N/A: I wrote this for a friend :) I really hope you like this one. Thank you you reading. I don't own Harry Potter and that's good because I'm nowhere as good as Rowling.

the fairy-tale wedding

standing there makes you forget, makes you see, makes you smile

LuciusNarcissa

Oneshot

-~#~-

You stand there in front of him and everything that lies in the past – the lies, the one you want him to be – seems to pour out and disappear and you only see him, the one you want, the one you need. This moment. Your pale fingers squash the bouquet with yellow amaryllises he has chosen because he likes them, because they compliment your blonde curls so well, compliment you. That sentence melts you, that he cares about you, knows how to give you compliments despite what he is and what ideals he follows, ideals he craves. You are a part of his life now and this wedding is like signing a paper; he is yours and you is his and only death can tear you apart.

You aren't stupid, of course you know, you know what lies in front of you both. The rumors, the black rumors of betrayal and revenge aren't something you can hide under a sheet and it's a carousel you get on without a ticket. And you can't get off. He agrees to the Lord's ideal and somehow you do too and that's like begging for trouble, for promises never fulfilled, for dreams never reached. You close your eyes and feels the smell, faint but still there, spiraling around you, never leaving.

But today is different. This isn't about the Lord. This isn't about what could happen. This is now. This is your future. This is you and him.

You take a step forward, then stopping, the clicking sound from your high-heels echoes through the room, everything is silent. Everybody is watching and you keep watching him to not get your nerves falling from your sanity. You're nervous and you don't know why, this is your time, this is your dream. Your moment. But still. One step now and you can never come back. The life you had before is over. This is what you have.

Your respective families are there, fingers around glasses and lips in blunt smiles, your friends, from the path you have chosen together. Even though you both are pure-blooded neither of you want a magnificent wedding with pageantry in which erases the simple moment a wedding stands for. This is enough, friends that are with you and stand for the same thing.

You don't like every single one of his friends but you choose to swallow your dismay instead of letting it out, tapping the floor with the front of the shoe, looking at him again. One look tells you that this is as hard for him as it is for you and it lets the nervousness vanish a little, pour down and become manageable again.

You and he are perfect and you can almost taste that, taste it with the tip of your tongue, like a perfume that never leaves. It's always there and you smile, smile over the pretty flowers, a rather faint smile but still there, still readable for him. He doesn't smile back but he doesn't need to anyway; he has never been the one to smile and you have learned to accept, to live with it. It's him.

Over the years you have bit by bit come to understand that some people don't like him. First – let no one tell him this – you were rather bothered by this but today you know that you're the same as him and that opinions don't matter. You're happy with him and that's enough. That's more than enough.

It's quiet. It's a silence thick like sludge, the one you could cut through with a knife. The man in front of you moves his hand, tilts his head and lips in a thin line. He will never be the one to show emotions like you do. His hair is clean, blond like your own, falling down like silk while yours in thick curls, some of them bonded up in your neck. You freeze in your thin dress, with bare shoulders exposed for the chill of this season (winter) and fabric slick to every corner of her body. The old man standing at the wall, with his head shaved and beard falling down his chin clears his throat but shows no other sign to start talking and get this fruitless waiting over with.

You lower your head and your chin touches the frail, cold petals in the bouquet, acting like the little girl you can never fully escape from. You're like a child that can't wait for Christmas to open your presents. You want the ring, you want his promise, you want…

There is a thing called etiquette and there is a thing called respect and the next thing that happens contradicts from both. He moves his head to face the wizard and whispers rather rudely and lack of understanding: "May you start talking today?"

It's like time stops. You don't say such things. You separate your lips, blushes a little but it matters less than you thought it would. After all it's Lucius Malfoy and sometimes he cares so much about traditions as a rock cares if you throw it in the water. It is a part of his personality and you know how to treasure every side of it.

The old man coughs and if it wasn't for all the beard you're sure he would have blushed at the rude remark. "My sincerely apologize, Mr Malfoy, I didn't-"

He smiles and you melt and you hope you don't ruin the dress with sweat, since it seems to reek from you.

To be honest you don't even hear the words, you don't hear the promises, you only hear when he and you say yes together, this simple word ensnared with you together and that's enough, that's everything.

It's simple and it follows the tradition and the congratulations and chatter echoes in the house like a thick tornado and you smile as you take his hand, rings matching. Tears burn in your eyes but you're not gonna shed them, not today, because today is a moment of happiness and you're not gonna ruin it with your stupid emotions that don't suit the situation. You close your eyes and throw the bouquet in the air, then locking eyes with him again, feeling the love, the complete feeling of him with you, You.

"I love you," you whisper and he gently smiles back, entwining his fingers with yours.

Time moves on, life moves one and you don't care, not then, as you walk to him and jump in his arms, legs around his waist and arms around his neck. He says nothing but touches her hair, her hair smelling of strawberries and you don't care if this isn't how a bride should act.

You and him have never been the one to follow traditions anyway. You don't need them.

You need this. You need him. Only him.

-~#~-

fin