Author's Note: Howdy! This fic is for all of you lovely people who have voted on my poll and decided that this fic would be centred on Dramione. The poll is still open if you want to choose which pairing I write about in my next story :)

Happy September 1st! I hope you're reading this story to pass time while you're on the Hogwarts Express. If you are like me, though, you've either missed the train or are still waiting for your acceptance letter into Hogwarts. (It's at least three years overdue, McGonagall . . .) Or perhaps you could be riding in the Weasley's Ford Anglia.

You should note before reading that this story is purely for shits and giggles (until, you know, someone giggles and shits). There is so much sarcasm in this story that it's not even funny. (Yup, that was sarcasm.)

Entered in the HPFC Star Challenge "Vega" ; Gemstone Competition "rose quartz"

Disclaimer: JKRowling created the HP series. I made Hermione curse like a sailor. Taylor Swift owns the song Speak Now. Infringe either of them and I'll perform an Unforgivable on you. ;)

(shut that bishop)

I am not the kind of girl who should be rudely barging in on a white veil occasion. My life isn't something straight off from a film – there are no Prince Charmings or white horses or riding off into the sunset as the screen fades to black. I hate speaking in public and want to die if the spotlight is on me. I am more of the invisible kind of girl, the one who can play chameleon better than, well, a chameleon. I hide behind my camera and snapshot rare and beautiful moments so people can remember them for forever . . . and not once do I get in front of that camera and ruin the picturesque moment with my awkward bumbling self. No one else has complained of my quiet methods so far, and I don't recall a single person reminiscing their special occasion that I photographed and saying anything remarkable about me. Sure, they love my pictures but they have to fumble with their memory and try to recollect my name even though they gush to me later on that they thought my photographs were absolutely stunning. (What a load of bull. I wish people would be honest to my face.)

But you, you are completely opposite from me. You're loud and rude and arrogant and a cocky motherfucker who thrives on the attention and opinions of others. You love being in the limelight and strive to please people while coming off as aloof as you possibly can. And you are Draco Malfoy. You look like an angel what with that golden hair and glowing grey eyes. You don't act like an angel, however; you are most definitely the devil in disguise with your crude humour and prickly disposition. You love that horrible badass reputation the public cultivated for you when you rose to fame with those lame summer blockbuster films, and you parade across the covers of all the tabloids and trashy magazines with that sexy smirk and some blonde bimbo hanging off your arm.

We knew each other in grade school. Your first words to me were: "You have awfully large teeth." And then, in typical little girl fashion, I proceeded to cry and ran to tattle to the teacher. In short, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Oh, who am I kidding? Yours and my friendship has been everything but beautiful. While the public fawns and praises you for your stellar sarcastic wit, it was me who received the brunt of it growing up. And contrary to the lies Sexy Sorcerers prints in its magazine articles, your aversion to bacon is because I instilled my vegetarian beliefs in you at an early age even though you eat all sorts of meat besides pig just to spite me and keep up with a manly diet. (Or so you say.) But we were always together and you knew my deepest darkest secrets (I fucking hate spiders) and gracefully dealt with my obsession with perfection; I, in turn, know that you're deathly afraid of thunderstorms and your father. We've had plenty ups and downs – our grade school years were hormone-filled and everyone was practically expecting us to become a couple; at Uni, we were roomies and I had the immense pleasure of making small talk with your one-night stands and cleaning you up after one too many drunken nights – and that is how I know you better than I know myself. If all those childhood years together taught me anything, I know that you are not the kind of boy who should be marrying the wrong girl.

Dear Godric, please don't marry her, I chant underneath my breath as I slip my way into the church. Anyone else but her.

I find it pretty funny that your wedding is in a church of all places. It must've been at her insistence. You abhor religion of all sorts and the idea of God. I've spent so many conversations discussing religion with you, and always your reasoning for being an Atheist is that if there were a God, he wouldn't have made Lucius Malfoy your father. (I agree, but I go to my Christian church every Sunday to praise the Lord, hallelujah amen and all that.)

Unfortunately, my sneaking in and crashing your wedding does not go unnoticed by your friends. Blaise Zabini, a tall, dark, and handsome Italian man who is completely conspicuous, waves in my direction and wolf-whistles loudly and obscenely to embarrass me and to make sure I notice his presence (as if anyone could possibly not notice him). Thankfully, everyone in the church expects this sort of thing from Blaise and no one pays him a second thought. I, however, am completely horrified and make a slashing motion across my neck before pointing at him threateningly. I've tried so hard to be invisible and I hope your ass of a friend does not fuck it up. Blaise shrinks in his seat, visibly cowering. I'm known to be quite menacing when I want to be. He does nudge his neighbours, though, and suddenly all your buffoons are making a scene as they vie for my attention.

Merlin's beard, all I want is to see your wedding that I wasn't invited to – is that so hard for a girl to ask for? But no, I've got these tossers you call mates pointing in my direction and waving and doing all sorts of things inappropriate for a wedding. At least they don't call out my name; your bitch of a fiancée would hate me for forever if she even suspects that I am here on her special day.

Shit, shit, shit. I try to make myself as small as possible once I see her pastel-coloured family (oh, Godric, what the bloody hell are they all wearing? Did Astoria try to make this the ugliest wedding of the year?) start muttering and turning in my direction. I can just tell they are all snotty and uptight like Astoria is. But I've never met them so I cannot be completely positive of that judgment. Honestly, though, Astoria reflects their parenting and Pureblood ideals. If it were up to me, I'd say her family was an epic fail based on those two facts alone.

And oh, Dobby's fucking sock! Why the bloody hell are you looking back in the pews? I don't want you to see me! I give the damn evil eye in Blaise's direction. It's his entire fucking fault that my plan is turning out to be shitty and not very well thought out. If he had not seen me sneak into the church, the Greengrasses wouldn't be looking for blood and wondering who could possibly be crashing their precious daughter's wedding. And you wouldn't see me. All would be well if Blaise could just mind his own fucking business.

". . . don't know what to do! She is yelling at her Matron of Honour back in the dressing room because poor Lavender said her wedding gown is shaped like a pastry! Honestly, Pansy . . . .," I hear a snippet of gossip come from two ladies in the pew a couple rows up.

My eyes widen at that unexpected nugget of goodness. Oh, typical Astoria, for making a big fucking dramatic production on her wedding day. From what I hear, though, she had it coming. Who wears a wedding gown that even slightly resembles a bakery item? I bet that slut is wishing you would lick it off her later tonight or something.

This is surely cannot be what you thought your wedding would be like. I know you have higher standards than this – to be honest, I was completely mindfucked and practically shitted a hippogriff when I saw in the Daily Prophet that Astoria is to be the heiress to the Malfoy fortune. I glance up to where you are standing at the front of the aisle. Nope, there is no way I can imagine her as Mrs Malfoy. I cock my head to the side. Is it just me or do you look nervous? You're tugging on your tie as if it is the Devil's Snare or something. I glance over at Blaise and that fucker has the audacity to smirk at me. He wiggles his thumbs as if typing on an imaginary mobile. I take it that he wants me to look down at my own mobile.

I pull my shitty little iPhone out of the pocket of my dress (what? I'm practical!) and sure enough, there are at least a million texts lighting up my screen. Godric, Blaise, I know you have talented fingers – oh, ew, that sounded perverted *insert shudder* – but for fuck's sake, I don't have time to listen to your rambling right now!

– Draco's about pissing himself in fear –

– Look at that fucker! He's going to strangle himself before the beauty queen makes an appearance –

– Shit, Astoria better hurry up. My ass is fallin asleep –

– Hey, why weren't you invited? I know you and Tori aren't on the friendliest terms but Draco would have been the one to give you the invite –

– Merlin, you're not ignoring me, right? –

– Dude, you suck as a ninja, btw. I totes knew it was you. Anyone could see that bushy mane of hair kilometres away. –

– I see you reading these texts. Why aren't you replying? –

I snort and cheerfully wave my middle finger at Blaise. I know him because of you, and over the years the three of us have gotten close though our relationships with each person has a different dynamic than when the three of us are all together. Blaise is a nosy little punk who cannot keep his mouth shut for the life of him. He's also the one who taught me to cuss and all my disgusting bad habits even though I always blame them all on you. Blaise's biggest vice is his lack of tact, though. He has no idea about personal boundaries and when to stop pressing a subject.

As I wait for the ice queen to make her appearance (any day, now, Astoria dear) and for Blaise's inevitable text response to my obscene hand gesture, I make myself comfortable on this hard cherry wood pew that is lined in green velvet. I look around the church that you and Astoria have deemed suitable for such an elaborate wedding. I swear that is honest-to-Godric goblin gold gilded around each swooping arch and glinting in all the ceiling tile mosaics. I do a double-take the moment I realise you are getting married in a Catholic church (or are they called cathedrals?). Bloody hell, Draco, did you actually import the Pope from Italy? My head turns to Blaise, and I arch an eyebrow at him. He smiles sheepishly and adopts a reverent look on his face like a good little Italian Catholic church boy should. Not that Blaise has stepped foot in a church during the time I've known him. He's more of the type to skip Mass so he can make out with some chick in the confessional booths as his sin he begs forgiveness for.

Another glance around the place where you are going to tie the knot confirms that, shit, you and Astoria are serious about this marriage thing. I thought you were only doing this to placate your Pureblood family's expectations. I never would have figured you had feelings for the shallow bint. I chance another look at you to see you shifting your weight nervously to one foot and then the other. The preacher (or he is a bishop now that I've realised this is a Catholic wedding? Do bishops even perform the marriage ceremony?) is directly at the end of the marathon-long aisle and looking more bored than I have seen a student look in a History of Magic class.

"Salazar's balls, what's taking Tori so long?" I hear the sweet, lovely dulcet tones of Millicent Bullstrode remark crassly.

After hearing this, I lose myself in a daydream where I purposefully ruin Astoria's wedding by stealing you away. A small smile graces my lips as I plan it all out: I'll stand and whisk you away before you can say a single vow. "Don't say yes," I would tell you. "Run away now, I'll meet you when you're out of the church at the back door. Don't wait or say a single vow; you need to hear me out why I am doing this for you." And as you are making your hasty exit, they would have said at that exact moment: "Speak now". To me, this is a perfect and flawless plan. If only I had the guts to re-enact it out for real so I could save you from this huge mistake you are obviously making by marrying Astoria Greengrass. I bet she's a gold digger (if you ignore the fact that her family is already loaded).

– Pay attention, Granger. It's about to start –

I exchange more fun hand gestures with Blaise and even stick my tongue out at him for good measure. He deserves it all. But then I feel guilty for raising my middle finger in the House of God and in the presence of the Pope. Blaise picks up on this newfound weakness and I can tell that he wants to exploit it but then the organ starts to play a song that sounds like a deathmarch, interrupting his chances of teasing. I snicker to myself. Astoria really knows how to turn a wedding into a funeral.

– Go hide in the curtains. You've brought your camera, right? Wait, stupid question. You always bring your camera. Just pretend your the wedding photographer and no one will suspect that you are a wedding crasher in disguise ;) –

Godric, Blaise. His grammar is truly atrocious; I honestly didn't think people still mixed up you're and your. But grammar problems aside, I have to admit his plan of action makes perfect sense. It must be due to the devious Slytherin in him.

I get up as quietly as I can from my pew and perform the countercharm I placed on my Nikon so that it is not invisible anymore. I glance down to make sure I performed my magic correctly and smile happily when I see the familiar glossy black digital camera hanging around my neck. It's not exactly what a professional wedding photographer would use to document a Malfoy wedding but I am not actually a professional wedding photographer, am I? And I doubt your family or the Greengrasses will realise who I am if I hide (as usual) behind the lens of my camera. Even so, I quickly make my way over to the grass green velvet curtains pulled to the side at the end of the aisle (of course Astoria would want her wedding to be looking like it was on a Broadway theatre stage) and duck behind the one on the side you are standing at. You cannot see me, although I can see you still fidgeting and now that I am closer, I notice a faint sheen of sweat over your upper lip. You're not getting cold feet now, Draco, right?

The wedding guests in the pews can see me clearly, though, but I hold up my camera in explanation to their confused glances. Blaise is right – with this camera as my shield, none of them would ever guess that I was uninvited by the lovely bride-to-be. Just to make sure my act is believable, I snap a few pictures of the church and its gorgeous tile mosaics on the ceiling, the Greengrasses and Astoria's friends all dressed in pastel, Blaise parading around his middle finger to anyone who dares to look at him, Theodore Nott checking the time on his watch, the bored-to-death bishop (like I said earlier, Astoria is quite talented at making a wedding into a funeral), the Italian Pope who looks hot in all those robes (oh, ew), and, of course, the pageant queen named Astoria who (finally!) decided to come floating down the aisle.

I nearly double over in laughter when I see that whoever designed her wedding dress must have been terribly hungry. The atrocious thing is pink and frilly and looks more suitable being displayed on a cupcake stand. The dress is fluffy and sparkly and every sort of wedding dress nightmare imaginable. The best thing, though, is that Astoria is actually beaming in it. She looks so happy wearing her pastry dress that no one can stand to look at her for too long in fear of a few giggles slipping out. Even Blaise disguises his laughter as some coughs, and he never is tactful. I take a snapshot of Astoria in her dress and grin gleefully to myself. This picture will make for some serious blackmail.

I peer from behind the curtains to look back over at you. You look nothing like a blissful groom should, and I sigh in sympathy for you. I still cannot believe that you agreed to this marriage. Back at Hogwarts during one lonely winter holiday break we spent at the castle, you vowed to me that you would never marry anyone. When I asked you why, you told me that you weren't the marrying type. You couldn't imagine being tied to one person for so long, let alone loving them for all that time. Love, marriage, and babies just weren't your thing. We were sixteen then, and you had it all figured out.

I wonder what made you change your mind, if you even changed your mind. I glance towards the pews and locate your family. Narcissa is weeping and a crying blubbering mess of happiness. After the War, her detached doormat façade slipped away and now she is known as the Mother Malfoy due to her sensitive heart and matronly behaviour that rivals Mrs Weasley's. During your childhood, she barely tolerated me and only conversed with me through a nod of acknowledgment; now she bakes me cookies and sends me gifts every month "just because". Her transformation is rather odd but not entirely unexpected. The entire time I knew her, I always thought her to be lovely yet sad woman. She never went out of her way to make me feel welcome, yet she also never went out of her way to make me feel unwelcome.

Your father, though, is a completely different story. He may look like an older version of you but if you were water, twisting and turning to placate everyone while slipping through their fingers, then your father is ice, cold and impenetrable to those who had "mud" in their veins. He always made sure that I knew he disapproved of yours and my friendship; and although he may not come forth with the truth, I know it was he who tried to sabotage my life during the Chamber of Secrets incident and who always targeted me whenever Dumbledore's Army got into a scrape against the Death Eaters. I've lost count of how many Avada Kedavras from his wand were sent my way. Lucius Malfoy is the one who taught you that Purebloods are superior and everything else (especially Mudbloods) are inferior. And he, most likely, is the one who pushed for this 'alliance' (to him, this would hardly constitute as a marriage – more like a business arrangement of sorts) between you and Astoria.

The curtains ripple a sea of velvet green as I push them back slightly so I can take a picture of you. Your face is impassive as you watch Astoria come floating down the aisle to you. The black tux you are wearing is the same one you wore to Dumbledore's funeral; I know this because there is a burn mark on the left sleeve hardly noticeable to the casual observer but obvious to you and me because I was the one who put it there when I sent a Stunner your way when Harry told me you and Snape were the ones to murder the Headmaster. Every few moments you touch the burn, and in that instant I know you wish it was me who would be all dressed in white and coming down the aisle to seal our future together.

A memory, one that I thought you had long forgotten in your drunken stupor, comes to the forefront of my mind. We were spending our first Thanksgiving in our shared flat (we went to America for Uni) and you absolutely hated the idea of a day spent towards things you were thankful of. This was right after your father threatened to disown you for wanting to further pursue your education when you could have immediately after Hogwarts joined the ranks of Lord Voldemort's followers. Shit was flying, you were drinking as much alcohol as you could, and I was crying because even though your father was thousands of kilometres away, he still had a hold of you. And then, you stopped between bottles of whiskey and brandy and said to me in a steady voice that you were thankful for one thing in your life: me. You told me you were thankful that I had kept you grounded and sane all these years and that I taught you that perhaps Muggleborns were the best type of wizarding folk after all if being Pureblooded made a person as shitty as you and your father. Quite suddenly, you leaned forward and we were kissing. And it was perfect and flawless and everything I had envisioned and yet more than I had ever dreamed. Softly, so quiet that I thought I was imagining the words, you told me in between kisses, "Marry me." I didn't know how to react – it was all so sudden and you had always sworn that you would never marry – so I played it off as if I hadn't heard you. And you never mentioned it again.

But then last night, when you were supposed to be off at your bachelor party with Blaise and Theodore Nott and all those other guys in your elite Pureblood circle, and when your head was supposed to be swimming with thoughts of your fiancée, I received a text from you completely out of the blue. It said: – I wish it was you – And again, I didn't know how to react so I did not reply. A good thing too, or so I thought, because at one this morning you called me up with a slurred voice and incoherent thoughts. I believed that you were out of sorts and didn't know what you were saying.

Now I know that I was wrong. Am wrong. You wish it was me you're marrying, don't you?

Oh, Godric. I dart back behind the curtain and pray that no one is paying attention to me, that they are more fixated on Astoria (how long is this aisle anyways? She has to have been walking for at least five minutes by now). I don't know what to do. I've never known what to do. I want to act out my fantasy dream where I stand up and say to you, "Don't say yes, and run away now. I'll meet you when you're out of the church at the back door. Don't wait or say a single vow, you need to hear me out – your time is running out" right before they say "Speak now". Because yes, I want you to marry me. Not her but me. It was always me you were in love with, I realise now. And now, I note with irony, it was always you I was in love with. How could I have been so possibly blind to not perceive this before? Smartest witch of my generation, my ass.

Dimly, I notice Astoria saying something that sounds like her wedding vows. Shit, shit, this is all happening so fast! Then I hear the bishop say "Speak now or forever hold your peace". Oh dear Merlin, I've got to shut that bitch up and that bishop!

There's that brief pause of silence where everyone is holding their breath. It's my last chance, and I have to take it. I step forward out of the curtains with shaking hands and immediately all eyes are on me. A quick glance into to the pews shows me that everyone (save Blaise who is beaming proudly) has a horrified look on their face. But really, I'm only looking at you. I am not the kind of girl who should be rudely barging in on a white veil occasion but in my defence, you are not the kind of boy who should be marrying the wrong girl!

"Yes?" the bishop says, peering down at me from beneath his half-moon spectacles.

My jaw nearly drops once I hear Professor Dumbledore's voice come from the mouth of this bishop. Then I chastise myself for imagining things – Dumbledore is dead, I was there at his funeral. I take in a deep breath and try to regain my composure (or what little of I had, anyways).

You're smiling at me and finally looking the way a happy groom should. Astoria, however, is shooting daggers at me. I can't take her seriously, though. I never have been able to, but especially not when she is wearing that monstrosity of a dress.

"Well?" she demands snippily in that high-pitched girly voice of hers that sounds like nails on a chalkboard calling me out when I'm wounded. I shudder as I hear the similarity between hers and Umbridge's voice.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out except for a pitiful stutter. Dear Godric, I hate being the centre of attention. It was always you who thrived for everyone's attention, a result of being neglected by your own family. Now, the roles are reversed and I am the one who has to speak now while you get to be silent and hide in the shadows as you wait to hear me say words that will change our lives. I wish we could switch positions. All those eyes on the back of my shimmery rose-gold Elie Saab wrap dress are making me more nervous than I need to be right now. I look to you again in panic. You give me a wink, your vote of confidence, and then I am standing up taller in my four-inch champagne patent leather Christian Loubitons.

"Don't say yes," I say to you in my regular speaking voice.

"What?" Astoria screeches with two hands on her hips, gathering the taffeta and lace as she twists it viciously. I bet she is imagining that's my head she is mauling instead of her pastry dress. "What did you just say?" She's going for all sorts of dramatics: her voice echoes and screeches as it reverberates throughout the church. Everyone can clearly hear her outrage.

I shoot her a dirty look for interrupting me. I need to shut that bitch up before she even gets more out of hand. "Don't say yes, Draco," I repeat in a louder voice that is clearly heard by everyone. "I love you, I always have and always will. Run away now and I'll meet you when you're out of the church at the back door. Don't wait or say a single vow, you need to hear me out."

"Speak now!" I hear Blaise's voice call heartily from his pew. He's yelling it out like others would yell "Amen!" in agreement during a sermon.

And you say with the happiest, most relieved face I've ever seen in my entire life: "I love you, Hermione! Let's run away now, I'll meet you when I'm out of my tux at the back door. Baby, I didn't say my vows. I'm so glad you were around when they said 'Speak now'." And then you're running of the stage and into my arms, kissing me as if there is no tomorrow.

There are shocked gasps from the audience, caterwauling madness from the bride who was stood up at the altar, cheers from Blaise and your mates, and furious mutterings from the Greengrasses and your father. But in our little bubble of love, nothing can hurt us. We pull back from the kiss and you are grinning at me.

"You have big teeth," I giggle out at you.

You smirk and tuck a curl behind my ear. And then I'm hoisted up on your back as you run down the aisle, me riding piggyback like we always did our entire childhood.

Maybe my life isn't a film and I know happily evers aren't guaranteed in the real world, but trust me, this is damn close to the most perfect scene ending I've ever seen on the big screen. I am so incredibly glad I had the chance to speak now.

"Drakeyyyyyy! You can't do this to me!" screeches the girl who got stood up at her own wedding. Your stride falters but you continue on down the aisle and then burst out through the doors with me, the girl you chose, in your arms.

"You know, I really hate speaking in public," I say moments later when we are riding off into the sunset. "And to think I did all of that in front of the Pope!"

Your hand reaches down towards mine over the console of your car. You're breaking so many speeding rules, but I am still high on my wedding-crashing performance so I don't say anything about your almost maxed-out speedometer. I know you won't get us killed, and I share your sentiments about wanting to quickly get as far away from that wedding as possible. "I always knew you had it in you to step out of your shell, Granger," you wink and lace our fingers together so that mine fit in the spaces between yours. "And believe me, what you just did back there to Astoria and my family was bloody perfect."

I grin and lean my head on your shoulder. "Yeah? Well, someone had to shut that bitch up."

(the end)

Author's Note: This was incredibly fun to write. Thank you for reading (hopefully you giggled after reading this sarcastic shit) and do leave a review, darlings.

Also, if your name is Lizziebee, loose lips sink ships all the damn time but not this time. #blackinnonbabe :)