Chapter One

Draped satin, a crystal and gold beaded corset; the dress was big and grand. Her copper hair was pulled elegantly up at the sides in white roses, showing off a diamond necklace nestled right above her cleavage. In her hands were her bronze daisy's and white roses bouquet. She twisted and turned in the mirror, unsure of herself. Deciding that why it may not what she had in mind, she was relatively pretty. It would do. After all, it was one day, so what if it was not all hers? So what if she was in a great old cathedral that was not of her choosing, in a dress that she was unfit for? It was every girl's dream to have the wedding she was being given.

The door of the expansive room opened and Hermione's friend, her maid of honor, poked her head in. "Are you still decent," she asked, and smiled when she saw that she was. "You are gorgeous, Hermione. Are you ready?"

She sighed and felt hot tears brim her eyes. The question that had been in her head for a whole week finally let itself known. "Am I making the right decision?"

Ginny frowned and shut the door firmly behind her. She wore a sleek bronze dress, a yellow satin ribbon loosely tied around her waist. With the dark colors she wore her hair was as vibrant a flame. "Are you mad? You're questioning this now?"

Looking back to her white dress, the petal of a white rose pressing on her forehead, she nodded. It was a terrible thing but she doubted herself. What if she was making a mistake?

"I've never seen you happier. Don't let these past few months mess this up. There are two-hundred people out there! You are not bailing now. Your father is waiting outside. Go on."

Hermione inhaled and held her chest out, holding her breath for a beat. She sucked in her bottom lip between her teeth and blanched. She had forgotten she was wearing lipstick. Ginny, a good maid-of-honor marched forward and took the tube from the table and reapplied it. Hermione rubbed her lips together and settled herself.

Hermione was going to be married.

In the corridor she took her father's arm. She gave him a reassuring smile that she hoped was passable. It must have been because her dad patted her hand and glassy-eyed looked forward. Did she looked half as scared as him?

The harp played soulfully and over her shoulder Ginny gave her a meaningful glare, one that said, "you better do this." Then, she walked gracefully down the steps, her plum dress swaying.

It was their turn. Hermione felt like she would be sick, her feet were lead, but she was moving, descending. There were the sea of people all making a distorted wave as they stood. From the ceiling were strand after strand of bronze-painted roses, each of them dropping endless petals without losing its luster. It was the perfect wedding all completed with a rose petal runway stretched between the pews that led its way straight to her groom.

Happily, breathtakingly, Draco smiled.

She stopped, her arm falling out of her father's hold. She couldn't breath, she was suffocating, her hands shaking. The high arched ceiling, the faces of people she never met, it all swam in colors and horror.

Draco's mouth parted, smile gone. Horrified at her stillness.

There was a hush, the harp's last note hanging, wonderingly.

Hermione shook her head, apologizing to Draco, her eyes begging forgiveness as she turned and ran, her heels caught by the acoustics. She ran to the doors, flinging them open, cool air sweeping her up in its grace.

A Week Earlier

A year's worth of planning was neatly in a folder, that was until Hermione decided to agonize over every decision. She found that a lot of it was Mrs. Malfoy's planning. The hall was in a mansion in Northern England, the reception in the ball room. It belonged to their family - who else would buy such an extravagant place? Yet, it was worse than choosing the hall, Mrs. Malfoy chose the decorations and the colors; bronze and burnt orange, and she even dared to chose Hermione's dress, and the cake.

The cake... Hermione cringed to think of the picture that Mrs. Malfoy gave her. It was white with bronze swirls, yellow and orange flowers and leaves falling on each tier and circling the bottom. Mrs. Malfoy didn't know that she didn't like yellow, and she didn't have a preference toward orange either, but the woman was steadfast not listening to a word she had been trying to tell her for a year, since the day her and Draco announced their engagement.

Hermione felt the ring on her finger, a large sapphire and diamond engagement ring that Draco held out to her in a little black box when he knelt on one knee and asked her to marry him. They were in the garden after he had fetched her from her study to see the rose bush he planted by hand - no magic. Then, while she was admiring it, he lowered himself, and said, "marry me?" So simple, so beautiful. She was sure it was not the way Draco would have preferred to propose, but he knew she liked simple things, and to her that was love. Him willing to forgo the grand to give her the simple.

It all fell apart when they sat in the Manor's lounge, and Hermione showed Mrs. Malfoy her ring. Hermione always had the distinct feeling that Draco's parents hated her, and she was certain that it was not Mrs. Malfoy's usual look (her upturned nose like she was constantly smelling something foul) but that she was in true distaste at her son's decision. Then, her frown was replaced with a slow smile, like she was a cat who was on the sent of a delicious meal. Then, she began talking of tailors and venues until Hermione's head hurt, and that was a rare occurrence. Hermione rarely ever got headaches.

Draco came in from work, hanging up his cloak on the hook and instantly tilted her face to his, kissing her lips. "Good day, love," he said against her.

"A good day is questionable."

His brows knit worriedly. "The wedding again? Hermione, my mother is taking care of the arrangements, why are you stressed?" He knelt at the table. "The reason we let her go through with this is to lighten your load."

"She hasn't lightened the load, Draco, she has completely taken over. I thought when I married, I would make the plans. Draco, I don't need all of this. I don't like yellow!"

He kissed her more reverently, worshiping her mouth, almost making her forget the wedding. Almost. When he sat back, he took the folder, stuffing photos and signed papers into it. "I'll make you a cup of tea. I'll cook dinner."

"You don't know how to cook," she reminded.

"Fine. I'll get you a cup of tea and you cook dinner."

She raised her arms, and he pulled her up, bringing her right to his lips again. "Can't get enough of you," he muttered.

"We have our whole life."

White and silver. His gray eyes smoldered into hers, a portion of his slicked back hair falling beside it, creating a coolness of the colors she had failed to delight in before, but what they were before was not who they were then.

She smiled, enjoying the feel of his arms around her waist, his hands flat on her lower back, pressing her to him. It brought a sweet reminder to all that they had overcome, what Draco had overcome, his family, old prejudices and the parts of himself that brought about his near doom, only to meet her four years after the war, intent on dating her. That only took two years of developing a friendship, but he wasted no more time, proposing to her within months, and there they were.

Presently

The high arched ceiling was what Draco blamed when the hall erupted into questions and worries. The voices all muddled together, loud and booming, but at first, he hadn't heard it. It could have been shock but all he saw and all he heard was slamming doors where his bride once was. She had been there, beautiful than ever, walking toward him. A vision. That was what he was going to tell her when she came beside him. What happened. Stupidly, he thought she was going to be back, that she had forgotten something.

It was his father yelling at him that brought him out of being consumed by the breaking occurring inside of him.

"I told you! I told you she was no good, son!"

Wrenching out of the grasp he had on his shoulder, he yelled back. "Shut it, father!"

He gasped, outraged, but it was all inaudible. All two-hundred guests were in a right state of confusion and scandal. He was sure there was at least one guest plotting to put it in the Daily Prophet as soon as they were free.

Once Mrs. Malfoy tore herself away from her gossiping hens of friends, she took Draco's hands earnestly gazing into his face. "What happened? Where did she go?"

"I don't know -"

"I told you not to marry the likes of her. Narcissa, I told you planning this wedding was a waste for her kind. They appreciate nothing. They have too little intelligence."

She gaped like a fish, noticing the dangerous flash in her son's eyes. "Draco, dear, is this normal..." She tried to find the appropriate words. "Is this normal muggle behavior? Will she be back?"

He dropped his mother's hands, unable to take his eyes off the doors where she disappeared. He would not answer one more question until he had his answered. "I'm going to find my wife."

"She is not your wife," his father informed cruelly.

That did not matter. He waited for her for years, not knowing who he was waiting for. It was her. He knew it when he spotted her in the rain, her soaked hair spilling in a curtain over her kind face, her chocolate eyes, but he knew immediately who it was. No one else would use such clean language and no one else would dubiously take his hand to be helped up.

Behind him he heard his father yell more indecencies and he ran faster. It was too late, he knew. Hermione would have disapparated, but still, he ran. If he lost her he would never forgive himself.