth anyone's time or effort. I should know, I wasted twenty-five years on him."
Draco glanced down into the blue eyes. Their coldness had vanished to be replaced by a sad resignation. "I'm sorry," Draco murmured.
The old man gave a snort. "For what? You think you could have stopped your own conception?"
Draco didn't quite know how to respond to this.
"Take my advice, Draco. You put him from your mind and go enjoy that new wife of yours. I'll just sit here quietly and avert my eyes."
Draco gave him a grin. "Mind a jacket pocket?"
The man heaved a great sigh, his painted chest billowing with the rush of wind. "Get on with it, then. At least I've got the fresh air to look forward to afterward."
Draco shrank the painting until it slipped easily into his tuxedo, then turned to grasp Alana's hands as the church doors expelled the remainder of their wedding party, all of whom looked far more glad of the union than his father had. They offered their congratulations, wrung the bride's and groom's hands, gave kisses, hugs, and thumps upon the back. Even Mrs. O'Toule deigned to throw her arms around her new son-in-law before vanishing into the night with a watery, "Happy Christmas!"
Molly, one of the last to leave the sanctuary, took both of their hands in hers and said, "Now, Draco, you be gentle with her. It always hurts a bit the first time and--"
"Molly," Draco groaned, cutting her off. "Do we really need to discuss this now?"
"Well, I hardly expect you'll give me too much longer."
"I know what to do, Molly."
She frowned slightly; Draco knew she didn't approve of these libertine aspects to his past. "Fine," she conceded. "You two just go off and enjoy yourselves tonight. You'll be over in the morning, won't you? For Christmas?"
"Of course, Molly. We wouldn't miss it."
She gave him a beaming smile, patted his hand absently and disappeared into the night like the others.
Alone at last in front of the silent, empty church, Draco was able to turn his full attention back to Alana, who asked in a jaunty voice that failed to hide her flicker of excited nerves, "Well, where do we go? It doesn't sound as if Molly expects you back at the Burrow tonight. We could go to one of the inns, I suppose? The Three Broomsticks? The Leaky Cauldron? I've heard the Hog's Head's no good, though."
She was prattling on and Draco knew no better way to stop her jabber than with a kiss. Her lips gave way to the gentle pull of his, stilled their racing pace to enjoy the slow meander. "I've a better idea," he told her, coy.
He took her hand and she slid off of the iron railing into his waiting arms. He led her into the darkness, out of the shadow of the church, the warm glow of the porch lights. Their feet were noiseless in the thin blanket of new snow.
"Take my arm."
Alana did as she was instructed, but asked, her voice a flirtatious purr, "Where are you taking me, Draco?"
A thrill passed through him and he closed his hand over hers, gently as if she were sugar-spun, liable to disintegrate beneath his shivering touch. "You'll see."
He stepped forward into a spin. She turned with him and they were pulled up into the crushing blackness of Apparation.
The cold rush of December air was a relief after the suffocating tube. Draco took a grateful breath and then declared, "We're here."
Alana was already looking around. They had landed in the middle of a deserted cul-de-sac, the blacktop fleecy with snow, some of the airy flakes still eddying in the air, fleeing their sudden arrival. It was an ordinary place. The few houses were dark, their windows empty at this late hour.
"Where's here?" Alana asked, puzzled.
"Chelmsford. In lower Essex."
"And why are we here?"
Draco turned her so that she faced one of the cottages. Like the others, it was dark. The snow was like a dusting of powdered sugar on the wisteria vine that clung to the porch roof. Frost glazed its empty windows. Yet, it was to a sign out front that Draco pointed, a metal board swinging from the arm of a post. The dimness of the moon through the clouds overhead was just enough to allow them to read the words stamped across it: "SALE PENDING."
Alana spun to face him in a gasp. "Draco! You didn't!"
"I did," he proclaimed proudly.
"But, we can't afford--"
"Actually," he cut in, "we can. Would you like to look around?"
Her eyes were wide so that they caught the faint glow around them. "You're sure? I don't want to if we can't, if we'll have to give it up."
"I'm sure." He steered her into the yard and up the barely visible path through the gardens. Alana's heels clacked across the bare wood of the verandah and Draco extracted the key from his pocket. He fitted it into the lock and the door swung open to reveal the dim interior.
"Do you want me to carry you over the threshold?"
Alana blinked. "Do you want to? Are you strong enough?"
"It's tradition." Without any further discussion, he bent and hooked his arms around her waist and beneath her knees. They bent as he lifted her off the ground and her arms found his neck. She buried her face in his shoulder as he walked with her in his arms through the door. It was only once they were well inside the vestibule that he placed her gently back on the ground. She gave him a warm smile of thanks before beginning of her perusal of the place. A staircase in front of them led to the upper storey; it matched the dark, worn wood of the foyer. The sitting room was off to their left; Draco considerately raised his wand and lit a fire in the grate so she could have a better view; its light leant a soft glow to the warm, red wine color of the walls, played on the cottons and shining leather of the furniture, glinted off the wide bay window. Another room opened beyond this one, but it was too dark to make out its function.
"Do you want a tour?" He led her through the living room. The next room turned out to be a kitchen, a cheery yellow in the light of Draco's wand, with a sliding glass door leading out onto a patio. A small breakfast table dominated the center of the room. A single, lonely chair stood beside it.
"Who's house is this, anyway?" Alana wondered. "Or, whose was it before you bought it?"
"It belongs to a lovely, elderly woman. A Muggle. She's been feeling it was time to move nearer her family; she's lonely here by herself. She says the neighborhood's very quiet. Just a few families, though several do have children."
He led her toward the next room, this one a dark, satiny blue. A larger, darkly stained table stood here, though it did not appear to have been used for supper for a long while; it was stacked high with papers, with skeins of yarns and extra sets of knitting needles. A row of blue sateen curtains hung to the floor on the left. "Windows that look out onto the backyard. A huge backyard. A kid could really enjoy himself out there."
Alana gave him a glowing look and squeezed his hand. She'd always wanted children. "Where's this old lady friend of yours now?"
"Visiting her family for the holiday." A door on their right led out into a narrow hallway. The next room over proved to be a small, lavender bathroom. "She'll be there till the New Year and she's given us permission to stay here in her absence. A sort of trial run, to be sure we really like it."
Across the way, another door opened onto a step, but the room was too dark to view. Alana reached around the doorway and with a small click, light flared in several sconces around the room. It was a sort of office area, lacking windows and very dusty, as though it hadn't been used for several years. The wall of bookcases was woefully empty and what books were left had the ill-used look of a tome many have thumbed through and none have found interesting. The desk was too organized. "It used to belong to her husband," Draco explained. "I haven't been in here before; she won't enter it."
He stepped slowly onto the dust-embedded rug. "Shame. It's a fine room. It'd make a nice library."
"You know," said a male voice, "it's highly annoying to hear about this new place of yours and not be able to see it."
Draco started. He'd forgotten the portrait in his pocket. He quickly withdrew the minute frame and spoke to the man as it resumed its usual size. "Sorry, Grandfather."
The man was looking about with interest. "It is a fine room," he commented. "Especially for a middle-class Muggle. And without any windows, it's a safe place to practice magic. Shame there's no fireplace." He returned to Draco. "I think I might like it here. It's out of the way. I can talk all I want and not disturb the guests."
"Oh!" Draco hadn't given any thought to displaying the picture. "All right. Do you want to see the rest of the house first, or shall I hang you now?"
"Are you planning on repainting?"
Draco looked to Alana.
"I like the color, a sort of... copper. It's nice. Warm, but not hard on the eyes."
"All right. Then, hang me now. Er... just there. Just behind the desk. And make sure you have me centered. I don't want to look as though you threw me up willy-nilly."
Alana helped Draco to position the painting and then he muttered a quick Permanent Sticking Charm.
"There," his grandfather proclaimed. "Excellent. Wonderful view." Draco noticed that his eyes did not take in the room, but glanced down at the surface of the desk; he made a note not to write any letters that were too personal at it. "Now, just mind you come and visit?"
"Of course, but I wouldn't expect it tonight."
"Fair enough. It's been a long day for all three of us. You two head up to bed. And do try and get some sleep."
Draco gave the old man a grin and as they were shutting the door on him, his grandfather called a cheery, "Good night."
From the study, they proceeded on to the upstairs, primarily the two bedrooms, one for them and one, Draco stated, for a guest or for a child when one arrived, a comment Alana received with bounteous glee. Draco led her back down the steps in the foyer, with a slightly hesitant, "Well?"
"Oh, Draco! It's lovely! It's perfect! I really don't know what to say!"
"Then say nothing." His hand found her waist again, drew her in near him. They exchanged one pair of brief, kittenish smiles before Draco's lips closed over hers. This time, the passion, given free rein now that they were alone, was like an explosion of one of Fred and George's firecrackers, a frenzy of sparks and sound that drowned out all else. The need, the desire was so strong as to be a physical pain. It moved each to hunger for more, sent their lips scrabbling to prod the coals in search of a greater, more consuming fire. It sent them reeling, caused Draco's head to spin. He wondered briefly whether this kind of excitement was self-destructive, but found he didn't care if that was the case. Alana fell against the wall, her legs not wanting to support her any longer. Draco took up the charge, holding her up with the magnetic attraction of their mouths, with his hands around her waist, creeping up and down her back. And hers dragged at his neck, forced him nearer, more desperately. Her hands tangled in his blonde hair.
"You know," said a cool voice, "you have a room now."
