A Pound of Flesh

Chapter Ten: For Better, For Worse


In between running a dozen last minute errands for the next day’s wedding, one of which was an unscheduled stop at a coffee house for a latte, Hermione fretted over the events of the previous day, spending a great deal of time thinking about Draco’s late night phone call. She was relieved he hadn’t been awake or home when she’d dutifully called him back as she’d promised, but she wondered how much of their phone conversation he remembered. If he remembered, the damage had been done.


As she leaned against the cool stone façade of Madam Malkin’s, she closed her eyes and forced herself to stop for a moment, attempting to clear her mind of the swirl of chaotic thoughts troubling her. With a mirthless snort, she thought about how much her life had changed in the two short weeks since she’d stumbled across Draco in that strip club. She still had no idea what had possessed her to go into the club in the first place, other than it seemed like something Hermione Granger would never do.


Since she’d so uncharacteristically ventured into the strip club, she’d discovered not just one, but two, memory charmed wizards the world thought to be dead. Driven by a dark need for vengeance that still surprised her, she’d taken advantage of Draco’s lack of memories, not just once, but several times. She’d discovered she no longer loved Ron. And she’d come face to face with a part of her past she’d just as soon forget.


Yes, it had definitely been a hectic few weeks.


The clock outside Eeylops chimed the quarter hour, and with a sigh, Hermione pushed herself off the building and slipped into the door to retrieve her dress for the next day’s festivities. Madam Malkin insisted she try it on, fussing slightly over the hem as Hermione stood in front of the mirrors. She gazed at her reflection, raising a hand to brush a clump of frizzy hair off her slightly sweaty forehead.


“There,” Madam Malkin said, giving the skirt a final twitch before stepping back to observe her handiwork. “You look magnificent.”


Hermione had to admit that Madam Malkin had done good work. The dress, a pale clover color, fit her snugly at the waist and flared out into a full skirt that just brushed the floor. The bodice reshaped her assets, pushing her breasts up to give her more cleavage than she’d ever thought possible. The boning was padded carefully so as to not rub or poke her during the long celebration, which Hermione was grateful for. And best of all, the material was surprisingly ethereal.


Unable to suppress her delight, Hermione spun around, watching the skirt flare out in the mirror. This was always what she’d imagined witches would wear, not the heavy, somewhat clunky robes that dominated her wardrobe.


After she’d shed the gown and dressed herself, Hermione gave the seamstress final payment, and her ears echoing with the admonishment to take the dress home at once and hang it up to keep it from wrinkling, she left the shop. Standing once more in the sweltering heat in Diagon Alley, she consulted her list, satisfied she’d completed all of her errands. She’d just stop by her flat for a moment to hang the dress before she continued on to the Burrow.


From the corridor outside her flat, Hermione could hear the phone ringing. She fumbled for her wand, unlocking the door with a deft flick of her wrist. Breathless, she tripped over the threshold and grabbed the phone on the kitchen counter.


“Hello?”


“Hi, Jane. It’s me… er… Damien.”


Heaving a silent sigh, Hermione closed her eyes. “Hello, Damien,” she answered. She deposited her purchases on the counter and then looked around for somewhere to put the dress. She hung it from the corner of her refrigerator.


Draco hemmed for a moment, and then cleared his throat. “Listen, this is going to sound sort of stupid, but did I call you last night?”


Relief flooded Hermione’s limbs and she relaxed slightly. “Yeah, you did. I’m guessing you don’t remember?”


Draco cleared his throat again, and when he replied, he sounded embarrassed. “No, not really. Did I – did I say anything… you know… stupid?”


“No, you didn’t.” Doing a silent victory dance, Hermione was careful to keep her tone even. “I figured you’d probably been out drinking, though.”


“I’m really sorry,” Draco said, sighing explosively. “Was it really late?”


“Yeah, it was pretty late.”


“I’m so sorry.”


“Damien,” Hermione said, “it’s alright. You apologized. Why’d you get so drunk, anyway?”


He mumbled something she didn’t quite catch, and when she asked him to repeat it, he denied he’d been drinking for any real purpose. Once he got over his embarrassment, he was easy to talk to, and even managed to elicit a laugh or two out of Hermione, something that surprised her. She hadn’t felt like laughing in days.


“So you’re going to a wedding tomorrow, yeah?”


“Yeah, that’s right. Did you figure out what you’re going to do tomorrow night, then?” She remembered his disappointment the week before when he’d asked her on a date for that Saturday and she’d told him she already had plans. Apparently, it was highly unusual for him to get a weekend night off.


“Yeah, some of my friends are coming over to my flat to watch cricket.”


“Seriously?” Hermione asked, not quite able to imagine Draco sitting around a television with a bunch of Muggle men, cheering on a sports team.


“Well, that’s our excuse. I think we’ll probably just end up drinking.”


“Should I leave my phone off the hook then?” Hermione found herself teasing.


“Oh, ha ha. Very funny,” Draco replied sardonicallly.


Thirsty, Hermione turned to fetch a soda from the refrigerator. She realized, as she glanced at the clock over the range top, that she’d been talking to Draco for nearly half an hour.


“I’m sorry to cut this short,” Hermione said, somewhat surprised that the regret was genuine, “but I’ve got to get going.”


“Oh,” Draco said, and from his tone, Hermione could tell that he too was sorry to end the conversation. “Well, maybe if you’ve recovered enough from the wedding we can do something Sunday afternoon?”


Hermione paused, sobering at once. It was on the tip of her tongue to agree to meet him when she remembered her oath to keep things strictly professional. An oath, she reminded herself, that she was dangerously close to breaking simply by having such a flirtatious conversation with him on the phone.


“I – I don’t know. I’ll probably be pretty worn out from everything.”


Only sounding slightly disappointed, he tried again. “Well, next week then, say Monday or Tuesday.”


“I’m going to be busy catching up on all the work I’ve missed this week,” Hermione excused.


There was a lengthy pause after her latest rejection. When he finally spoke again, it was with clearly forced cheerfulness. “Alright, well, I’ll try again on Wednesday.”


Once she hung up the phone, Hermione stared at it ruefully. She hadn’t expected to actually miss Draco’s company, and that made rejecting him all the harder.


***


Luckily – or unluckily, Hermione wondered – she’d finished all of her errands ahead of schedule, and even with her long phone conversation with Draco, she was early arriving at the Burrow. Mrs. Weasley took one look at her as she stepped out of the Floo and after a terse greeting, sent her out into the back garden to help the Weasley men attempt to set up the chairs and arched trellis for the next day’s ceremony.


It was hot work, and she grew hoarse from yelling at George, who seemed intent on causing enough havoc for two, which, she supposed, he was. The sun had started its slow western descent by the time Mrs. Weasley gave an approving nod and ushered everyone inside. The boys quickly scattered before Mrs. Weasley could give them any more tasks, but Hermione lingered in the kitchen, where Ginny sat at the table diligently folding place cards for the tables at the reception.


“Need help?” she asked.


“Yes, please,” Ginny said gratefully.


Hermione pulled up a chair, taking a stack of the name cards, and kicked off her sandals with a sigh of relief. “Your brothers are hell. How did you survive growing up?”


“I held my own.” Ginny deftly folded a card and set it on a tented stack to the side. She shot Hermione a grin. “You’ve managed alright, too. Mum would have let Charlie brain George with some of those chairs with as big a pain as he was being, but you kept everyone from killing each other.”


“You were watching?”


“Listening. It was hard not to.”


Grimacing, Hermione touched her throat. “Yes, well. I couldn’t let blood get on the chairs.” She took a grateful swallow from the glass of water Ginny fetched her. “Thank you.”


“No, thank you. Honestly, you’ve been amazing. Especially with…” Ginny trailed off. “Well, everything that’s going on in your life.”


Hermione suppressed a grim smile. If only Ginny knew. She inclined her head in understanding and snagged another stack of cards.


They were nearly finished with the stack when Mrs. Weasley turned away from the aromatic dinner she was preparing. Hermione turned to flash her an encouraging smile as the matron sat uneasily at one of the open chairs at the table.


“Girls, you’re both old enough to have this conversation now,” Mrs. Weasley said, a determined look on her face.


Ginny, folding the last name card in half, looked up with concern. “What’s that, Mum?”


Mrs. Weasley took a deep breath. “It’s time we discussed sex.”


Ginny’s face flushed crimson as her mouth fell open in shock. “MUM!” she exclaimed, her eyes darting to Hermione, who blinked rapidly in surprise.


“You’re about to be married, and there are many things you will need to know for your wedding night.”


“I – I…” Ginny stuttered, a mortified expression on her face. “You don’t – ”


“I know you and Harry have been waiting for this for some time,” Mrs. Weasley began, the look on her face conveying that Ginny and Harry would be in serious trouble if they hadn’t waited. Instantly, Ginny closed her mouth, though she turned wide and apologetic eyes at Hermione.


“Maybe I should go check – ” Hermione started, leaping out of her seat.


“No, sit, Hermione. I’m certain this talk will benefit you as well.”


Reluctantly, Hermione sank back into her chair, her mouth dry. She busied herself by taking a long drink of water, her eyes fixed on the tablecloth. When Mrs. Weasley cleared her throat, Hermione steeled herself and directed her eyes up. Mrs. Weasley, looking just as uncomfortable as Hermione felt, fidgeted with a banana.


“Sex,” Mrs. Weasley began. Ginny let out a stifled groan, and Hermione diverted her eyes once more, unable to meet her friend’s gaze. “Sex is a beautiful thing. There is nothing more beautiful, and there are a few tricks I want to teach you, but first, I want to explain a few things.”


As Mrs. Weasley began to describe, in great detail, the mechanics of intercourse, Hermione stared at the thread-bare tablecloth, willing herself unsuccessfully to not listen. “And it is very important,” Mrs. Weasley said with such force that Hermione looked up to see Mrs. Weasley waving the banana at Ginny, “to remember the contraceptive charms and potions. I love Victoire, but I don’t expect any grandchildren out of you and Harry for several years, so listen to this part closely.”


Mrs. Weasley withdrew her wand from her apron pocket and pointed it at the banana. Hermione swallowed convulsively, watching with frankly horrified fascination. Weaving her wand around the banana in a motion that Hermione was quite familiar with, Mrs. Weasley uttered the contraceptive charm. The banana glowed faintly for a moment, and then returned to the same yellow, slightly too ripe color.


“Now you try it,” Mrs. Weasley said, extending the banana to Ginny. The bride-to-be gulped audibly, and Hermione could hear her friend’s thought processes as they registered on her face. If she proved to be too proficient, Mrs. Weasley might become suspicious, but if she mucked it up too much, her mother would make her practice it until she got it right.


Ginny, obviously deciding to feign ignorance rather than deal with the consequences of performing the charm too well, slashed her wand haphazardly around the banana, butchering the charm’s pronunciation. The banana exploded, sending bits of goop flying around the kitchen. Hermione covered her mouth to prevent a laugh from escaping and wiped a bit of banana off her forehead. Ginny sat motionless at the table, the banana skin hanging limply in her hand and banana smeared across her front.


“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said, a pleased smile on her face. “Let’s practice that one a few more times, what do you say, dear? I doubt Harry would appreciate a repeat performance of that.”


Ginny coughed loudly, her face growing red with the effort to hold in her laughter. She grew serious once more as her mother summoned a large bunch of bananas and settled them in front of her. “Give it another try, Ginny.”


Once Mrs. Weasley was satisfied that Ginny had adequately mastered the charm, she commented, “My, you’re such a fast learner. Ever so much faster than I was.” She turned to Hermione. “Want to try it, Hermione?” She held out a banana encouragingly.


“Oh, no, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you. I’m certain I won’t have use for that charm for quite some time yet, honestly.” Hermione set the proffered banana on the table. Mrs. Weasley smiled somewhat sadly at her refusal, but nodded in acceptance.


“Well, now that you’ve got the basic charm down, we need to discuss pleasing your man.” Using her wand, Mrs. Weasley summoned a quill and a sheet of paper, and began to draw a diagram. Ginny’s eyes grew huge as she saw what her mother was sketching. “There are a few things besides intercourse that men enjoy. One of these things is oral sex…”

Hermione quickly shut her eyes, squirming uncomfortably. Mercifully, the conversation drew to a quick close after Mrs. Weasley asked if they had any questions, which they certainly did not.

With a sigh of relief, Mrs. Weasley sat back and abruptly changed the subject. “Hermione, have you seen the pictures of our wedding?”


“No, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione replied as evenly as she possibly could.


“I’ll go get our wedding album, and we can look at it together.” Mrs. Weasley stood and hurried out of the kitchen.


Hermione sat back in her chair with a drawn out sigh of relief as the kitchen door swung shut behind Mrs. Weasley. Ginny mimicked her motion, but covered her eyes with the palms of her hands as well.


“I am so sorry,” Ginny said, sounding mortified.


Hermione shook her head slightly, still somewhat shell-shocked. She meant to tell Ginny that it was alright, that she wasn’t somewhat scarred by Mrs. Weasley’s talk or subsequent demonstration, but couldn’t get her mouth to work. So she settled for grunting slightly.


“Never again,” Ginny moaned, “do I want to have that conversation with my mother.”


Hermione pinched her nose, willing the slight headache to go away. “At least she waited until right before your wedding,” Hermione managed in a cracked voice. “My mother gave me the sex talk before I came with you lot to the Quidditch World Cup.”


Ginny looked positively horrified. “But you were only – ”


“Fourteen,” Hermione interjected. “Almost fifteen. I think my mum was being a realist. I mean, both of my best friends were guys.” Hermione lowered her voice and leaned forward across the table. “Doesn’t your mum suspect that you aren’t really staying the night at my flat all the time?”


“Probably.” Ginny stood and fetched some wineglasses and a bottle of goblin-made wine from the cooling cupboard. She returned to the table, uncorked the bottle with a wave of her wand, and poured Hermione a brimming glass. “She talked to me a little bit about contraceptive potions and charms when Harry came to live with us after – after, you know, the war, but she made it perfectly clear that if I used them before I was married, she’d be highly disappointed in me.” Ginny tipped her glass to Hermione in a toast. “Here’s to being highly disappointing.”


“Cheers to that,” Hermione replied, returning the gesture before taking a long sip from the glass.


“Thank Merlin that Dad was a little more realistic and gave Ron and Harry the talk around the same time,” Ginny said with a sigh as she slumped back into her chair.


Hermione’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Oh gods,” she breathed, trying not to laugh. “When did he…?”


“I believe it was the day he found you and Ron behind the broom shed.”


“Oh,” Hermione said, still able to clearly picture the shocked look on Mr. Weasley’s face when he’d stumbled across them in a state of partial undress. Ron had gallantly thrown his shirt over Hermione, her own shirt trapped somewhere under them, and Mr. Weasley had stared for a moment longer before turning his back and requesting Ron join him in the house at once. Hermione had always wondered what had happened during that fatherly chat, and now she knew.


“Good thing, too,” Ginny added, smiling devilishly. “Harry couldn’t look at me straight in the face for a week afterward, but at least he remembered everything dad taught him.”


“Oh gods,” Hermione said again, imagining Harry’s mortified discomfiture. She chuckled slightly. “Poor Harry.”


Ginny cut off her reply as Mrs. Weasley returned, holding a large photo album to her chest. The bright smile the older woman wore made it clear that she was every bit as relieved as Hermione and Ginny that the talk was over.


“We had such a lovely wedding, just outside Hogsmeade,” Mrs. Weasley began, and dutifully, Hermione leaned in to look at the pictures.


***


The sun was barely over the tree tops when Hermione made her appearance at the Burrow’s front gate the next morning. She stood a long moment, her face turned toward the sun, and breathed in the aroma of the flowered garlands which decorated the fence. Two birds called to each other in the trees, a lovely song to herald in what was to be a wonderful day.


Their gentle song was interrupted by a mighty crash and Mrs. Weasley’s cry of, “Arthur! Stop fiddling with that Muggle contraption and get back into this house!”


Shaking her head in amusement, Hermione pushed open the gate and headed up the winding path to the house, readjusting the strap to her bag. As she reached the front door, there was another crash, and she walked around the side of the house to see what was causing the racket. Mr. Weasley emerged from his shed covered in black soot. Thin wisps of grey smoke curled up out of the cracks in the walls and roof.


Mrs. Weasley appeared at the back door, brandishing her wand. “Arthur Weasley, don’t make me hex you!” she called threateningly.


Mr. Weasley held up his hands, which were caked in engine grease by the looks of them, and retreated meekly into the house. Mrs. Weasley, her hair up in curlers, turned to follow, and then stopped, spying Hermione.


“Good morning, Hermione, dear.”


“Good morning, Mrs. Weasley. Ginny up yet?”


Mrs. Weasley smiled wryly. “Ginny is up in her room, and I think she could use your assistance. Would you mind taking her some coffee?”


“Not at all,” Hermione answered, pausing as Mrs. Weasley poured two steaming cups and handed them to her. Carefully balancing the drinks, Hermione headed up the back steps.


The next few hours passed in a blur. Before she knew it, she was helping Ginny dress in the flowing white gown, admiring how tiny Ginny’s waist seemed in the dress.


“I can’t believe my mum was ever this small,” Ginny confessed, looking at herself in the mirror. Madam Malkin only had to take it in slightly, you know.” Hermione stepped behind Ginny, tugging one of the wide bell sleeves more snugly over her arm. With her red hair streaming down her back in soft cascades, Ginny looked like a princess.


“Well, seven babies will do that, you know.” Hermione sent Ginny a sly look. “How many are you and Harry planning? Ten? Twelve?”


“Don’t give him any ideas,” Ginny laughed, her face glowing with happiness.


Luna entered the room, trailed by Aunt Muriel. Looking acutely aware that she was bringing an unwelcome guest, Luna shrugged slightly in apology. Hermione intervened as Aunt Muriel began directing Ginny on how best to wear her tiara, and deftly foisted the woman off on Ron, who happened to be passing by at that moment, on his way downstairs. As the old woman grabbed his cheeks and pulled his face down for a wet kiss, Hermione grinned at the outraged look Ron sent her and shut the door to the scene.


Shortly after, Mr. Weasley appeared at the door, knocking timidly, and announced that it was nearly time. Hermione ventured a look out at the back garden from Ginny’s window, startled to see the large crowd settling into the gilded golden chairs. With a radiant smile, Ginny accepted her father’s offered arm. Taking that as her cue, Hermione gave Luna a slight nudge, and they preceded the bride and her father from the room.


***


Downstairs, waiting to make her trip down the aisle preceding Ginny, Hermione sighed in relief. The frantic months of preparation and planning were drawing to a close, and while she had willingly been there for Ginny during those stress-filled months, she was glad that it was almost over.


Luna bounced on the balls of her feet in excitement, craning her neck to look out the back door to the garden. “Oh, there’s Harry! And Ron, and Dean!”


Hermione leaned forward to peer out the door as well, and saw Harry taking his spot underneath the arched and heavily flowered trellis. Ron stood next to him, his hand on his shoulder in a show of brotherly support, and Dean stood on Ron’s other side. Harry shifted nervously from foot to foot, and Hermione felt a surge of love for him. He was the closest thing she’d ever come to having a brother, and she knew how dreadfully uncomfortable he must be, standing in front of such a large crowd of people, every eye firmly fixed on him.


Fortunately for Harry, at that moment, the orchestra and choir, directed by Professor Flitwick, began to perform the processional. As one, Hermione and Luna turned to Ginny for one more last minute hug, and as the bride-to-be returned their hugs affectionately, Hermione felt her eyes begin to tear up. She turned her face away from Ginny quickly, unsure if she was about to shed tears of joy for her friends or tears of sorrow for herself, and what might have been.


As the choir began the chorus, Luna squared her shoulders, taking a firm grip on her bouquet. “I believe that’s my cue,” she said grandly. The airy green dress floating around her, she started down the back steps and toward the congregated crowd, which turned to watch her entrance.


Hermione dug a fresh tissue from the tiny purse that she kept tucked behind her bouquet and wiped her eyes. Then she, too, descended to the garden path and started down the aisle. As she took each carefully measured step, she glanced around at the familiar faces on either side of her. She saw Hagrid weeping noisily into a hanky the size of a beach towel, Professors McGonagall and Sprout, other Hogwarts professors, Order members and Ministry officials, Quidditch players and old schoolmates. She nearly dropped her bouquet when she spotted Romilda Vane standing alone in the midst of the crowd, and turned her eyes away quickly. She focused on Harry, who was beaming at her, his face alight and looking boyishly eager.


Luna reached the trellis and stopped to kiss both of Harry’s cheek, and then she took her spot and winked at Dean, who was staring at her in gape-mouthed amazement. Finally reaching the end of the aisle, Hermione stepped up to Harry and kissed him on both cheeks. “Congratulations,” she whispered. She took her place next to Luna and turned to look back up the aisle.


The orchestra and choir wound down, and in the moment of quiet, the tufty-haired wizard – his name was Achelous Briar, Hermione had finally discovered – took his place under the trellis. Then the music began to play, a joyous, hopeful song, and Ginny appeared at the end of the aisle with Mr. Weasley guiding her.


As everyone stood at her appearance, Harry made a quiet, gargled noise. Hermione tore her eyes away from Ginny’s slow approach to look at him. He was staring, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open, looking positively gobsmacked. With an understanding chuckle, Ron patted Harry on the back. As Harry continued to gurgle at his future wife’s approach, Ron glanced over at Hermione and smiled an oddly genuine smile. Buoyed by the gesture, Hermione smiled in return.


“You’re drooling, mate,” Dean said in a stage whisper, and Harry snapped his mouth shut. Luna giggled quietly, and Dean winked at her. Ron rolled his eyes theatrically, and stifling a giggle, Hermione turned her attention back to Ginny, who was almost to the trellis now, a dazzling smile lighting her face. Harry stepped down to meet her, and she came to a halt before him, her eyes focused on his face.


With a kindly smile, Magistrate Briar raised his hands in greeting, and gestured for everyone to reclaim their seats. “Greetings, friends,” he said, his melodious voice echoing over the quiet crowd. “We gather today to bear witness to the marriage of Harry James Potter to Ginevra Molly Weasley. Harry and Ginny, you came here today as individuals with the purpose to become one, to promise to one another a new life of unity and love. It is our joy to witness and celebrate your wedding, and to add our blessings to the love that is the core of your relationship.”


The magistrate looked to Mr. Weasley. “Who gives this woman in marriage?”


His voice slightly choked, Mr. Weasley answered, “Her mother and I, and our sons.” He took Ginny’s hand in his and extended it to Harry.


The magistrate continued, “And who gives this man in marriage?”


Hermione took a deep breath and looked at Ron. He nodded once, and together they said, “We do.” Ron gently pushed Harry toward Ginny, nodding once more to Hermione. Harry took Ginny’s hand in his and together they stepped forward as Mr. Weasley went to sit next to his wife, who was sniffling loudly into a hanky. Still flushed with the honor of giving Harry away, Hermione nearly missed the beginning of the magistrate’s speech.


“Marriage is the most sacred of bonds. Today you give yourselves over to each other with the promise to hold true unto each other from now until the very ends of time. You will be the other’s encouragement and inspiration; you shall be their laughter, their comfort in times of sorrow and struggle. You promise to love each other during the good times, as well as the bad.”


Feeling her throat tighten, Hermione shot a glance at Ron, blinking rapidly. She didn’t know what her problem was. So what if she’d long imagined sharing this day with Ron under the flowers of the trellis. That future was gone and she’d accepted it and begun to move on.


“When life seems easy or when it is hard, when your love comes easily or when it comes with effort, you will cherish one another, and forevermore hold your partner in the highest regard. Do you promise to do all of this now, and all the days of your life?”


Without looking away from one another, Ginny and Harry answered together, “I do.”


Knowing this was her cue, Hermione handed Ginny the ring she’d kept safely on her thumb. Ginny accepted the Celtic band, squeezing Hermione’s hand in thanks as she took hold of the ring.


“Harry and Ginny will now exchange vows they wrote together.” The magistrate stepped back, his dark blue robes billowing slightly in a soft breeze.


Harry turned back to Ginny, the delicate ring held between two fingers. He smiled at her, his eyes looking especially bright behind his glasses. He took her left hand and poised the ring at the tip of her ring finger. “Ginny, I take you to be my wife,” he began quietly.


Hermione swallowed painfully, tears springing to her eyes. Beside her, she heard Luna sniffle.


His eyes never leaving Ginny’s face, Harry continued. “All that I am and all that I have, I offer to you in love and in joy. From this day forward, I will love and comfort you, hold you close, and remain faithful to you all the days of our lives. I pledge to you my living and my dying, each equally in your care. I shall be a shield for your back and you for mine. I shall honor you above all others.” He gently slid the ring onto Ginny’s finger, his hand shaking.


The breeze picked up for a moment, and Hermione’s airy green dress swayed around her legs. The flowers in the trellis shed a small cluster of petals and they drifted down over Harry and Ginny’s heads. Ginny, looking unruffled by the curls of hair blowing across her face, waited until the breeze died down and her hair fell to her shoulders once more. “Harry,” she began, her voice trembling slightly, “I take you to be my husband. I join my life with yours. Wherever you go, I will go. Whatever you face, I will face. I give you my hand and my heart as a sanctuary of warmth and peace, and pledge my faith and love to you.” She slid the ring onto his finger, pausing when it stuck at his knuckles. Harry wiggled his finger helpfully, and the ring slid home.


“Please join your left hands,” Magistrate Briar said. Harry and Ginny did so, looking positively spellbound with each other. The magistrate touched their joined hands with the tip of his wand. The rings glowed faintly golden and then a shaft of brilliant white light wound around their hands like a ribbon. Then, with a grin, the magistrate said, “Mr. Potter, you may kiss your wife.”


Harry leaned forward and captured Ginny’s lips. With a cheer, the assembled crowd lifted their wands and shot multicolored sparks into the afternoon air. Hermione, her throat so tight she couldn’t even squeak, mutely added her sparks to the celebration.


For just a moment, before Harry and Ginny broke apart, Hermione dared to look at Ron, who, sensing her scrutiny, turned his gaze her way. For a fleeting moment, she saw regret in his eyes. Then it was gone, and he looked away, searching the crowd for someone. As the newly married couple started back up the aisle, Ron’s eyes lit up as he spotted whoever he was looking for. Idly curious, Hermione followed his gaze, and saw Romilda Vane waving at him.


***


The back garden glittered with thousands of fairy lights and candles. The sun had set, and the slight breeze that had been blowing during the ceremony persisted, making the candlelight flicker and dance. The band played a lively waltz, and the dance floor was crammed with happily dancing couples. Harry and Ginny were somewhere in the middle, oblivious to the rest of the crowd.


Hermione sat at one of the tables ringing the dance floor with Angelina, who claimed to be too tired to dance at the moment. Hermione welcomed her company, however, not really wanting to be alone. As the breeze gusted and blew Hermione’s gauzy dress away from her body, she shivered slightly. Her eyes were fixed on the dance floor, seeking out the one couple she least wanted to see.


In a moment, they spun into view, firmly wrapped around each other.


“That bleeding cow,” Angelina hissed, spotting the same couple swaying to the music. “It’s disgusting. What was Ron thinking?”


Hermione, unable to tear her eyes away, watched as Romilda Vane draped herself on Ron while they danced. Ron, looking pleased with himself, slipped his hands down her waist until they came to a rest low on the dark-haired girl’s hips. Her throat dry, Hermione tipped back the rest of the champagne in her glass. Even over the length of the glass, the sight of Ron with Romilda made her feel slightly ill.


“Probably that Lavender Brown wasn’t available to do the job, so Romilda would do the trick,” Hermione answered, feigning indifference. Angelina leveled her with a look of poorly disguised pity. Hermione dropped her eyes to regard her now empty glass. She shouldn’t care so much now, she reasoned with herself. She didn’t love Ron anymore.


Still, that didn’t make it any easier, seeing him holding and kissing the younger woman who kept sending Hermione triumphant looks. Especially with the renewed realization that so many of her naïve dreams for the future had been destroyed. Clearly, she told herself, she was better off without Ron. All they’d ever done was fight.


Except, Hermione knew, that wasn’t true. They bickered and argued much more than anyone else she knew, but there had also been laughter, flirtation, hidden moments of intimacy… all things that were currently occurring on the dance floor as Ron and Romilda danced close enough to be deemed obscene. It reminded her a bit of the way she’d danced with Draco.


Ron bent and said something in Romilda’s ear that caused her to giggle madly, and then she shot another spiteful glance at Hermione. The dark-haired girl said something in return, and Ron turned to look at Hermione, the smirk on his face reminiscent of Draco, back when he knew who he was. Hermione stared back, her stomach churning hotly as she realized this display was for her benefit.


If only she could have brought Draco. Seeing his ex-girlfriend dancing and kissing Draco Malfoy surely would wipe that pleased smirk off Ron’s face. And it would have been nice, she realized, to have Draco there, dancing with her and looking at her like she was the most incredible woman he’d ever met. She longed for that look in his eyes suddenly, and was struck with an overwhelming sense of loneliness.


“Hermione – ”


“Angelina, I’m fine. Go dance with George before he causes trouble,” Hermione said firmly. She stood, waving her empty champagne flute as an excuse. “I need to go find a refill anyway.” Turning her back on the dance floor, Hermione threaded her way through the tables toward the bar. The line at the bar was too long for her liking, and she detoured away from the fairy lights. Instead, she made her way toward the darkened Burrow’s back door.


Thankfully, the dimly lit kitchen was empty. Two candles, burnt nearly out, flickered on the table and cast odd shadows around the room. A small fire burned in the Floo, and the kitchen was much warmer than it was outside. Hermione welcomed the warmth, however, as it was a pleasant change from the breezy, cool August night which blew through the thin, gauzy layers of her dress.


Hermione warmed herself for a long moment in front of the fire. She rubbed her bare shoulders and squatted by the hearth. Once more, tears she couldn’t identify as happy or sad sprang to her eyes and she wiped them away carefully with the last of her clean tissues. It wasn’t fair, at all, that Ginny and Harry had managed to survive the fallout of the past, and Ron and Hermione had not been able to. With a quiet sniffle, Hermione stood and brushed the wrinkles out of her dress.


The bottle of goblin-made wine, still partially full, was in the cooling cabinet right where Ginny had left it. Hermione uncorked it, then paused, the bottle poised to pour a fresh glass. Ever since Ron had left, she’d been drinking more than she should, working more than anyone ought to, avoiding anything that had to do with the past, and trying desperately to keep her emotions bottled up inside. Shuddering slightly, Hermione put the bottle down on the table with a loud thud and wrapped her arms around herself. She just had to hold it together for just a little while longer, until the end of the wedding reception, when she could go home and finally lose herself in grief. She swallowed a sob, clearing her head of thoughts of Rowle, and Ron, and anything that had to do with Memory Charms, and took a deep breath.


Hermione corked the wine bottle, and left her glass on the counter. She turned to go back to the party but as she reached the back door, she collided with someone coming inside.


“Oh! Sorry,” Hermione said at once, stepping back.


“In a hurry?” a familiar voice asked. Hermione forced herself to smile as she looked up into Ron’s smirking face.


“Got to get back to the party,” Hermione excused. With growing disgust, she noted that his hair was mussed, his tie loosened, and that a dark purple bruise was forming on his freckled neck.


“Great party, isn’t it,” Ron said with a wide smile.


“Yeah,” Hermione said. “Especially the part where Harry and Ginny got married, don’t you think?”


Ron faltered for a moment, and then his grin returned full-force. “Yeah, that part was nice.” He stepped around Hermione, his eyes alighting on the bottle of wine. “Ah, there it is. I told Rommy I would bring her a glass of this.”


“Rommy?” Hermione asked, her nose wrinkling in distaste.


“Yeah,” Ron said brightly. “She’s great. So interested in everything I have to say, like I’m the smartest person she knows.” Hermione snorted, and Ron narrowed his eyes. “Something funny?”


“No,” Hermione said, clenching her hands behind her back. “Just that you probably are the smartest person she knows. Romilda never did hang with the brightest lot.”


Ron was no longer smiling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”


“Nothing,” Hermione said quickly, wondering why she was allowing herself to get sucked into another petty squabble. “I should get back.”


Ron moved quicker than she expected, blocking the door. “Are you calling me stupid?”


“Did I say that?” Hermione said, the words clipped with her effort to stay calm. “Didn’t I just say you were the smartest person she knew?”


“So you’re calling her stupid, then.”


“I didn’t say that.”


“You implied it.”


“Whatever, Ron. Move out of my way.” Hermione tried to move past Ron but he stepped into her path again.


“At least I’m dating someone who doesn’t flinch every time someone brings up the past.”


Hermione tensed, the taunt hitting far too close to home.


“Or someone who can accept who she is.”


“Looks to me like she’s just in it for a quick fuck and her name in the papers.” Even as the words escaped her lips, Hermione knew she was starting something she didn’t really want to finish.


“Take it back,” Ron growled, closing the distance between them quickly.


“What, that she’s only interested in you for your name and the fact that you’re associated with Harry Potter?”


Ron glowered at her, his face red. “You want to talk about people we’re dating? Fine,” Ron spat, “let’s talk about this Muggle you’re seeing. What right do you think you have to criticize who I date when you have to hide behind someone who has no idea who or what you are?”


Hermione sputtered, completely incapable of forming words.


Ron took another step forward, and Hermione backed into the counter. His eyes gleaming, Ron asked, “What right do you have to talk about who I date when you were the one who started dating first, and a Muggle at that?”


“YOU left ME! Why should you care if I’m dating someone else?” she screamed at him, clenching her hands at her sides.


“I don’t care!” Ron roared back at her. “Why should I care if you mess around with some Muggle?”


“What’s wrong with Muggles?” Hermione hissed.


“You’re a witch!” Ron snapped, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You should be dating a wizard!”


“So you don’t care that I’m dating someone else, but you do care that I’m dating a Muggle?” Hermione shook her head in frustration. “God, Ron, you sound like a Malfoy.”


Ron’s eyes flared and he leaned so close to Hermione that she could feel his heaving, angry breaths on her face. “Don’t ever compare me to those lowlife scum, ever again,” he growled.


“Is everything alright in here?” Mrs. Weasley asked, stepping into the kitchen with a worried frown on her face.


“Fine!” Ron snapped.


“Fine,” Hermione said through clenched teeth. “I was just leaving.”


Hermione shoved Ron out of the way and fled the kitchen. Seething with rage and filled with despair, she hurried out the backdoor towards the revelry. She spotted Ginny and Harry talking with Professor McGonagall at the edge of the dance floor, and she quickly crossed to them.


“Ginny, Harry, I’ve got to be off,” she said to her friends. Ginny smiled at her, clearly too happy to notice if anything was off with Hermione.


“Thank you so much, Hermione,” Ginny said, leaning forward to give her a warm hug. “You’re like the big sister I never had.”


Once Ginny let her go, Harry stepped forward, for once more observant than his wife. As he hugged her, he whispered in her ear, “Thank you, Hermione, for being my friend all this time. Even with Ron being the way he is. It’ll get better.”


“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione said, feeling tears threatening to form in her eyes. She pulled back and put a hand on both of them. “Have a great honeymoon! I’ll see you when you get back.”


After they bade her farewell, Hermione walked to the back gate, to where the anti-Apparation wards ended, forcing her tears to stay put. At last, as she crossed the boundary and left the party behind, she let go. More than anything, she wanted to be held, and comforted, and she wanted to feel wanted. She closed her eyes, stifling the frame-shaking sobs that gripped her, and concentrated on her destination. She spun on the spot, and was away.


***


As she paused outside of her destination, she dug a used tissue out of her purse and mopped off her face the best she could. Then she carefully stowed her wand in the secret pocket and walked into the building.


As she walked up the two flights of stairs, she kept seeing Ron’s face. Ron’s face after the final battle: bloody and weary, but smiling in relief to see her alive. Ron’s face in the months after the battle: careworn, guarded, the smile never quite reaching his eyes. Ron’s face when they’d moved in together, joyful, but guarded. Ron’s face when Harry and Ginny announced their engagement: guilty, annoyed, and resentful. Ron’s face when they’d broken up: weary, but relieved, and sad. Ron’s face tonight when he’d said he didn’t care: honest, angry, disgusted.


She knocked on the door and waited. After a long pause, the door flew open, and Draco stood before her, concern on his face. “Jane!” he exclaimed, taking her by the arms and pulling her into the flat. “Are you alright?”


“I want to forget too,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Make me forget too.”


The look on Draco’s face in juxtaposition to Ron’s face confused and alarmed her. Draco cared; Draco, while worried, was clearly glad to see her. But that was what she needed, and so she burst into tears, and let him gather her into his arms.

---

Author's Notes: I am so excited to post this chapter. I've had parts of it written for months, and the rest sort of wrote itself. This is one of my favorite chapters, and I'd love to hear what you thought of it, so reviews are most welcome. You're also welcome to check out my yahoo group, the link to which you can find in my user profile, and check for story progress updates.