"Master! Master, your mother is approaching! MASTER, PLEASE ARISE!" Draco's eyes opened, slightly bloodshot and very angry. His pale hair was disheveled, his head throbbing, and his mouth felt like cotton. Ahh, the loud noise, the bright lights, and the world was one of those Muggle Impressionist paintings – blurs of colours. Those were the only pieces of Muggle art that Draco could appreciate. The House Elf was frantically strolling back and forth, wringing his little hands, and his mismatched socks were coming off his feet. "Mmmm." Draco very slowly and very carefully swung his head to look at his bedfellow. Laura. Or was it Lavander. Something with an 'L.' After he heard that she was getting married, he decided to give up all hope. She had in touch with him after they had all left school, wanted to get together. He had remembered how beautiful she was and acquiesced to her request. Turns out, things had not gone well with Bill Weasley but she recalled how handsome Draco was and wanted to see if they could work. Not that she had really known him during the Tri-Wizard Tournament. He was quite the Slytherin at the time and she only really talked to the rest of the Houses. Spent a lot of time with the Dream Team, especially after Potter and Weasley saved her little sister's life.
"DRACO!" With a sharp intake of breath, the House Elf, what's-his-name, scurried away. The bedfellow whose name will be forever lost in the annals of history let out a nervous giggle and Apparated into thin air with a faint 'pop.' Draco sighed and rolled over, mumbling about all the bloody women in his life, his last waking thoughts on the half-veela in particular.
Half-veela, indeed. Fleur Delacoeur was that that very moment in bed with and in the arms of her future husband, the oldest offspring of the Weasley clan. That their relationship was tumultuous, fiery and incredibly passionate was the very understatement of the millennium. It had, for the years after the Tri-Wizard Cup, been the butt of all jokes by Bill's younger siblings. Nonetheless, no ill feelings arose when their betrothal was announced. Good old Molly. She was the very brain, heart and soul of the wedding: wedding-planner, cook, and mother of the groom rolled into one. She had spent the last six months preparing for a summer wedding at the Burrow, the very same place where she and Arthur tied the knot. The wedding was quickly becoming a day for her instead of the happy couple, who were only happy to oblige. Of course, her efforts were not without the consequences. The twins had moved out completely, taking refuge above the Diagon Alley branch of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. Percy (now on better terms with the rest of the clan) refused to leave his bedroom and Fleur herself had washed her hands of all the chaos by moving in with Bill – and out of wedlock, much to Mrs. Weasley's chagrin – at his Hogsmeade flat. Though Molly was becoming a bit of a neurotic over the whole affair, Fleur was very much glad to let her. After all, her mother died only two years back and gaining another one so quickly played a good part in the mourning process and even Gabrielle, currently in residence at the Burrow until their father completed his "assignment" in Mongolia, was improving in Molly's arms and under the protection of the rest of the Weasleys. Fleur then began to giggle at the thought of her meringue of a wedding dress and snuggled closer to Bill.
Bill was only half-awake when he heard his Frenchwoman move in closer, the two of them spooning. Her head was at his chest, listening to the beat of his heart as his arms drew her in – a position he wished they could be stuck in forever, and something he knew she would never stand for doing. All he could think about when the two of them were together was how much he loved her and the first thing that she ever found attractive about him: his earring.
"She's getting married to a Weasley? And you were asked to attend the wedding?" Narcissa Malfoy's icy composure was not in the slightest bit affected by the news. However disturbing the thought was that someone would choose a Weasley over Draco, a Malfoy of noble lineage going back to before the Battle of Hastings, she refused to let it be shown to the world. Her only source of plausible uneasiness came from her son's invitation to the nuptials. The Weasleys, a poor, common, and unconnected family with and an unknown genealogy, throwing a wedding: how absolutely comical.
Draco had been contemplating the invitation over his tea and toast before his mother's voice, idle but dripping rich, interrupted the flow of his inner monologue. His heavy-lidded, grey eyes languidly made their way over to his mother at the head of the table. Like him she was partaking of her breakfast: air and a few drops of water. "Well mother, she seems to be under the impression that all is right between the two of us. Whether she is right about it, I'm not quite sure yet. Then again, her being the older one in the relationship is intimating at the fact that I should do as she asks. Besides mother, I believe that the Weasleys holding festivities and spending money come as a source of considerable joviality for you." "Well, they do, Draco darling but why bother?" "Mother, Malfoy Manor is beginning to lose my interest and as I intend to join Father sooner or later, I should at least display traces of emotion while I still can. Also, it should bring me some enjoyment. Besides," he added bitterly, "how often do you get to watch the love of your life walk down the aisle into the arms of a better man?" Narcissa had long since lost interest in the sound of her son's drawl and simple made gestures with her talons, "Yes, darling. Go if you must. You know, I think I might try some pumpkin juice this morning." Draco smirked and continued to busy himself with the burnt toast lying forlornly on his plate.