A/N: For Chopped Fanfiction Competition (prompt: Wedding, Slytherin, Assumptions) and for As Strong as We Are United Competition (prompt: Joy).
Disclaimer: If I were JK Rowling, I wouldn't need to write fanfiction, would I? Alas, I have not written a best-seller series, I have not changed countless millions of lives for the better, and I am not one of the richest women in the world. I have a cat, though.
The Joy of Romanticism
Gregory Goyle was not a romantic by any means whatsoever, but even he couldn't suppress a smile as he noticed the faerie lights that hung low, twined around the branches of the silver birch trees scattered around the grounds of Malfoy Manor. The reception was beautifully done, he had to admit. It was as if most of the Wizarding community had assumed that Slytherins couldn't throw a party, and Draco had to prove them wrong, as usual. Hell, he thought as he tossed back a shot of Firewhiskey, they were born for parties.
Since the war, the Death Eater community had been torn apart by Aurors and those who were still suspected of having sided with the Dark Lord were watched carefully. And yet, here they were, five years later, celebrating the union of two wonderful people. Goyle watched as Draco twirled her around and around, spinning her until Gregory was sure she might faint. Astoria looked wonderful. Of course, that could've been for any number of reasons, chiefly, her new husband dancing her around like a fool.
The aftermath of the War had been kind to Draco— allowed enterance back into Hogwarts, he finished his education and met Astoria in a little Potions shoppe in Diagon Alley soon after. Greg almost envied Draco. Finding what he so desperately wanted in life. Love, or at least someone to share a life with. Knocking back another shot, he grimaced and tried to smile when Pansy Parkinson glanced his way. The joy of weddings, he decided, was the inherent ability to find someone to dance with, no matter what.
Mustering up the last of the courage he possessed, he ambled gracelessly towards Pansy, taking note of how lovely she looked.
"Dance with me." He offered his hand.
She took it, and they were off, loud, boisterous, and sloshed. But neither of them cared much— after all, Slytherins were made for parties.
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