Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, but I do own the bloody storyline. JK Rowling and co. own this, so I'm blatantly borrowing.



Granger sat there, mightily uncomfortable in the stiffly corsetted dress. She sighed, her hands roaming for the thousandth time over the perfectly smooth material of the white dress, and moving upwards to tug uselessly on the veil obscuring her face. She sighed slightly, and breathed in again, causing some of the gauze to fly into the small parting of her lips. The dry fabric created an uneasy tension with the soft surrounding flesh; as well as looking demurely suggestive. No one, not even a child, could have failed to recognize the almost unholy dent made by her mouth, in the otherwise all-material-encompassed woman.

She felt like a lovely thing, an object to be admirably manhandled, then placed down again and moved on. It was not a particularily comforting feeling, and even less so because it was true. She lifted the veil with gloved hands, and admired her shortlived beauty. Of course, magic was involved in making up so previously plain a woman, but she had to admit her most basic of looks wasn't terribly unattractive either. The freckles and sunspots that marred her otherwise flawless complexion were temporarily removed, and her teeth were now impeccable in size and color, partially in thanks to Draco Malfoy. Even her eyes were tinted gold, making the light brown an interesting mix of autumnal red. The lips were plainly lip-sticked an earthy shade, but even so, they were alluringly full. She was satisfied, she supposed, even though Damien's reaction was more than adequate. She stifled a laugh at his uncomfortably restraing trousers, and the way precarious way he had tried to put his hand up her dress.

She had slapped it away, of course, knowing this was the good and proper thing to do, and he looked pleased at her reaction. Good brides, as well as wholesome women just didn't copulate on the morning of their wedding. But just for once, she wished she could throw freely all Victorian expectations and do something on a whim, a capricious, fleeting fancy that would flout all the people who knew her. Maybe then the Hermione Granger that everyone thought they knew would suddenly become more fascinating; maybe then Harry and Ron would not so egotistically believe that they knew her so well.

She straightened the veil again, her breath making it stiflingly hot. She wished the bloody ceremony would start and she looked impatiently at her watch. Only seven minutes had elapsed since this morning fantasy, and it had done little to alleviate her tension or lengthen her patience. It would be hours before anyone arrived yet, and now that it was snowing, most likely longer.

She would have suddenly given anything to be back in school, swimming in her unabashed fountain of knowledge and endless, interminable hours spent in the library. Her fingers itched for a good book,to feel the old, crackly parchment become so warm and pliable beneath her hands after a few minutes of use. Instead, she had to settle for the searingly bad and atrociously trashy contemporary WhichWitch fiction. She made a face, remembering the embarrasingly awful story of the girl, whom on her wedding day, had had a former arch enemy declare his undying love for her. She laughed, a genuine, tinkling laugh, at the thought of Draco Malfoy, or better yet, Snape trying to announce their unrequited affection.

She held in her sides painfully as another burble of laughter escaped; the bones of the dress obviously weren't made for amused brides. She wiped a precariously dangling tear from her cheek, not wishing to spoil her makeup just yet.

The veil began to make her woozy, the confines of the impermaeble material becoming too hot. She tore it off, afraid that edging it slowly off would ruin her hair, and also cause unconciousness. Breathe. That was better, the cold, stinging air like a welcome head rush. She wiped sweat from her forhead, and glanced worridely at the stains forming beneath her arms. Why did the stupid dress have to be so hot? She realised she could charm it and did so, quickly, before the spotless white would turn a telling shade of yellow.

Her fingers inched towards her pack of Silk Cut, knowing, even as she did so, that Damien would have a fit, and that Lavender would surely slap her. Cigarettes were something she did more often as her wedding day approached, even though becoming a smoker was the farthest thing from her mind. The wedding and the accompanying stress were becoming quite a load, and besides, every normal person had their vices. She winced, suddenly, realising that she was not supposed to consider heself among normal people. She was supposed to be Hermione Granger, unsullied, unsmudged, flawless leader of Gryfindor. She also knew that Harry, Ron and Damien regarded cigarettes as a weak and muggle thing to do. Again she flinched, and found tears rising inexplicably in her throat.

Muggle. For all her talents, triumphs and brilliance, it was still a dirty word. It was still the one thing that would never allow her to connect fully with anyone, not even her soon to be husband. She was still not pureblood, and that was a mistake to be borne for many generations. She reddened at the thought at the thought of the less than kosher names she had been subjected to in her youth and even now.

She held the lighter in the palm of her hand, glancing nervously around, still not sure if she was being regarded by a very quiet spector. The smoke hit her lungs densely, and she coughed, sputtering, doubling over and cursing the dress for the amount of pain she was in. Still, it did help, and Hermione suddenly cared very little for what others thought of her. She knew fullly what a dull, boring life she was destined into leading once she said her I do's' to Damien, and this thought unnerved rather than soothed her. Her life, she supposed, would be largely spent rearing children, darning socks, and muttering encouraging comments to her husband, rather dull thing he was. She smiled affectionately, though not quite lovingly. She held him in high regard, no doubt, but she was quite sure that there were no academic victories that lingered in the bludger- beaten brain.

A sudden hot seizure of pain grasped her as she realised what she was leaving behind. She gasped, and clutched her side, eyes open to the knowledge that she would never again be admitted to the vast libraries, able to brew illicit, yet life saving potions, practice insanely difficult charms, nor hold intelligent conversation with highly regarded professors.

But this was what she wanted, she was sure. She blinked the tears back, her eyelid battering the oft' tear softened skin beneath her eyes. She wiped her nose rather rougishly and sat straight up again, not being able to stand the pain of the stays digging ridges into her breasts.

She stubbed the cigarette out onto the bare table, ignoring the mark that was beginning to form beneath the hot sparks. She stood up quickly, and rather shakily, the boots that laced nearly to her knee restrained her with circulation halting stiffness. She robbed her thighs absently, noting the lack of feeling her fingers held.

She put the veil onto her head, and set about watching the time pass by, even more slowly.This was more agonizing than watching Snape humiliate Neville. At least with Snape, everything was unpredictable, and there was no sophoriphic danger. The man kept you on your toes, she granted restlessly, hating to credit the evil professor that despised her solely on her friends and heritage.




A/N: Hoped you like that one. Several more chappies to go. Please R&R. T