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Neville had taken photographs before, certainly; none of them had ever required Harry Potter to be seen in France first. The camera felt strange in his hands – heavier than it had at home, when Ginny had passed it across the kitchen table and told him not to bother coming back without something to show for all this.
Winnie had been waving a chunk of jam-laden toast, unaware of anything in the room but her mother – he’d kissed the top of her head with a ‘home soon, poppet’ and gathered up what he needed.
Tiny white flowers cut from their garden, some braided through Hermione’s hair and the rest held in her hands, along with the roses her now husband had cut for her from the garden at the back.
Kingsley had finished the binding, though the magic of it still lingered in the air; he’d already checked the time twice, knowing that they didn’t have long.
Draco still looked like he might faint, even now.
It still felt odd to think of him like that, ‘Draco’ – they usually resorted to initials when they were doing things that required far less glamour and far more murder.
There would be none of that today, and so he could be Draco. Anyway, ‘Malfoy’ was always used with such contempt, usually by Ron – and Seamus, before – and it felt wrong to speak that way of someone he regarded so highly now.
Standing beside his bride, with one hand around hers and the other held stiffly at his side, the poor lad continued staring as though he had never seen a woman before.
Neville cleared his throat; neither of them looked at him. “Right,” he said, lifting the camera and clicking his tongue. “Could you stand a little closer?”
Hermione turned her head, bemused. “We are standing close.”
“You are, yes,” Neville agreed, laughing under his breath. “Sadly, your husband also looks like he’s waiting to be arrested.”
That got his attention.
Draco looked down at himself, affronted; without the robes, or the signet ring Neville remembered from school, he looked strangely unfinished – which was probably unfair, considering the tuxedo fit him perfectly. They’d done something not quite (or at all) legal to get it, mostly involving a diversion thanks to something George had concocted with what little he had left in the way of supplies.
Yet another of the secrets he’d keep.
Hermione gave a quiet laugh, leaning her forehead against Draco’s cheek. His mouth flattened, and then he licked his teeth in an effort to get his wobbly bottom lip under control.
Neville could hardly blame him – Hermione looked beautiful, the air was fresh and the sun was bright. What more could a man want, when marrying his dream girl while a war raged outside the walls of his house (and sometimes inside it, from what he’d shared).
“Mate, are you going to look this way or not?”
“Not.”
“You have to-”
“I know how photographs work. I don’t want to look there. I want to look here.”
“Gods, you’re a sap.” Neville raised the camera. “Fair enough.”
Draco had no intention of looking anywhere else.
Hermione’s face was warm against his cheek, her curls softly tickling under his eye; he planned to press a million kisses into the sun-warmed strands as soon as Longbottom stopped going on with his directions as to how he should stand beside his wife.
His wife.
Salazar and all his snakes, he was never going to survive that word.
Her fingers had been tucked tightly around his as they spoke their vows, the diamond on her hand pressing against his knuckle. It remained deeply offensive to him that he could wear no ring – though perhaps not as offensive as the idea that he was expected to look away from the witch whose name was now Hermione Granger-Malfoy.
She was standing beside him in a yellow dress that only made it more obvious that she was descended from the largest star he’d ever seen; in her hands, the roses he’d only gone down to cut after he knew Potter should have been sighted in France.
It had occurred to Draco that collecting flowers for a wedding that might not happen seemed like an excellent way to finally lose what remained of his mind; he’d waited until the wards rippled through him, signalling the Dark Lord’s presence leaving the Manor, before snipping each bloom.
Pansy had taken them from him without comment, which was a sure sign he looked frightful; it was no surprise, what with the constant churn in his stomach at the thought that the coin in his pocket would burn at any moment.
He opened his eyes, looking at her again in quiet awe; Hermione was his wife. She was perfect, so perfect – as he looked around, everything else seemed at least passable in her reflected beauty.
A photograph was dangerous, he knew that – it was evidence, which he was used to ensuring was hidden, altered or destroyed. They had spent years making certain there was no proof of anything that mattered.
He wanted this one anyway, even if he never got to see it.
“Gods, you’re a sap.”
He was. And her husband, so what did it matter?
Hermione felt Draco smile against her hair.
Neville was right, of course – her husband was an appalling sap, though that was hardly new information to her. He had brought her flowers before he liked her, books before he trusted her and an engagement ring before she’d even managed to admit she loved him; marriage had apparently freed him from any remaining obligation to pretend he was the cold boy they’d watched stalk the halls like a funeral director all those years before.
She turned her face a little further into his cheek, careful of the baby’s breath Pansy had woven through her curls. Her bouquet caught at the front of her dress, so she held it still as she looked at the camera in Neville’s hands.
She felt something inside her sink, just slightly, knowing this was a memento someone else would get to keep – have to hide, really.
Anything that showed Hermione Granger alive was bad enough – to have her seen with Malfoy Manor as her backdrop would be madness, and an image of her newly married to its master would be a death sentence. Neville would take it now, and perhaps one day they’d get to see it.
Perhaps.
She wanted to see Draco’s face in it, and find out whether she looked as happy as she felt.
Desperate to know what she looked like through eyes that were not her own, in a mirror, year after year, looking the same to herself yet knowing she must not be.
She wanted to put their wedding portrait beside the everlasting vase of flowers that an elf she’d never get to know, a sweet thing named Tippy, had placed there before Hermione had ever come to the Manor.
That was not an option, but she let the tiniest part of her desire it anyway.
Closing her eyes, she imagined herself in the future for just a moment – free of the confines of the house, with her husband’s hand at her waist just as it was now. Maybe with a little one, grey eyes and silver curls, running through the gardens as they watched.
She tucked that hope away with the wish about the portrait, and closed the doors of her heart.
Just as Draco warded her in to keep her safe, she would harbour those dreams with lock and key.
Ginny Longbottom had spent years pretending the thing she’d first stuffed inside a cardigan and shoved into the bottom of her wardrobe was nothing at all of interest.
It had since survived two moves, one hurried evacuation and Winnie realising that cupboard doors were no obstacle if you had enough determination (and a wooden spoon). Ginny had then hidden it beneath old blankets, moved it to a charmed hatbox, and finally given it to Neville to put somewhere high.
With any luck, their little love would not discover it again.
Now, it rested on Ginny’s knee as she watched the man she’d long known as Malfoy try to outwit a girl with the same spirited attitude as her namesake – the child was convinced the hideous bird statue in the entrance hall was alive and ready to take flight.
“But it’s dot wings, Dwaco.”
“It does, Winifred.”
“So it fwies.”
“It doesn’t, I’m afraid.”
She huffed, and Ginny had to avoid Hermione’s eye for fear she’d burst out laughing at the whole state of affairs. “Is not Winifwed, anyway. Winnie. Winnie, and Ginny, and Daddy.”
Her dearest friend, her sister in every way, had one hand tucked beneath the small curve of her stomach; Ginny could hardly believe the wonderful news. She was still too pale, her face thinner than Ginny remembered, but her smile was still bright – she looked like joy, just with a little shadow over it.
“We brought you something.”
Hermione looked over, shaking her head. “You already brought us all of this.”
The ‘all of this’ she’d gestured at included freshly baked bread, three kinds of cheese, and half the contents of their veggie garden, which seemed a lot and nowhere near enough at the same time.
“Yes, well – this is different.”
Ginny held it out, and Hermione reached for it; she stopped, presumably, when she felt the shape of the frame, and let out a funny little sound.
Draco looked over, then moved closer to her as quick as lightning.
Neville said nothing – he’d always been better than most people at knowing when silence was the best choice.
With shaking hands, Hermione opened one end of the paper and slid out the frame.
The photograph had caught them facing inward, Hermione’s eyes closed and Draco’s mouth just shy of a kiss against her forehead. One of his hands was at her waist, the other in his pocket – she held her bouquet against the yellow dress, looking serene and beautiful and everything a bride should be on her wedding day.
They did not look as though a war existed; in fact, they looked as though nothing else did outside their little rectangle.
Hermione lifted one hand and touched the glass over Draco’s face. “Oh,” she said softly, and then swiped the back of her hand across her cheek. Beside her, grey eyes remained fixed on the photograph, mouth drawn tight. It had been so long since she’d seen him, yet that face said the same thing it always had.
Draco Malfoy would not be showing anyone his feelings today, no thank you.
It made Ginny grin, because he was more obvious than the crying witch beside him.
Winnie climbed between them without so much as a ‘may I?’ and peered down, pointing. “Dat’s Aunty Mimi.”
“Yes,” Hermione whispered.
“And Uncle Dwaco’s kissing you.”
“He was.”
“And I shall again,” Draco said, pressing his mouth into Hermione’s curls; Ginny rolled her eyes, giving a tiny snort.
Holding out her hand, Hermione tilted her head to the stairs. “Come up with me for a minute?”
“Me?”
“No, my other best friend. Yes, you.”
Ginny took the offered hand and stood; Draco immediately looked as though he intended to follow, but Hermione pointed towards Winnie without turning around.
“Keep her from climbing onto that ridiculous thing.”
He muttered something rude as Hermione led Ginny away, the portrait held carefully against her chest.
Hermione took her through an enormous sitting room and into a bedroom dressed in pale blue and white. It was beautiful in a quiet way – softer than anything Ginny had expected to find inside Malfoy Manor, with sunlight reaching across the carpet and onto the side of the bed.
A vase stood on a table nearby, flowers bright; Hermione stopped in front of them.
“Tippy left those for me,” she said. “Before I came here.”
Ginny moved closer, looking at the flowers. “That long ago?”
“Mmhm.” Hermione swallowed. “Draco told me her name later. He said she made the room ready before…” She glanced down at the frame. “Before any of us knew how long I would be here. She’d raised him, and this was – well, it’s the bride’s chambers, so they made it lovely in anticipation.” Her laugh was thin, but still recognisable. “Draco told me he felt it was ‘no hardship’ to give it to me, because he never expected to marry.”
For a moment, they both just stood there, and then Hermione reached out and placed the frame beside the vase. Sniffing hard, she looked over – her brows were drawn together, and she was crying again. “On the day, I thought about how much I wanted to be able to see it, and put it here.” Her fingers traced along the edge of the frame. “I knew Neville would have to take it away… I didn’t think we’d ever get it back, but I imagined it for a minute anyway.”
Ginny pressed her shoulder against Hermione’s. “You know,” she said, “you are wrong occasionally.”
“I thought about a baby, too. And now…”
“Well, wishes do come true sometimes.”
“You’re one of mine too, you know.”
Ginny let out a quiet laugh. “Hush, you’ll make me cry.”
It was too late, really, because she already was.
Image description: A waist-up wedding portrait of Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy on the balcony at Malfoy Manor. Hermione wears a lemon-yellow dress, with tiny white baby’s-breath flowers braided through her brown curls, and holds a bouquet of white roses. Draco wears a black tuxedo. They stand close together and turn inward rather than posing formally for the camera; their eyes are closed as if both simply living in the moment.