It was shortly past noon on Draco and Hermione's wedding day; a day that had dawned beautiful and clear, and was only growing, if possible, ever more so with each passing hour.

The Granger-Malfoy household was a flurry of activity and preparations; Draco and Hermione's father dressing in the library while Mrs. Granger attended the bride in the master bedroom. Hermione's parents had spent the previous night at their daughter and son-in-law-to-be's home, the four of them sitting up late around the table as Hermione and her mother alternately pored over Muggle magazines of bridal hairstyles and finalized the seating charts for the reception. Draco and Mr. Granger had passed the time by genially sharing an excellent bottle of aged firewhisky (Hermione had smiled to herself, wondering how her parents would react if they knew just what that bottle was worth- converted into pounds, it had roughly the same value as their house), and Hermione, in between semi-heated debates with her mother over this upsweep or that French braid (no, mum, Draco prefers my hair at least partially down! And this one would wreak havoc with the crowns...) gave her fiancé a thorough lesson in Muggle wedding traditions and superstitions- the something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue requirement, for one thing- and the fact that they were absolutely forbidden from seeing one another from the time they woke up in the morning until Draco saw her sweeping up the aisle on her father's arm.

This, in particular, had not sat well with the groom-to-be at all, resulting in protestations- "what do you mean I can't see you until the ceremony? It's a sunset wedding, for Merlin's sake! How am I supposed to go an entire day without you?"- that were thoroughly useless insofar as getting Hermione to relent on the no-prewedding-contact rule, but on the other hand, managed to score him copious points with his future in-laws.

They had all retired to bed just shy of midnight- again, at Hermione's insistence; midnight marked the official beginning of their wedding day, after all, and therefore the start of their pre-ceremony separation. Her mother had stayed in the master bedroom, sharing the bed with Hermione, while Draco had been compelled to bunk down on the Muggle fold-out couch in the library in the company of Frank "call me dad" Granger, who snored more powerfully than Crabbe and Goyle put together, in all the years they'd shared Draco's dorm. Fortunately for Draco, the fact that the ceremony was slated for so late in the day meant that, once he'd finally attained sleep, he'd at least had the promise of a much-needed lie-in to look forward to.

Now, however, that lunch was over, things were kicking into high gear- it would soon be time to proceed to the wedding site and get some of the photographs underway- and Draco's agitation at being denied access to Hermione was mounting. He was pretending to listen as Hermione's father explained to him the ins and outs of a Muggle coat and tails, which Draco would be wearing beneath his dress robes to reveal at the reception as a surprise for Hermione- but in reality, all of his thoughts were directed toward the other end of the house, and his bride.

In the end, his father-in-law just about had to dress him.

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In the guest rooms, two other men were dressing as well; Severus Snape and Harry Potter. They were to constitute the entirety of the wedding party; Snape standing up for Draco, and Harry for Hermione. They'd arrived in time for lunch, garment bags in tow, and after eating with Frank Granger and Draco- the women were nowhere in sight- had been shown by Hanni to two rooms directly across the hall from one another.

Now, within his assigned room, Harry blew on his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve, then slid them back into place and scrutinized himself in the mirror. He adjusted the flower in his lapel, and ran a hand through his messy black hair- even on this of all days, it refused to lie flat- then bowed his head and began to wrestle with his cravat. The mirror had nothing to say about any of this- like many of the accent pieces in Hermione and Draco's home, it was of Muggle origin.

So Harry's heart just about stopped when a voice at his elbow, all good-natured irritation, said, "bloody nightmares these things are, eh mate?"

Harry jerked his head up, seeking the source of the voice- green eyes widening as he found it in the mirror's reflection. Standing beside him, also in formal attire, also tugging at his tie in good-humored frustration- now meeting his eyes in the glass and throwing a wink and a grin his way, was-

"Ron." Harry exhaled the name, completely unable, under the circumstances, to get his voice to work.

Then his knees buckled and he sat down hard on the floor.

"Oi! Harry!" Ron dropped into a sitting position as well, folding his long legs Indian-style and leaning forward over them, his intent blue gaze, now tinged with concern, fixed on his best friend. "Get a grip, mate. You look as if you've seen a ghost!"

"Ron," Harry breathed again in complete shock, unable to come up with anything else to say. Then, a moment later, managed to add, "bloody hell."

"Yeah," Ron said with a small, lopsided smile, "I've missed you too, mate."

Harry opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. "I-" he croaked. Nothing else. A sudden tear streaked down his face, unnoticed by him. He tried again, this time actually managing to string three words together- a record so far. "Ron- my fault."

Ron looked almost solid sitting there- not quite, but almost… and Harry could almost feel the pressure when Ron reached out both-handed and gripped him by the shoulders. "Don't do that, Harry," the redhead said severely. "Don't do that to yourself. You're not helping anyone; you or me. It was not your fault, are you hearing me? It was a decision I made, and I would make it again- because I know that if our roles had been reversed, you'd have done the same bloody thing. Picture yourself running up and finding me glued to the spot, about to be Avada'd. Would you just have stood there and watched it happen? Would you?"

Harry's response was a simple, barely audible, "no."

"No!" Ron said, a lot more forcefully, "of course you wouldn't. So why in Merlin's name would you expect me to? Harry, this has to stop. You can't go on beating yourself up for a decision I made, and that I stand by. You need to move past this. All right?" He went through the motion of giving Harry a brisk little shake- Harry could swear he almost felt that too. "I said, all right?"

Harry's eyes were now both leaking steadily- he reached up and wiped the back of his hand across first one and then the other- but then he nodded. Because it was all right. It was. He had never thought it would be all right, ever again- if he lived to be a hundred, he'd never thought he'd live a day without stumbling beneath the suffocating mantle of grief and guilt he'd carried around since Ron's death, but… Ron had just lifted it from his shoulders, almost effortlessly. With a few well-chosen words and that little ghostly shake, the mind-numbing, all-consuming guilt was gone. The sorrow was still there, and it would always be there- but he could learn to cope with the sorrow, because now it was good, clean sorrow. Untainted.

It was as if Ron had just bled an ugly wound. The wound would still scar, but the fever had broken now; the infection was gone. Harry was left weak, shaking in its wake.

He made an attempt at a smile, and expelled a long, unsteady breath. "So," he said at last, casting an eye at Ron's attire, "here for the wedding, are you?"

"You didn't think I'd miss it?" Ron replied, grinning again.

"Are you going to… talk with Hermione as well?"

Ron's expression clouded. "Actually, I can't," he said. "I'm not really a ghost, see, Harry? I've moved on. So I kind of have to… well, apply for permission to come back and visit- and it's only granted every once in a great while, and only to see a single person at a time. And Hermione and I have already spoken, on the day I died. When she almost died as well, and I sent her back. I would have loved to have talked with her on her wedding day," he continued, his voice turning wistful now- "but I'll be around the whole time, and she's a very intuitive person- I think she'll know I'm here. And anyway- I can get you to deliver a message for me, can't I?"

"Anything, mate, just say the word."

A mischievous glint came into Ron's eyes and smile. "Tell her that I fully expect her firstborn to be named after me."

Harry barked a surprised laugh. 'What if it's a girl? Have you considered that?"

"Erm… well, no, actually." Ron's brow knitted for a moment in thought- then cleared.

"Ronnelle?" he suggested brightly.

Harry laughed more genuinely than he would have thought, a day ago, he'd ever laugh again.

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Draco had seen to it that every detail Hermione had asked for as she'd lain dying in his arms all those weeks ago came to pass exactly- save one. The ceremony was indeed held on a cliff, at sunset, overlooking the water- but instead of the sea, it was the Hogwarts Lake that stretched out below them. They had ended up agreeing that there was far more sentimentality in getting married within sight both of the castle in which they had fallen in love, and, smaller and further away, yet still clearly visible on the opposite shore, their own personal "castle"; their new home.

At the top of the chosen cliff was a stretch of land that was, with just a bit of magical manipulation, large and flat enough to accommodate both the ceremony site- some one hundred and twenty graceful, white chairs in all, arranged in ten rows with a center aisle running through them- and the reception tent a short distance away.

Torches, guttering in the evening breeze, lined the aisle that Hermione was to walk down, and magically conjured white rose petals, an inch deep at least, carpeted it from side to side, beginning to end, in order to cushion her feet- which were bare. The guests had all filed into their rows from the sides, to avoid disturbing the petals which were intended for the bride. As the sun set over the lake in a blaze of glory, Draco stood, Snape beside him, at the place where the aisle terminated in a small clearing just beside the cliff-edge. A few feet away was Dumbledore, who would be officiating, and was waiting patiently beside a small, white-clothed table that held an eclectic little assortment of items for use in the ceremony; a pair of tall white candles decorated with sprays of tiny blue flowers, two identical lengths of white silk cord, a silver chalice engraved with Draco and Hermione's names and the date, and filled with wine; and finally, a pair of crowns woven out of white ribbons, pearls, and fragrant white orange-blossoms- that were connected to each other by a length of white satin ribbon.

A breathless, excited hush filled the air. The officiant was in place. The groom and best man were in place. The mother of the bride was ensconced in the front row, left-hand side, as was proper. Harry, and Hermione's father, waited at the foot of the aisle; they would both be escorting the bride.

Hermione was nowhere in sight- and the small, knowing smile on Harry's lips showed him to be one of the only two people present who had any idea where she was.

And then it happened. It was the most dramatic entrance to a wedding that the assembled guests (magical all, with the exception of Hermione's parents, who had come armed with three Muggle disposable cameras each, with which to take "ordinary" photographs that could be shown to friends and family back home- the simple winding mechanism inside the cardboard cameras would not, Dumbledore had promised, be disrupted by the magic in the air as most Muggle electronic devices would) had ever seen.

One moment the foot of the aisle stood empty, and Draco was milliseconds away from succumbing to a complete panic attack- and in the next, with a rustle and swish of soft, silvery fabric, she was there, having whisked Harry's invisibility cloak from her shoulders.

There was a collective gasp, and the guests rose, as one, to their feet.

Hermione's eyes were upon Draco's instantly, however- her smile reserved only for him.

And as for Draco- Snape actually had to reach out a steadying hand, gripping him by the upper arm- because it appeared for a second that he might actually decide to hell with protocol and cross the distance between them, to meet her. Their eyes locked on one another from opposite ends of the aisle, it was as if the rest of the world ceased to exist for the both of them. It was a moment that was both timeless… and over far too soon.

Then Hermione was passing the now-bundled-up invisibility cloak over to Neville Longbottom, who was the second and final person that had been in on the plan for her entrance- and who had sat in the back row specifically in order to be the one to whom the cloak was handed, as Harry trusted him implicitly to keep the rare and valuable item safe. She then turned her dazzling smile on Harry himself, and finally on her father, as each offered her an arm- (Draco suddenly felt as if someone had turned out the lights- he needed the radiance of her smile directed back at him again, damn it!)- and then the string quartet, which sat a little ways off to the side, began to play and she was approaching, her best friend on her right side, her father on her left; starting down the aisle as Hanni, bursting with pride and pleasure, appeared with a pop directly behind her, to fulfill her own wedding-related role of train-bearer.

The train, of course, being attached to the dress… and oh, the dress. Hermione had said she'd wanted a dress that floated out behind her as she walked; and her vision had come to life with even more grace than she could have imagined. It did more than float; it billowed in the breeze, her every movement sending ripples through the fabric of the full, ball-gown skirt, which was embellished with bustles and gathers all the way down the back, and dotted with delicate silk orange-blossoms which perfectly matched the fresh ones on the crowns, and in the dainty nosegay bouquet she carried. The corset of the gown laced up her back and was boned in the front. A simple scoop neckline and understated capped sleeves allowed the skin at her throat to act as a showplace for the jaw-dropping diamond necklace Draco had given her as a wedding gift; she'd found it that morning, wrapped, on the floor outside the master bedroom door.

The hairstyle she'd ultimately gone with was surprisingly simple, and a lot less formal than her mother would have preferred. For the most part it was down; a tumultuous cascade of the thick, dark curls Draco loved so well. At her temples began two small braids, which were pulled back from her face and joined into one larger, more elaborate plait which hung down the center of her back. It was there, where the braids met, that her veil was attached, the fastenings hidden beneath a spray of white and pale blue flowers. A single gauzy panel, as light and ephemeral as spider silk, floated out behind her as she moved; it was the same length as her dress, train and all. In the front, a 'blusher' covered her face, just down to the chin.

When she reached the head of the aisle her father lifted the blusher and kissed her left cheek just as Harry kissed her right (and she could almost swear, with a slight, though not unpleasant, tingle down her spine, that she felt another, ghostly pair of lips brush her forehead at the same time). Then Draco shook hands with them both, and clasped her hand in his own, twining their fingers together and whispering "God, you're beautiful," and they turned to face Dumbledore, and the ceremony began.

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Draco and Hermione's wedding ceremony was completely unique in that it combined several of the pagan customs of traditional wizardkind with many of the Christian traditions of Hermione's Greek heritage. The fact that she was, after all, named Hermione- Greek for "Earthy"- was no accident; Her mother, Helena Pappas Granger, was full Greek and a practicing Orthodox Christian. The only thing that had surprised Hermione, when she and Draco had begun to plan on what should be incorporated into their ceremony, was just how many alike many of the symbolisms were. Each of them drinking wine out of a single, "common cup", for instance, was a practice observed in both traditions. Ditto the loose binding of their hands together with white cording, and the fact that they were expected to hold white candles for a significant portion of the ceremony. It was amazing, really, just how much the two traditions had in common. This had allowed the young couple to build the ceremony that was perfectly suited to them; an expression of their personalities and their love, and to do it absolutely seamlessly.

After Dumbledore spoke a few words of welcome and blessing to open the service, Draco and Hermione began to perform the rituals that would bind them to one another as husband and wife. Another similarity between the two traditions that Hermione and Draco were drawing from, is that their wedding ceremonies incorporate very few words; no long-winded vows at all- just the demonstration of love and commitment through time-honored actions. In fact, in the whole of the ceremony, the bride and the groom spoke only two words each, in answer to direct questions posed them by their officiant. Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling as brightly as the waters of the lake spread out below them, asked each in turn whether they had come of their own free will to offer themselves up in marriage- the answer, of course, was yes. The next question; "Have you pledged yourself to anyone else?" The answer to this, a resounding no. And just like that, Draco and Hermione's 'speaking parts' were over.

The rest of the ceremony was one symbol, on ritual, after another. There was the common cup; the wine contained within it symbolized the fact that life is bittersweet- the cup itself, touching first Draco's lips and then Hermione's, represented the fact that from that moment on they would share equally in all that life had to offer them; the bitter and the sweet. Once they had exchanged the rings, Dumbledore took the two pieces of white silk cord in his hands, each symbolizing a life that had, up until this moment, been separate, independent; one for Draco and the other for Hermione. He knotted them together in the middle in order to demonstrate the union of the two young people standing before him, then loosely bound their intertwined hands together, demonstrating the ties that would bind them for the rest of their lives. The highlight of the ceremony came when, as Hermione and Draco stood side by side facing him, holding their candles in their non-bound hands, Dumbledore crowned them with the floral wreathes, intoning the traditional Greek Orthodox blessing, "Oh Lord our God, crown them with glory and honor." They were now officially husband and wife, and the rulers of their own private little domain; their joint home.

The ceremony over, they kissed to rousing applause; then, leaving the silken cord and candles behind on the altar, but still wearing the crowns which connected them to one another through a single white ribbon, they turned and made their way back down the aisle arm in arm. Hermione didn't even notice anything amiss until Draco bent close to her and, with a smile curving his lips, whispered, "look down."

She did so and gasped. Her bare feet were a good six inches above the petal-strewn aisle. She and Draco were- quite literally- walking on air!

It was, of course, a manifestation of Draco's vast new abilities. He no longer needed his wand to perform magic- it was just an accessory to him now- something he was sentimentally attached to, but had outgrown, like a favorite childhood toy. He no longer needed, in most cases, even to speak; he could simply visualize what he wanted to happen, and if he concentrated hard enough, it would come to pass. This was what he was doing now; no wand, no spell, just the power of his will. And the ease with which he did it was staggering; it took Hermione's breath away. Right now, for instance, he was completely relaxed. This was nothing to him; she couldn't even imagine where the limit of his power lay, or what it would take for him to reach it.

All these thoughts of the 'how' of his magic were whisked from her mind a moment later, though, as they reached the foot of the aisle; the band, acting in accordance with an arrangement Draco must have made with them prior to the ceremony, swept immediately into an instrumental rendering of Draco and Hermione's song- the one they'd danced to on the night of his Resorting- and Hermione found herself swept, just as suddenly, into her new husband's arms for their first dance.

She hadn't been expecting this until the reception, but, "I couldn't wait any longer," Draco said by way of explanation, burying his face in her curls for a moment, breathing in her scent, tightening his arms. He began to waltz her away from where the wedding guests were now standing, moving down the aisle in their own turn, some stopping to watch the newly married couple dance, others beginning to stroll toward the reception tent. "I was going mad today without you. I've never spent a longer eighteen hours in my life. And I never want to go a day without you again!" They were rising now, with the swelling of the music; they were a foot off the ground; two. And then Draco danced her right off the edge of the cliff, and out over the crimson, sunset waters of the lake.

Hermione gasped again, and stiffened in his arms- but only for a second. Draco lifted his face from her hair and smiled at her; "I would never let you go, you know that, right? I'd die first. I love you so much, bookworm… and besides," he teased, "we're not very well going to do this over land- I can't have that little Creevey perv trying to sneak photos up under your dress, can I, now? Why you hired him for the wedding portraits I will never know-"

"Colin is a very talented photographer," Hermione interjected, her tone mock-indignant, but her eyes sparkling. "He just… has a hard time knowing where to draw the line sometimes."

Draco growled. "Do you think it makes me feel better, hearing my wife say a thing like that about another man? He'd damn well better learn where to draw the line with his bloody pictures, and right quick!"

"Your wife," Hermione echoed, wonderingly, raising a satin-gloved hand to cup his cheek, brush his silver-white fringe back out of his eyes.

And just like that, the thunderclouds that had been gathering in Draco's expression vanished, to be replaced by a slow grin. "My wife," he affirmed. And then again, "my wife." He plunged a hand into her thick, dark hair and pulled her in for a kiss. In that moment nothing mattered- not the sun sinking over the lake, or the guests at the cliff's edge, who broke out into light applause; not the promise of a reception filled with good food, good drink and good friends, lasting far into the night, or even the melody of their special song enveloping them- nothing mattered to them but each other.

I want to hold you til I die; til we both break down and cry. I want to hold you til the fear in me subsides.

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(A/N: Well. Holy Shite. This was long enough in coming. This isn't the end, by the way; there's one chapter left to tie up loose ends. I apologize profusely for the delay, even if I am, as I suspect, speaking to an empty house, and deservedly so- I wouldn't expect anyone to have borne with me for this long, it's just too much. If there's anyone still out there, though, thank you- you have the patience of a saint!

A couple of words about the ceremony- it was close to my heart because, like Hermione, my name is Greek- I saw her name as a wonderful opportunity to give her something in common with myself! Kyra translates to "Ruler", and no, not the kind you do your math homework with. I'm a queen, baby, yeah!- and my family and I practice Orthodoxy, so the wedding ceremony mentioned in this chapter was very close to my heart. And I truly was flabbergasted when I did some research into pagan weddings and discovered how many similarities there are- not in the language or ideologies involved, but in the rituals and symbols, and the meanings behind them. It just goes to show, I think, that people are fundamentally similar, no matter what their race, color or creed. And in these times of global strife, that's heartening to me. Although- the Orthodox Church guards its lovely ceremony jealously; if my mother were to hear that I had taken elements from it and mixed it with paganism she would chase me around the block with her wooden spoon for hours- I'm hardly exaggerating here! So ssshhh… mum's the words on my open-mindedness… which she would label sacrilege!

Final chapter should be up relatively soon…)