It only finally dawned on her just as she made it halfway down the aisle. This was her future she was walking towards. And while it might have looked good on paper, it wasn't what she actually wanted. She froze upon her realization. There were quiet gasps among the guests as she came to a halt.
"Hermione?" her father whispered worriedly, their arms still linked.
Hermione took one last look at the altar. Michael's brows had furrowed, his easy smile was now a distant memory. Ginny's eyebrows had risen dramatically, her eyes questioning, but not judging. It was as if she was asking a question she already knew the answer to. Her mother looked somewhat resigned. At this point she had probably become all too familiar with her daughter's inclination towards the unexpected. The groomsmen, save two, were frowning at her. Ron's face, of course, was becoming redder by the minute, most likely due to the spectacle she was creating. But judging by how the corners of his mouth twitched, he also seemed quite amused by the sudden turn of events.
And Harry, who was really her man of honor, gave her a knowing look, his green eyes sparkling. If Hermione had not already turned her head, she would have read his lips as he mouthed 'Go.'
"I'm sorry dad," she said to her father as she turned to kiss him on the cheek, before turning on her heels, which she soon kicked off her feet. There was a collective gasp when she hiked up the skirt of her dress and took off down the aisle, in the opposite direction of the altar. As she ran, her rebellious curls sprung free from the stiff updo while her thoughts raced. She quickly realized she knew where exactly she was going, the question was a matter of how she would get there. Now grinning wildly, she disapparated before the path met grass, her discarded bouquet marking the spot where she vanished. Hermione never looked back, not even once.
No less than ten minutes later, she was standing on the rooftop garden of his London townhouse, her wedding dress had been transfigured into a gauzy white sundress, when he appeared with a crack, holding his damn broomstick.
"Sorry, love," he said when he saw the face she made, though he didn't look at all that sorry. In fact, he was smirking at her. Even though it was a sunny June afternoon, he was wearing a light blue button down, fitted tan trousers, a navy blazer, and Italian leather loafers. He certainly hadn't gotten dressed this morning with the thought of needing to swiftly escape England in mind, let alone with her today of all days. He handed her a pair of black wayfarer sunglasses before he put on a matching pair of his own. "But it's the only option if we want to leave now. Unless you're hiding a thestral under that dress." He had her there. She put on the sunglasses.
With a sigh, she stepped towards him as he mounted the broom. She lifted her leg over and saddled the hilt behind him, before she scooted forward so there was no space between her chest and his back as she wrapped her arms around his waist. Pressing her cheek against the expensive fibers of his jacket, she inhaled the familiar scent of his cologne which somehow always reminded her of the sea.
"Ready Granger?" he asked before kicking off the ground. She squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her hold as the air whipped around her, her long curls flying in all directions.
They made good time, no doubt thanks to the combination of his considerable flying skills, and the quality of the broom. As she felt them descend, she risked opening her eyes. The sight in front of her caused her to sigh again, this time from contentment. Now the authentic smell of the beach enveloped her: the salty water, the fresh air. Beyond the shore, it wasn't at all that difficult to spy the bordering edifice.
He landed smoothly. Both were quick to dismount. After he lowered the broom onto the sand, he turned his attention to her. She thought about commenting on his uncharacteristically windblown blonde hair, but she figured she probably looked equally, or rather even more, disheveled. Before she could get a feel of the damage, she removed her sunglasses. He did the same. And then he gave her that look, the one that made her stomach flip as his silver eyes pierced hers.
"I never thought I would say this," he said as he stepped towards her and closed the space between him. He caressed her cheek with his fingers. "But I don't think I've ever been so happy to see a bloody otter in my life." And with that reference to the patronus she had sent him, he placed a hand on her hip as he leaned in. His lips crushed hers, their mouths meeting with equal fervor. Though as usual, he sought dominance, and as usual, he won out. Her hands traced his sides to his shoulders before they reached the back of his neck. He tasted like the familiar spearmint, but she also recognized the taste of firewhiskey on his tongue. The fact that he had been drinking gave her a sense of pleasure that only validated her decision. Not that she needed any reason to do so.
When they came up for air, he gave her a wolfish grin. He rubbed his thumb on her chin. "Regretting your decision yet?"
"Surprisingly, not in the slightest," she teased back.
"Then I propose a celebration is in order," he announced triumphantly, probably as high on the moment as she was. Without any warning, he scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder.
"Draco!" Hermione shrieked before dissolving into giggles as he headed towards the chateau.
"I would say this calls for champagne, but we seeing as we are in Bordeaux after all..."
No, she had absolutely no regrets. This was exactly what she wanted, propriety be damned.