The translation is based on Showerman's from the previously mentioned edition though I made changes when it didn't fit my text. I should also point out that I made no attempt to form this into a poem and the structure I've chosen is only supposed to help the reader orient themselves in comparison to the Latin text.

[I, Hermione, speak to you, once my enemy and foe,

Now dear. The name of husband another holds.]

The Weasel, Arthur's son, in self-will the image of his mother,

Holds me in durance against my wishes with force.

All that lay in my power I have done – I have refused consent to be held; (5)

Farther than that, woe is me, my wand could not hold him back.

»What art thou doing, Weasel? I do not want to marry you!« I cried.

»You, villain, scorn my husband!«

Deafer to me than the sea as I shrieked out the name of my lover,

He dragged me, all dishevelled, by the hair into his miserable hut. (10)

What worse my lot had I been made a slave under the Dark Lord

If he had parted a victor from my battle?

More merciful that Bellatrix when she harmed Andromeda,

When the Death Eaters almost destroyed every being.

But Draco, if your heart, my lover, is touched with any natural care for me, (15)

Lay claim to your right with no timid hand.

What! should anyone offend your ancient nobility,

Would you resort to war? and when your wife is stolen away will you be slow to move?

Let your father be your example, he teaches to be constant in wedlock,

To him a woman was cause for treachery. (20)

What would your father then have done opposite such a crime,

If he had not felt where his true duty lied?

Do not return to your prejudice and with your judgement

Do not scorn me, I beg you; I beseech you, yourself come!

Yet even thus I might well have been sought back, nor is it unseemly for Draco (25)

To destroy obstacles for love of his marriage-bed.

Everybody may say we are not equal in blood,

Our bodies are nevertheless bound by true love.

As a husband, succour your wife; as a brother, your sister!

Such bonds press you on to your duty. (30)

I want to give myself to you now, and I want to love you,

I will be the only cause of your fate through my brave soul.

But as a young girl I made stupid and heavy mistakes,

I am therefore sworn to wed the Weasel.

When I noticed that I loved you, but against my expectations, (35)

I, at first, did not know that I hurt you, poor me.

Lucius will pardon a love, unequal in blood;

He himself succumbs to punishment because he follows faults.

The love he forbid to himself he will then concede to his son;

And it will be of use the mother, loved by him, as your example. (40)

You, save me, I beg you, the cruel bonds lift,

With which I bound myself so gravely like a tomb.

That one has his father's red – and even now I'm horrified – hair;

And you are with blond hair prettier to look at.

With him the hut overflows with needy and miserable poverty; (45)

You own a big house, resplendent with riches.

Brave Sirius is the brother of the mother you love so dearly,

whom I so much honoured – to say, ah, I could not.

Nor are you without wealth and gold, indeed you have a treasure;

Never you suffer exertions. Your father has given you everything. (50)

I could wish that fortune would give you more excellent matter for courage;

Neither have you, my Draco, done faults willingly.

Completely you were, miserable and unhappy, the slave of your parents.

Everything that you've done gave a dark destiny to you.

The Weasel assails your name, and turns your sorrows to blame; (55)

That one forces upon me his mouth and face.

I hear what he says while my veins swell in my heart

And my breast burns with the pains of pent-up wrath.

I defend before the Weasel the name of my lover,

But have I no strength, and no wild wand is there! (60)

I can weep, at least. In weeping I let pour fourth my ire,

And over my bosom course the tears like a flowing stream.

These only I still have, and still do I let them gush;

My cheeks are wet and unsightly from their never-ending fount.

Can it be blood's fate, pursuing through the years even to our time, (65)

That I am changed to the likeness of a pure-blood witch?

Should I recount Andromeda's well known fortune to you,

Nor complain about that destiny that was in such favour of a were-wolf.

And think back to the tapestry of the Black, almost burnt,

With the names of Isla, Phineos and Marius? (70)

You know and fear that the spirits of the Blacks can not

Approve of my vows; indeed I fear her,

that woman who in your beloved soul is dear to you,

of them more than the father, she has the name of mother.

I scarcely remember, to be sure, yet remember I do the dear face, (75)

But I would likewise never obliterate, Draco you;

Your father would cry about you who have chosen me,

He who would not so far want to accept me into his house as a daughter.

As for myself, in desperation, tearing my bristly locks,

I will cry out: »Hope! Do not doubt that you love!« (80)

For I am bereft of my lord. If only I were not of the victors!

Woe is me, I have been left a ready prey for the Weasel!

If the Dark Lord were alive and had his mind set on

War, I would be without that one and I were free now.

'Twas not of yore a pleasure for friends nor is it now (85)

That an abandoned husband weeps for his stolen wife.

What injustice stupidly made the seers unfair?

Or what constellation shall I complain is hostile to my disbelieving self?

For a very long time I was without my mother; and so was my father absent.

Though the two were not dead, I was reft of both. (90)

I did not teach you about my life, that was full of magicians

For many years, woe is me, my mother;

I never showed you the magic that I worked,

But I abolished your memory, o my poor self.

You were far away from me in the other part of the world, (95)

Even though I yearned for you to give me counsel.

Alone I missed a mother and suffered under the command

Of the Weasel and I could not give you kisses.

At last I found her only a few days past

And I put myself back to my mother as I approached her. (100)

This one part, Draco, the best husband, is what remains to me;

He too, if he doesn't fight for himself, will be taken.

As a prisoner I am kept by the victorious Weasel, my plague.

That is my boon! For this reason I conquered the snake's cup!

Yet, when the sun stands high with his gleaming rays, (105)

My unhappy soul has the comfort of being more free in its wretchedness;

But when the dark of night has fallen and sent me to my chamber with wails and lamentation

For my bitter lot, and I have stretched myself prostrate on my sorrowful bed,

Then springing tears, not slumber, is the service of mine eyes,

And in every way I can I shrink from my mate as from a foe. (110)

Oft I am distraught with woe; I lose sense of where I am and what my fate,

And with needy hand have touched the Weasel's body,

But when I have waked to the awful act, I draw my hand from the base contact,

And look upon it as defiled.

And oft, instead of the Weasel's name I call for you, Draco, (115)

And I beseech your name and your heart I always love.

By my impure line I swear, and by the parent of my line

Who – the pain is immense – was absent and abroad;

By the curses with which he, the father, will darkly curse

what is a marriage, not – like a prison – a punishment. (120)

Either I shall die before my time and in my youthful year be blotted out,

Or I will be your wife and you, Draco, a husband to me!