Chapter Two

Around the corner from the cemetery there was a bar. It was the last place Hermione wanted to stop, but her feet were hurting in the blasted heels she was made to wear, and she was out of breath, and surely looking a mess with her mascara running. No one said anything to her as she passed them to the ladies room. They all sat there gaping over their mugs of alcohol. The place stank of it.

Locking herself inside the dingy toilets, she glanced herself in the mirror. There were black rivers running over her red cheeks, strands of her hair falling to her shoulders. She looked away and took out her wand. With a simple transfiguration spell she fixed her dreaded shoes into flats. It would take too big of a complicated spell to fix her dress, and she certainly did not want to take it off where she was at. She didn't know what Mrs. Malfoy paid for it and she didn't want to know. That was another terrible side-effect of being a Malfoy: They thought that she couldn't afford to have a wedding worthy of them. They were right, but it wasn't as though she wanted their kind of wedding anyway.

Six Days Ago

Once again Hermione was caught sitting at the coffee table among the strewn of wedding plans. She looked over the seating, searching for names that she recognized. She was willing to bet a large sum of her money that even the Malfoy's couldn't know that many people.

Searching for her friends' name in Mrs. Malfoy's calligraphy-like handwriting took longer than it should have. Then, there was Harry and Ginny, lumped with Luna and Neville at the very top of the page, in a corner of the room, farthest away from the bridal table.

Feeling hot, she searched again for the others, but none of the Weasley's had a seat, and she knew personally that each of them were attending, sans Charlie who returned to Romania.

It was unacceptable. Hermione had been very patient with the old bat for Draco, but she had enough. She shoved the papers away and stood to write an Owl to her.

She stopped before she reached her study, though, hearing her front door open.

"Ron. That key was for emergencies!"

"I like them. Less grime."

She huffed, taking his key away. "There's no grim at all."

"I wanted to talk to you. Your fiancé isn't home, is he?" He said "fiancé" like he had opened his mouth during floo'ing.

"No, he's working late tonight." She began putting the folder together again, sitting it in the center of the coffee table where it stayed to keep her up night after night, worrying over things she had no control over. She placed the key next to it.

"We need to talk."

"I'll make tea."

Fingertips grazed the back of her hand. She looked at him, realizing that it was serious in the dull lines around his mouth, and her heart plummeted. "Harry. He's - Tell me -"

"Harry's fine," he said shortly. "Everyone's fine. I think. Hermione..." He was gazing at the folder, not at her, as if reading every grand plot in its nauseas yellow color. "Are you happy?"

"Yes." It was a lie, she wasn't. She was upset and feeling helpless.

"You're a dreadful liar."

Before she could amend or protest, he kissed her. His hands were firm on her hips, his lips full on hers. It was wetter than Draco's kisses, more pressing, like pushing emotions that didn't exist through. It was awkward, the way it was when they first kissed. Their last kiss.

Hermione pulled away. She readied to smack him, but her arm hung limp at her side. He looked away, his cheek ready, but he appeared so sad that it was unbearable.

"Why did you do that," she asked instead, softly as to not break him.

"Because," he said, finally looking at her. "It was supposed to be us."

"Don't do this. Leave."

"What happened to us?"

"Nothing happened, Ronald. We were never together. It was time that we moved on."

"After we kissed?"

"It was a desperate moment in the war. We thought we may die. Psychologically speaking - "

"You're not a nutter who studies nutters! Hermione, this is us!"

She pushed past him, and held open the door. "Go."

"Hermione -"

"Go before Draco comes home."

"I'm not afraid of him!" He approached her closely, and she stepped back, afraid that he'd kiss her again, but he didn't try. "He doesn't scare me. I find guys like him for a living -"

"He's not that man anymore. Ronald, leave."

"You could do better than him."

"There's nothing that's better than him."

"I won't give up. Not this time." Then he left, and Hermione, in her frustration and building anger slammed the door after him so hard that the window panes trembled. It gave her some sort of satisfaction.

She couldn't write her letter when she was upset as she was. To calm down her mother always suggested a bubble bath ("from anger comes sadness and in sadness comes regret and we lose what we hoped to achieve"). Hermione did not often anger and a bubble bath was a simple way of giving time to think before rash decisions. Not that she had time for such things when she slapped Draco, when she set those birds after Ron, and a few other incidences that would go without saying.

The knobs squeaked as she turned them by memory to the perfect temperature. She stripped off her clothes and poured in her lavender scented bubble bath, sinking its depths, the bubbles gently popping under her chin.

Soon, steam rose off her skin, burning off the encounter with Ron, and she was seeing things clearer. She would have to stay out of Ron's path for a good while: He needed time to see things as clear as she was seeing them then. She would also write to Mrs. Malfoy with the names that did not make the list, but she would leave Ron's out of it. If he was continuing to harbor feelings for her, perhaps it was best that he didn't witness her wedding or the celebration to follow.

There was a soft knock that kicked her heart out of her chest, and she lowered herself into the tub, as if it would hide her from the intruder. But it was Draco's head that popped in this time, a coy smile playing on his lips.

"May I join you?"

She sighed. "Hard day?"

He shook his head. "It was a fair day." Bunching the bottom of his shirt he raised it over his head revealing his lithe form. He unbuckled his jeans, letting them fall with his boxers. He didn't test the water, he immediately bathed himself in front of her, pulling her legs on either side of his.

"Married life is a bliss," he stated.

"We're not married yet," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "It's a piece of paper, Hermione. We're marrying for tradition's sake."

"We are not. We're marrying because -"

"Because I want you to be officially mine," he finished, the tone of his teasing slipping through.

She splashed him with soapy water. "You must have had more than a fair day if you're in this mood."

"I'm with you," he answered, pulling her closer to him, his lips at her collarbone. Suddenly he started making spitting sounds, his face revolted, furious. "Bubbles! Ah!"

She giggled as Draco leapt out of the tub, his backside covered in translucent bubbles catching the light and setting off rainbows in its sphere. Hastily he rinsed his mouth under the tap of the sink as she continued her fit of giggles, Draco fussing, "funny, Granger!"

"Ah, Draco, I won't be Granger much longer, what will you call me?"

He spat out in the sink and looked at her, his face still repulsed. "You will always be my Granger girl."

She smiled happily. "You are coming to the wedding, right?"

"Think they won't miss the groom?"

"The wedding tomorrow, Draco."

"Yes. That one. I may have to work late."

"You promised."

Pensive, he nodded, and returned to the bath. He pulled her even closer, his arms clasping around her, his nose tickling hers.

"I'll make a deal with you. If on that ruddy show you watch every week, if the main characters kiss, like this -" He kissed her softly. "I will go, and you can pick out what I wear. Mind you, don't put me in a frock."

"A kiss like this?" She kissed him.

"Yes, exactly like that."

"We have a deal, Malfoy."

Presently

Draco was almost to the door when the sleeve of his robe tugged, and then he was scrambling right into a pitch black room. It wasn't just a room, it smelled of cleaning supplies and mildew. Draco took one step before he collided into a wall, bumping his head (ah!). It was a closet. Who dared shove him in a closet?

"Lumos," a women called, a light flooding the room, casting shadows over red hair and a pretty face.

"Weaslette?"

"Stop calling me that."

"Where's Hermione?"

"I don't know!"

"You're her friend."

She rolled her eyes. "She was having cold feet, but I thought -"

"You thought? Why didn't she come to me?"

With the ball of her hand she bumped him in the the exact spot that he hit - thanks to her. He grunted, refraining from shoving her into the mops that was propped behind her.

"You're thick, you know that, Malfoy? Because she's the bride, you couldn't have seen her in her dress."

"That's not what I was talking of, Weaslette. Why didn't she tell me that she was having second thoughts."

"Probably didn't know until now."

Draco pressed his palms to his eyes. "Just tell me what do I do?"

"You go after her, of course."

"Where?"

"Wherever you think she would go."

He lowered his hands, glaring at her. "That was helpful. Is that what you threw me in here for?"

"No. It was to make sure you thought about her before you went looking."

"She's all I'm thinking about!"

"Draco..." His given name seemed to be an effort for her to say and - although it was hard to tell in the wand light, she appeared to have regretted it instantly. "Think about Hermione. Who she is. None of this - this wedding - is her."

It hit him like a hundred bludgers. Hermione was a perfectionist and he assumed that she would want to handle the wedding and when she let his mother take control - well, he admitted, it was odd, but who was he to question her? He was certain that the day was more important to her than it was to him. All he wanted was to wake up next to her in the morning and be able to call her his wife. It became clear then that he had every right to question her sanity. It was not as though he had never done so. It was Hermione, after all.

Just as grudgingly as Weaslette had used his given name, he said, "I owe you one." And he left to find his would-be wife.