Chapter 7: Wedding Day, Part Two
It was unreasonably sunny. The perfect number of clouds swam under a radiant sun. The light glinted off the pond, and the fucking peacocks were preening.
But of course it would be a perfect day for Draco Malfoy's wedding, Theo grumbled to himself.
He stood alone near the veranda, watching as the guests filed in. Pansy was inside getting Granger and the Weasley girl ready. Blaise was best-manning. And Greg wasn't invited. Theo was still trying to figure out how he had gotten an invite.
When the cream envelope had arrived by owl to his flat in the city, he'd almost crumpled it into the fire. A sick joke — that's what Draco was playing.
He hadn't seen any of them for a year. After the Battle, and after his father had been sent to Azkaban and his inheritance frozen, Theo had spent some time traveling with the money he did have left. He'd met up with Pansy in France for a few months, and after a disastrous attempt to remain heterosexual, he'd gone to Amsterdam.
When Draco was released from Azkaban and started at the Ministry, Theo had read about it, but didn't reach out. Blaise wrote him once on his birthday, but he only kept up with rest of them through the papers. He'd watched from the Netherlands as Rita Skeeter spun a ridiculous story about Draco and Hermione Granger, and it wasn't until the Prophet printed an actual picture of a date that ended with a kiss that truly believed it.
He'd thought about sending a note of congratulations at the engagement. He'd thought about letting Blaise know he was back in London, if he ever wanted to grab a drink. He'd thought about sending an owl to Pansy in support of the Parkinson line on the cover of all the major magazines. But he could never get the nerve up.
So when the invitation arrived, his immediate thought was that Lucius must have made him do it. Nothing else made sense.
So here he was, waiting for the appropriate moment to grab a seat as far away from Ron Weasley as possible.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" said a Scottish voice to his left.
Theo turned and looked up a few inches to find Oliver Wood standing with a halo of sunlight breaking him into silhouette. He swallowed thickly.
"Right." Theo's voice croaked over the single word, and he cleared his throat. "Wood."
"What have you been up to since… well, the end of the world." When he grinned down at him, Theo felt that same pull. The same desperate wish that had whispered across his skin in third year during a Slytherin and Gryffindor match as he watched the Quaffle slide into Oliver's grip.
"Traveling. Not much." Theo tore his gaze away. "You?"
"A bit here and there. Coaching a few amateur leagues in Quidditch. Bent up me knee well and good about a year ago, so I can't play professionally."
"Right. Er, sorry about that."
"Ah, it's nothing." Oliver buttoned his robes and said, "You'll be sitting on Malfoy's side, I take it?"
"I… I don't know. I suppose. I don't know anyone here anymore." Theo sniffed and glanced around, trying to look more detached than he felt.
"Me neither," Oliver said. "Let's grab a few chairs in the back then, yeah?"
Theo's eyes snapped up to him. The sun seemed to play tricks through Oliver's hair, across his stubble, and he couldn't look anywhere else. He was nodding before his mind could catch up.