I wrote this for Rzzmg's DramioneLove fest, which is now over, which means I'm posting this here for the enjoyment of all

Neil Gaiman's Fragile Things quotes used with permission.

They were married in a library. The air was heavy with the scent of paper and fantasies, silence sat in each corner and Draco found with each breath that he was awaiting a librarian to heed him obey the creature.

There was no librarians today, in this grand building. Standing against the balcony of the second level, he looked at the bookshelf over his shoulder and then down at the floor below as the guests talked. Wizarding London's library must have been built with royalty in mind, marble and pillars topped with scrolls, space filled by light and shelves. Yet, still, it felt comfortably close, the books leaning out to every passerby to be read. Muggle and wizard-print alike shared space, and Draco had discovered a few new favorite authors today among the numbers, all muggle. The books lay stacked next to his foot.

He turned the invitation over in his hand, so cleverly designed to look like an old-fashioned due-date card, while the front was just a photo. It was a good one, though, glasses and an old book, lying on a photo. It felt romantic, if Draco dared to use the word, and felt like a happy ending.

He flipped it over again to read the text, and told himself to crush it in his hand, to check out the books and leave, or just leave, before today's event turned him into a bleeding heart Gryffindor and left him dying on the carpet.

You are cordially invited

to celebrate

the wedding of

Hermione Jean Granger

Harry James Potter

On Saturday afternoon

February the 15th

at four o'clock

Followed by a reception

RSVP by: January 1 8 2003

Library is not responsible for lost or damaged invitations

Once again, the invitation nearly fluttered from shaking hands, but that would be a show of weakness. He tightened his grip on the paper and stepped from the balcony, nearly tripping over the books, and sat down in a chair. This shouldn't hurt so much, he thought. It shouldn't hurt at all, but it did, and Draco was not so stupid as to deny his own feelings. It hurt because he loved her, it hurt because she deserved this, it hurt because Potter deserved this, and Draco couldn't deny that either. After all those two had lost in the war (Ron to a horcrux, the Grangers to a Death Eater's fiendfyre bush fire, Fred and Ginny and a million friends to battle, a thousand to mourning) no one deserved happiness with each other more than them.

The tables had been spread with perfect hearts cut from misprinted unsellable books the printers would have just tossed. He picked up one which clearly displayed the name 'Mr. Darcy.' Draco had started reading Pride and Prejudice at Hermione's requestonly to laugh himself sick at the first line. Hermione had grumpily summed it up for him after that, rather than have him find any more humor in her favorite romance novel.

(He finished it in secret after that, and found it interesting, but if he ever told her, she'd be likely to laugh at him.)

Draco picked up a pen, crossed out the name Darcy and wrote his own above it, then found one with Elizabeth and wrote Hermione.

He was reduced to writing their names on pieces of a romance novel. Draco groaned quietly, and put the paper in his pockets, standing again, and this time he did trip over the stack of novels, crashing into the railings. He held his sore head, put his hand into his other pocket to find out what was pressed into his leg, and drew out a ring, another fantasy in this building of them.

It didn't look much like an engagement ring, no single fancy stone on display, it was a band, gold formed into a Celtic knot pattern around little sapphires. He'd bought it years ago when he saw it, back when he still thought he had a chance at dating Hermione. He'd held it for hours, thinking about ways he could one day give it to her, and slowly it had changed to the way he would never give it to her, because Potter had gotten to her first.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

Well, if she wanted it, he had her something blue.

His books floated along behind as he set out on his sudden decision like obedient dogs, nudging at his legs when he stopped. He found the room that had been set aside as the bride's just for today, and knocked.

"Harry, you can't-"

"Oh, I'm Harry now?" he called through the door. It was opened by Luna Lovegood and her dress, light green fur around her waist and over her shoulders, coming down to cover the top of the dress at her breasts. In the warm dark colors of the hall it was shocking and eye-catching.

"Oh, hello Draco. She's using the bathroom right now if you want to tell her."

He narrowed his eyes at Luna, but didn't snap at her from practically announcing his secret. There was no stopping her saying anything or knowing anyone's thoughts. He wasn't sure she was entirely human.

"It's fine. If she needs something blue for that stupid saying, I've got this," he held out the ring.

Luna picked it up and beamed at him. "Oh, I can feel how much you love her. It's soaked into the stones. This will keep the bent-eared frindles away. Your love isn't nearly as sad as Harry's, or guilty as Hermione's."

He didn't even comment, that statement was as clear as the windows. Draco had assured Hermione more than once it was okay to love Harry if she had loved Ron, and Potter had depression hanging over him like a cloud.

"Yours hurts though. One-sided always does. I like your friend Theodore, the tall one who doesn't have any friends and does his society service at the hospital. He's always really sweet to the children. I really want to talk to him but he must attract nargles – I get tongue-tied."

The blunt way she spoke forced a tiny smile to crawl onto his lips. "I'll see what I can do, Luna. But don't expect me to play matchmaker for everyone else."

"You could always interrupt the wedding, like in books."

"This is the most selfless thing I've ever done, Luna, don't convince me ruin it."

Weddings were expensive, anyway, and Hermione would be more likely to kill him if he ruined her special day than confess love. And what if they'd already signed the papers? Weddings were mostly symbolic now, there wasn't any power to the ceremony, it was all in the legal advisor watching as they signed documents. Just because he said it didn't mean it would change anything.

"Ruin what?"

Hermione's voice slid up his spine like teasing fingers. He couldn't breathe, couldn't move.

"He wanted to give this before he forgot and bent-eared frindles ruined your wedding." Luna reached around him, and Hermione stepped into the edge of his vision to accept the ring.

"It's gorgeous! I'll make sure to return it right after!"

"Keep it. It's something blue, not borrowed." He almost offered to give her that too, and turned around before he could get a good look at her dress, or he'd pretend she was standing next to him before the official. His heart wouldn't be able to take the damage.

The books nudged at his legs, helping push him away, hands in his trouser pockets. Maybe, just maybe, he'd tell her after, just so she'd know. She deserved to know, just like she deserved a perfect wedding to the Golden Boy.

But maybe, just maybe, he could have told her last year, or two years ago, or three, or even four when there was only a tiny flaming petal in the darkness, instead of a whole rosebush of fire. He could have told three years ago when he turned up at her apartment door so she wasn't alone on Valentine's day, or three and a half when he remembered it was the day her parents died, or two years ago when he offered to take her out 'as friends' but found out Harry had offered his company, or gotten it over with last year and never talked to her again. He could have told her the thousand days in between.

He could have had her say it back.

The fact suddenly hit him like a meteorite, sudden and blinding and shaking him all over. He made it to a lone chair, put his head in hands, and fought a pain like needles behind his eyes, a harsh feeling in his throat, trying to clear his mind like he could have of any other thought. This one refused to move, though, and he pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes as the first sob broke like a silent thunderstorm.

She could have said it back.

When Draco surfaced from the emotional cloud, the ceremony had almost begun. He wiped his eyes, picked up one of the still-nudging books and opened it as he walked, as his excuse.

Bonnie's Mother

You know how it is when you love someone?

And the hard part, the bad part, the Jerry Springer Show part is that you never stop loving someone. There's always a piece of them in your heart.

Draco gritted his teeth and looked at the cover. Neil Gaiman knew his pain well, but that didn't mean Draco wanted to see it put down in words. He liked pain better when it wasn't in words, so he didn't have to explain it to anyone, just shake his head and let them walk away. Putting it into words made the pain hold weight, mass, and tug down on his chest. He wondered if he could walk bent double without attracting suspicion. He highly doubted it. So he held the book close to his face, walked through the aisles, and took a seat at the very back of the folding chairs, in the farthest corner from the center. Closing the book, he pressed it against his knees and looked to the front, waiting for his heart to step into the fire, burn and blacken and crack in the heat of pain.

She walked up the aisle barefoot, white dress floating around her, and her rose bouquet was made from pages carefully cut, curled, and folded. Draco's breath vanished, following the dress up to her bare shoulders, to her hair pulled up and back, and the smile on her lips. He looked down at her hands, and caught a glimpse of dark blue on her hand. The ring.

Hermione practically danced up the aisle to Potter's arms, and as the elderly man leading the ceremony began, it happened. His heart took the step, the fiery roses took it in, flames of the petals and thorns licking greedily over the chipped surface.

Hearts are made of ceramic, he decided. Maybe some are glass.

They cracked, they chipped. They blacked in fire until they melted or shattered.

Draco didn't even hear the words being said at the front, just saw, deaf to all around him. Potter took her hand, sliding a band onto it, and then she repeated it on him.

Water on the rosebush. The sudden temperature change washed over his heart and it shattered as the roses of fire disappeared.

Another thing he decided – rosebushes had ceramic roots.

He applauded with the people ahead of him, slowly standing, book falling to the ground. Her bouquet flew over the crowd, girls among the number reaching for it, jumping. One only a few rows up caught it, but a single paper rose escaped the numbers, practically landing in Draco's hands. He didn't recognize this text, but it was a love story too, the paragraphs told him. He held the flower and picked up his story collection as Harry and Hermione walked down the center aisle, and the party followed to the reception.

Amongst the books where Draco had stopped to check his eyes, they met.

"Congrats, Hermione. You got that library wedding you once told me about."

She smiled at him, and for once guilt didn't weigh it down as it touched her eyes. "You sap, were you crying?"

"Malfoys don't cry," he said imperiously, and then turned around to wipe his eyes with his cuff.

"Well, if they did, and were in fact crying right now, I wouldn't tell."

"I need to tell you something." He meant to say anything else.

"Then turn around and say it to me, not the shelf."

He did, and focused on her collarbone.

"I love you."

"Draco!"

"I had to tell you once, Granger. You deserve to know why you'll be seeing less of me."

"Why-But-You could have-"

"Told you earlier? And what would you have done? Delayed the wedding? Stopped dating Potter? Called it all off? You don't love me and it would have just made you uncomfortable, and then you'd start having what ifs in the middle of the night, and it would destroyed your relationship for nothing. I'm the Man Who Should Be in Azkaban, not the Man Who Lived."

"I-" She looked at the floor. He leaned against the bookshelf behind him and looked at the spines of the novels across.

"This is how should be. That we see each other less and less until one day you realize we haven't talked in years, and you might start a hundred letters and put off all of them unsure of what to say, not sure how to start speaking again when we're so different or could be so different, and then one day I'll be dead, or you'll be dying and you might wonder what happened to me, but it won't matter because you were loved and you are loved and you have friends and connections everywhere, and Potter has the name and vault and heart to give you everything you want, and I don't. That's what is important. This is the most selfless thing I've ever done, Hermione, you can treasure it if you want." He started to walk off. "If Potter ever hurts you, five months or five years or five decades from now, I'll still love you, and I'll be there in an instant.

This was the perfect book-lover's wedding. They pressed in comfortingly and Draco considered that somewhere on the shelves there was a story like his, where the boy didn't get the girl, and felt less alone through the tears ripping at his throat. The front closed behind him with a bang.

.*.*.

The view changes from where you are standing.

Words can wound, and wounds can heal.

All of these things are true.

Draco set down the still-borrowed book, and prayed these words would be like Gaiman's words about love, and come true.

A year on already, and he would dearly love to heal.

So, yes, if people like this enough there's a half-finished sequel on my USB, but I've half-run-out of inspiration, so if you like this but hate me for making him alone, a review would be very helpful :) (And ideas and prompts for the sequel would be much loved)