If

If

I can see you from where I'm sitting. I can see the flowing train of your dress, the bright yellow roses in your arms, and the expression of utter joy on your face. I wonder if I could ever have made you happy.

I bet you don't even know I'm here, even anywhere around here. Admit it, you don't. The only reason I was invited was because I'm in the Order, right? And Dumbledore invited me on the sly. If I hadn't been so cruel, if things had worked out, you wouldn't be having this wedding at all.

You seem to take forever. It's not that long an aisle. Is it your father, weighing you down? He's so old, so lucky to have you to rest on. That's what you're always doing, right? Letting people rest on you, lean on you, look for support from you. If we hadn't broken up, you would be able to lean on me.

Your soon to be husband is practically salivating at the mouth, looking at you. How could you marry him? You used to laugh at him, Mr. Must-Save-The-World. Mr. MSTW for short. Pronounced misstiw.

I hope you won't be happy for long. I hope you're miserable. At the same time, though, I hope you have eighteen kids and a successful career and you die in your sleep, happy, at the age of a hundred and sixty.

I remember the last time you loved me. The last time I had positively no doubt that we would be together forever and ever.

That was three years ago. We were lying in our bed-do you remember that bed? The one I made, myself, that creaked and was uneven, but we slept in it every night? That bed held so much-our dreams, our pillow talk, our love-and after you left me I chopped it up.

You had to leave for work. I had my arm thrown around you and was still half-asleep. You were trying to get up and giggling madly when I wouldn't let you. I laughed and laughed at your attempts. Finally you gave up and snuggled down next to me.

"I won't let you go," I whispered in your ear. You smiled at me, your eyes half closed, and wound a curl around your finger.

If I had never met you, never seen your graceful walk, your real smile, your brilliant understanding of yourself, if I had never loved you, so much, so much that it hurt, still hurts, for all of that-I wouldn't be alive. Your kiss was the opposite of the Dementor's-it gave me a soul.

You've reached the altar, finally. Your soon-to-be husband is reaching for your hand, but you don't notice, do you? I don't think you really love him. I don't think you really love anybody. But I can see that you're happy with him from the way you smile when you look at him, from the way you look so very easy with him, easy and content, like it's exactly how you should be. And I can't deny you your destiny. That's the one thing I can give you now. Happiness. But it'll look like he's doing it, making you happy, when really it's me, for not haunting you or standing in the way of you two, even though it's killing me. But maybe that's what love is-giving and giving, and it doesn't matter if you get anything back.

The minister is talking. His voice is droning and boring, but I can sense you straining to listen, straining to not make it look like it bothers you. It's your wedding day, and you're thinking about other people still. Amazing, that's what it is. You're so selfless and bright and such a star while everyone around you is so insignificant. It's like those comics you read, Calvin and Hobbes. "I'm significant! Screamed the dust speck."

But if you're really so selfless and all-knowing, if you're so good and perfect, how are you breaking my heart so badly? You're not perfect, that's why, and that's exactly what makes you so perfect. You're so very human and real. But you're too human, too real. You get PMS. You have to be on time for everything. You always want your way. You hold grudges for years.

But nobody would want you any other way. You're so you. But you're also so us. That's why everyone likes you. Even me. Especially me.

The minister is on the part about objections. I fantasize about standing up, saying loudly, "I object!" I wish you would cry, "I can't go through with this!" Both ways, I want you to rush over to me and say, "Draco, I love you. I've never loved anyone but you." But I don't. This time, it's not for you. It's not for your fiancé', either. It's for me, and my own peace of mind, because I can't break up this beautiful wedding with all these people who love you and your fiancé, and you as a couple. Used to be, I wouldn't care. But loving you has made me care.

I listen to the "I do's" and it tears me open, each letter being a dagger plunging into my heart. But it's the first time I've heard your voice in two years. I remembered it perfectly, though-clear and soft and like a flute, or a harp, so pure and lovely.

I can't watch you kiss him. I turn away, shutting my eyes from the world. I wish I never had to open them again.

Finally, you walk down the aisle, arm and arm with him. You pass me, and I could swear you looked at me and mouthed, "I'm sorry,". If you did, I'm so glad. If you didn't, I'm so glad. If you did or didn't-I suppose it doesn't really matter much.