A/N: There's a part in here that was unintentionally lifted from my other fic, Leap Year – my bad! Unintentionally though. If it was intentional that would mean I was just lazy. But that is a different topic for a different day. Onwards!


Chapter One

THREE YEARS LATER

He was staring at her.

At least that's what it felt like, passing by the newsstands and random people on the street, all reading the latest Witch Weekly with his smug little face plastered all over it. Even at work, at her prim and proper and respectable job at the firm, she'd seen ladies ducked behind that nonsensical magazine on their lunch break, enjoying a cup of tea all the while spoon-feeding themselves the rubbish that was Draco Malfoy on Witch Weekly.

"Hey Hermione," Harry greeted her, as she walked into his bar. She always relished this time of day – an hour or two before the bar was open to its adoring public and she could have a drink with Harry, without overly confident girls elbowing past her to try their hand at going home with her best friend for the night.

She could never blame them, of course. Harry Potter, along with Ron, was one of the most coveted and eligible bachelors in the wizarding world. Not only were they noble war heroes, they were successful bar-owners when they were on hiatus from playing on one of the best Quidditch teams in the world.

She sat down on a stool, heavily sighing as she shrugged off her coat.

"Long day?" he asked her. He presented her with a nice, tall glass of beer. She held onto it like a life raft. It was just what she needed.

"Quite possibly the longest," she said to him, taking one long gulp. He had some letters and bills out on the counter. And then she recognized something very familiar. "Oh no," she groaned, shaking her head as she put her beer down. "Not you, too."

"Come on, Hermione," he said to her. To comfort her, he grabbed the magazine and turned it face-down. "When have you ever seen me with a copy of Witch Weekly?" he reassured her. "It's Ginny's. She must have left it."

And then, as if on second thought, he grabbed the magazine and tossed it in the trash. She beamed up at him, before continuing to sip her beer as he went through his mail.

He pulled out one crisp envelope. It had gold and silver trimming, which meant that it was definitely very fancy, with a seal. Harry made a face, before bringing it up to his nose, smelling it.

"It smells like roses," he explained to her, before casually tearing the envelope open. As soon as he did, the letter sprang to life, and with the faint sound of a trumpet, soft tinkling music began to play.

"What the—" began Harry.

"Greetings Harry Potter," the letter trilled. "You have been cordially invited to the wedding of Dean Thomas and Pansy Parkinson, to be held at the Parkinson Manor on the blessed afternoon of Saturday, September 20th. Please RSVP as soon as possible. The bride and groom are registered at the Bewitchery Wedding Registry; Black tie and dress robes are required."

And with one last flourish and a burst of silver confetti, the envelope fell back down on the table.

"I can't believe it," Hermione said, shaking her head. "He did it. Dean proposed to Pansy." She took another long drink. Granted, Dean had seemed happy with Pansy the last time she had seen them, which had been on the last day of school, on the train. Pansy had lightened up for the most part, yet still managed to keep that aristocratic snobbery she was known for – but what did that matter? The war was over, Pansy – despite her shady beginnings – had ended up on the right side, and Dean was in love with her.

Now they were getting married.

"Well," Harry said, pouring himself a drink. "That's going to be quite an eventful wedding party, don't you think?"

ooo

The more Hermione thought about it, the more she admired Dean. Nobody knew exactly when he had fallen in love with Pansy; it wasn't like anybody had been keeping a keen eye on the blossoming inter-House relationships during the war. Like she'd said before, nobody had even known Dean Thomas thought anything pleasant about Pansy Parkinson until everybody saw them publically engaging in a game of tonsil hockey after Voldemort was defeated. And by then, as shocked as everybody was, they were too exhausted to ask questions. Everybody had been big on the second chance movement, too, for the people who had joined their side – no matter how hesitant the crossover.

After the war, everybody wanted to be optimistic. They had seen so much of the bad in people that they just wanted, for once, to believe in nothing but the good.

She knew that Dean's and Pansy's wedding would be a landmark for change. A small but significant one for Hogwarts students like her. He, after all, was a Gryffindor half-blood from a humble family and she was a daughter from an ancient wealthy family from the opposing House – this was even disregarding the murky personal history between the two. The wedding would be symbolic; it would mean the breaking of past barriers, and the solidification of the fact that moving on was possible, and that people could change – for the better.

When Hermione headed home for the night, she found her own invitation to the Thomas-Parkinson nuptials, as well as her neighbor's Witch Weekly misplaced with her mail, yet again. As she sat there with her mum's old university sweater and a cup of hot tea, staring at his brooding face, she found herself thinking about him, too. He was strangely relevant now with the news of Dean and Pansy's engagement – even if she didn't want him to be.

The last time she had seen him was on the train from Hogwarts. She remembered that look he had given her as she came down onto the platform with Harry and Ron, flustered from all of the goodbyes – not the haughty smirk she had been expecting, but something vague and even a little disconcerting. She remembered watching him from the window as the train rode on, clenching her fingers against her palms, with a tingling in her knees. Already, the growing distance between them brought her reprieve. She welcomed the opportunity to become guiltless again, to harbor no real secrets. That's what she kept telling herself.

That wasn't the only strange thing about the end of school. When exams were over, classes became less meticulous, which meant they had more time to fool around. Maybe it had been that last-minute desperation, the knowledge that their time was dwindling fast and that instant gratification would soon be farther out of reach, but their sexual relationship in those last few weeks intensified in a way she wasn't really aware it could. But that wasn't what was so strange – that was expected. It was sex, and they were teenagers of the opposite sex with nearly adjoining rooms. With that equation, a blind nun could have told her that they would have had terrifically hot sex.

It was the way he kissed her on their very last night. Deep and slow and long. He had never kissed her that way before. It still made her shiver when she thought about it now. She had become so used to Malfoy that she came to know when something was off-kilter with him, and that kiss had been one of them.

She kept that to herself, of course. The easiest way to make something disappear was to let someone know you had seen them reveal a little bit of truth in themselves. She tucked it so deep inside her so that she could properly untangle herself from him when they were done, pulling on her uniform and anxiously running her fingers through her hair, straightening herself out.

"Well," she said, a bit stiffly. "I guess this is goodbye."

The way he stood in front of her, so close without moving, made her breath hitch in her throat, in a way so different than from the mere expectation that soon her knickers would be off in a puddle of their clothes on the ground. If she hadn't buried it so fast, she might have even felt a little scared. Sad, even.

"Try not to be so vile after we graduate, Malfoy," she said to him, softly.

"Only if you try not to be so insufferable," he said back to her.

She let out a tentative breath; her eyes drawn to how close his lips were hovering from hers. Those smirky, scowly little pureblood lips of his. Oh, how she detested them.

"I still hate you," she breathed. She didn't know it but she'd closed her eyes.

He raised up one hand, gently tucking a stray curl behind her ear. She was completely frozen, unable to ignore the sound of her heart thudding in her ears.

"Good," he said.

And that had been their goodbye. A year and a half of explosive secret sex, of cramped in closets and abandoned rooms and caves, and they had said goodbye through reaffirming their long withstanding grudges. It was true when people said that the war had changed a lot of things. But there were some things she was convinced that were beyond change, and beyond repair. Things like history, and people like him, and people like her.

She held the magazine in front of her. Keeping Up the Malfoy Empire, it said. She hadn't even ever known they'd had an empire. She'd only thought they were ancient blue bloods that lived off of the money that their family had accumulated – no doubt, from malice, greed, and an overall disregard as to who they ruined on their way to the top – over the generations.

She sighed to herself, before throwing the magazine in the trash. If her neighbor missed it, then she would gladly pay for her to get a new one.

ooo

If they had expected anything out of Pansy and Dean's wedding, they knew it would be nothing less than extravagant. Hermione had never been to the Parkinson Manor before, but she'd heard it was only second to the Malfoy Manor, in terms of blatant wealth and uber upper-class pretentiousness. Plus, she knew exactly the kind of girl Pansy was. She was the kind of girl that asked for the moon and threw a tantrum for weeks when she only got the Milky Way.

"I'm happy for Dean," Ginny was saying to Hermione, as they waited for Ron and Harry. "Pansy seems nice enough now. She's definitely been trying to smile more, and I've noticed that when she's not scowling she looks less. . ." she paused, trying to think of the word. "Pug-faced."

Hermione looked around. The servant had told them to wait here, but all she could see was a long and empty dirt road, surrounded by a neat line of trees that had been decorated with festive twinkling lights. Thanks to the slight breeze, silver dust had already begun to accumulate on her shoes.

Last night had been Dean's bachelor party, and in honor of his old friend, Harry had closed down Hedwig's Pub just for the special occasion. He didn't exactly recount what it was they did – except the given: booze, lots and lots of booze – but he did let her know that he did think it was real.

"Dean doesn't say much," he'd told her, when she had mercifully brought over her famous Morning After tonic, "but if he says he loves Pansy and thinks she's the one, then I don't see why we shouldn't believe him." Harry gave her a comforting smile. "Quit worrying, Hermione. He knows what he's doing. Enjoy the wedding. Don't get all Mother Hen on us again."

"I didn't say anything," she muttered to him, as she twisted the top back on the tonic.

"You didn't have to, Hermione. After nine years, I think I know how to read your face just fine." He raised a mug at her. It was his MVP mug from the Cannons, complete with an animated Snitch. "Coffee?"

With a resounding Pop! the boys appeared behind them, along with a few other guests. It was an older couple dressed in elegant silk and fur, barely glancing at them as they walked ahead. As they did this, a white carriage suddenly appeared. The door swung open and they gracefully climbed inside.

"What a wedding, huh?" Ron said under his breath, as they all stepped up to where the couple had been. Another white carriage appeared and they all climbed inside.

It was a five minute carriage ride from the desolate road they had been transported to, to the actual manor itself. Parkinson's manor was a thing to behold: a large mansion with upwards of around two dozen rooms. They had an elaborate white marble fountain in the front, and the green lawn had been decorated with white flowers for the wedding, complete with hired greeters.

As they stepped out, a beautiful greeter dressed in fancy dress robes – from the looks of it, a Veela – let them know that the wedding was happening in the backyard. They walked on ahead, and joining a few other familiar guests, Luna Lovegood and Angelina Johnson.

It was a surprise to come upon the main area of the wedding – extravagant, of course, with a pale silver color as her main theme – because of the overwhelming amount of familiar faces she found shifting awkwardly in their seats, both in awe and wonderment of whether they really belonged there. Towards the front she could see Seamus Finnigan, Dean's best man, waving at them, as well as Millicent Bullstrode and a few other girls from Slytherin. With her eyes still scanning the front, she distinguished one very blond head from the rest. She stepped back, turning around.

"Bathroom," she said, as her friends took their seats. "I'll be back."

She walked out of the lawn and went towards the back entrance of the manor, where a greeter let her know exactly which way the bathrooms were. "Just up the stairs, the second door to your left," he called after her, as she hurriedly leapt up the steps. She teetered on her heels every now and then, and she begrudgingly fought the urge to slip them off and walk barefoot.

She found the second door down a long corridor. She was just about to reach for the doorknob and head inside when she suddenly heard muffled yelling, coming from inside. Hermione froze.

She heard two voices – two women. From what she could hear, one was low and controlled, while the other was loud and hysterical. She recognized the hysterical voice immediately. It was none other than the bride herself: Pansy.

"Your father and I have put up a lot from you, Pansy," said the other voice. "We humored you when you started dating him, and we even went along with the engagement, thinking you'd get tired of it soon enough and change your mind. But this has gone far enough, do you understand?"

"Shut up!" Pansy screeched. "It's my wedding day, and I'm going to marry him – do you understand, Mother? I love him, and he loves me. Why is that so hard to understand?"

Hermione knew that she was eavesdropping on a very private moment. When she heard faint shuffling in the bathroom, she immediately pried herself off of the door and whirled around, heading back down the hallway, her eyes darting down to her feet.

In her hurry to get away, she walked into something – someone. Someone tall and firm that smelled like smoky firewood and pine needles, all at once. As she stumbled back, sweeping her eyes upwards, she realized that she recognized that smell. She recognized it, all right – too well, in fact. She'd once heard that smell is one of the prime triggers of memory, and when she looked up at him, smelling that distinct smell, she felt lightheaded. And then she remembered everything – precisely everything that she didn't want to.

"Still sticking to those Gryffindor habits, I see," he said to her, though his voice was without malice. He had a glass of scotch in one hand, dressed in dark dress robes with a white flower pinned to his chest. "Eavesdropping on other people's business, sticking your freckly nose where it doesn't belong."

"I had to pee," she said defensively.

His gray eyes flickered to something behind her, and he motioned for her to follow him. She didn't want to, but she didn't want Pansy to find out that she'd heard anything, so she did. She warily watched the back of his head, and counted the clicks of his shoes against the marble floors. He looked exactly the same as he did three years ago. She wondered if she looked any different to him.

She self-consciously ran her fingers through her hair.

"You're going to have to hold it," he said to her, leading them back out to the lawn. The greeter bowed to them. "The wedding's about to start."

For a brief second she felt his hand touch the small of her back, guiding her. One second, and then it was gone. When she looked up, he had passed her and was already heading down the aisle, back to his seat.

It was a minute after she'd taken her seat next to Harry and Ron that the music began to play, and everybody stood. From the distance she could see Pansy, in her flowing white dress, as she was slowly escorted down by her father, who only looked ahead with dispassion. Hermione discreetly turned to look at Dean. He was at the altar, standing proud and straight, looking at his wife-to-be like she was Christmas morning.

As she watched Pansy get married off to Dean, she felt both relief and melancholy. Relief that Pansy really did love him, and that her sticking up to her controlling mother was enough evidence in itself that she deserved Dean's wholehearted love. But she pitied her, too, for all of the things she had heard from inside the bathroom. Through it all, she was still convinced of the same thing: that the end of the war had changed some things, but not everything.

She snuck a peek at Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson, who were about as stoic as their own garden sculptures, as their daughter laughed and kissed the man she loved, all the while everyone's applause and cheers filled the air like confetti. Hermione had never seen Dean or Pansy look so happy, and it made her hopeful – in a way she couldn't recall feeling for a very, very long time.

Harry leaned down to whisper something to her ear. "See? It's a happy occasion, Hermione. They're in love."

She rolled her eyes at him, waving to Dean and his blushing new wife as they walked down the aisle, hand in hand. From across the way, she got a glimpse of Malfoy – just standing there, unmoving. A perfect marble statue.

Everybody began to go, then, following after them in a shuffle of glamorous dress robes and a large cloud of very expensive French perfume.


Readers and reviewers, don't forget to do your thang! By that, I mean review. I'm surprisingly really liking the Dean/Pansy pairing (which was random, btw - I just needed two people to get married and somehow it turned out to be them), I think it's kind of cute. Kind of a parallel to Draco/Hermione, don't you think?