Part 2.

"What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

There was an angry red face in front of her. Again.

"You're planning her wedding? Planning? I thought we were all against this! We were going to boycott this, remember?"

Ron still wasn't too happy about his sister's engagement. Harry was in the living room, watching the news, trying to ignore the shouting going on in the kitchen.

"I couldn't say no," she told him.

"Couldn't say no?" he stammered. "If she asked you to eat a live chicken, Hermione – WOULD YOU HAVE BEEN ABLE TO SAY NO THEN?"

This got her a little annoyed. If Hermione was anything, it wasn't a pushover. "Look, I'm not too thrilled with it either."

"Then why, oh why, Hermione," he said, groaning, thumping his forehead against the table, "are you helping along Satan's hand in the destruction of my family?"

"Ron, maybe they won't get married after all, you know? Maybe they'll cancel. Maybe," Hermione said, glimpsing towards the living room, "at the last minute, they'll cancel."

"There's no chance," Ron said, shaking his head. "When Ginny's got her mind made up about something, it's already good as done."

"Well then, maybe Malfoy will decide to break off the engagement."

He froze. Then his eyes narrowed at her. "What are you saying? Are you saying Ginny's not good enough? Because, I'll have you know – she is so much better than that twittering blond fuck! In fact, she has just gone way below her level—"

"No, no. That's not what I meant. At all."

Sighing, she sat down in front of him. He looked at her, pleading and desperate, before burying his head in his hands and groaning.

"This hurts me, too, you know," she whispered.

"Oh yeah?" Ron said. "How?"

For a very brief second she thought about telling him. Ron, Harry is madly in love with your sister. And then he would say, But what? I thought he was in love with you! And then she would pathetically answer. . . No. No, he's not. He'd ask how she knew. That's what he would do next. And then she would start listing all of the evidence on her fingers, trying not to cringe the whole time.

That's what would happen if she told him.

"I don't know," she said instead. "But it just does."

Then they lapsed into silence. One of those silences where she knew for a fact that both of their heads were getting overrun with thoughts – some relevant, some not. They both fell into each of their own fears and worries, trying to mentally untangle things. What Hermione wanted to tell him was that, sometimes, things weren't as simply as untangling things. Sometimes the chords and ties were wrapped around together. Sometimes it was a matter of cutting one tie – sacrificing one tie – to get the rest free. And it was just a matter of choosing the right one, choosing the right wire, to snip. It was a ticking time bomb. Red or blue, red or blue.

Then he finally spoke.

"You know, life is funny sometimes," he said to her. "Really tests your temper. How much you can take. And then it's funny, because once you decide you're done with life's tests, and a clear form of suicide is on the way, that's when you realize that that's just another test from Life, too. Everything's a test, Hermione. Have you ever thought of that? This," he said, sadly, "is just another test."

"That isn't so funny."

"Yeah. I know. It's just sad." He rested his face in his arms. "But sometimes, you know, just because nobody's laughing doesn't mean that it isn't funny." And then he gave a weak laugh, meant for absolutely no one and nothing.

Ginny hadn't told her that Malfoy was going to be involved in a lot of the wedding planning until, well, he already was.

"I don't know why you're so surprised," one of her friends, Elena, had told her at work. So far she had been the only one she could confide in with this whole fucked up wedding planner business. "He's the groom, isn't he?" Then she stopped chewing, staring at the speared lettuce on her fork. "Oh wait. That is weird."

And weird it most definitely was. He was involved. Not fanatically involved, but involved nonetheless. Last week, he had surprised her by showing up at the catering place. And he'd also ordered the entire menu, with exception of the few Hermione had managed to get in – Ginny's preferences. For example, herb chicken. Ginny had been fairly adamant about the herb chicken, but Malfoy wasn't too thrilled with it.

"Herb chicken," he frigidly told her, "is dry. It doesn't fit with anything else in the menu."

That was when she pointed out that the reason it didn't fit with anything else in the menu was because he had chosen the entire menu.

"Well, what do you think about him?" Elena asked her. "From what you told me—"

"He's fucking horrible. In a nutshell." Because she really could go on and on about this. "Nobody likes him. Or trusts him, as a matter of fact. We think better of the scum between our toes than we think of him." She shook her head. "Nobody likes him," she repeated.

"Except Ginny."

"Except Ginny. And therein lies the problem."

Elena thoughtfully nibbled at her cherry tomato. "That's tough. Real tough. But, I mean, do you think they're going to last?"

"No," she answered, shaking her head. "Absolutely not."

But the truth was, she actually didn't know. If she had to guess, to really guess, she would say what she'd just said. No. Of course they wouldn't. Because Malfoy was Malfoy, and no matter how much the Weasleys loved Ginny and how much they had put up with him during their relationship, there was no way they were actually going to let her get married to him. In fact, there should've been an intervention in the works right about now.

"Maybe she really loves him." To be fair, this was an optimistic, Let's-have-faith-in-mankind thought. But it just happened to be completely irrelevant.

That wasn't the point, she then told her. It really wasn't. Malfoy was the reason this entire equation wasn't working. If Ginny had been marrying, say, Seamus Finnigan – things wouldn't be this bad. Sure, Harry would still be head over heels in love with her, but at least he didn't have to lose her to Malfoy.

"Oh," Elena said, snorting, "you're fucked, Hermione. Absolutely, completely, undeniably fucked. I'm sorry, but it has to be said. You," she said, pointing her baby carrot at her, "need to get yourself out of this hole you've dug yourself into. Listen to me. Are you listening to me? Get. Out. Now. Before things get worse."

Because they will. She didn't say it, but she didn't have to. The thing with having a series of unfortunate events happen to you is that, sometimes, there is no end in sight. Sometimes things get better. Sometimes things get worse. But usually, things get a lot worse right before they get any better, and in the meantime, you are just absolutely fucked.

She had walked in right while the maid of honor was making her speech. The maid of honor, a perky brunette, was dressed in frilly peach chiffon and had vivid make up that even Hermione, standing all the way to the back, could distinctly make out.

Then the crying came.

Hermione stood beside a large vase of lilacs, trying not to be noticed. Not that she wasn't supposed to be here – she'd requested to see the hall and they said it was perfectly okay she dropped by at this time just as long as she didn't freeload off of the food – just that she felt a little uncomfortable walking in on somebody's wedding reception. So she tried to hide behind the vase, all the while cringing as the maid of honor's sobs filled the room, amplified.

She had gone to her fair share of weddings. At her job it seemed like somebody was getting married every few months; they were crazy about weddings and showers. And one thing she always seemed to notice about the receptions was that the seating was almost always terrible (once they had sat her by the bride's drunk uncle, who had then kept trying to grab her knee under the table) and that the maid of honor's speech was indistinguishable. Too much crying. Completely undecipherable.

There was polite scattered applause after the maid of honor's speech, who was now giving the slightly embarrassed bride a soggy hug. Hermione couldn't help but smile a little.

Just then, a man in a black suit obstructed her view. She budged a little against the wall, turning her head, nearly tipping the vase over – before she realized just who the man was.

"Malfoy?" she whispered.

He turned around, seeking out the voice for a quick second before his cool gray eyes rested on her. "Granger. I thought that was you. But then I didn't think you'd be so ridiculous, hiding behind a vase."

She stepped out, glaring at him. Frankly, she was getting a little tired of him showing up at all of her wedding planner-esque activities. Couldn't she get some peace around here? "Don't you work?" she demanded.

"As a matter of fact," he said, regarding her frigidly, "I do. I just happen to be able to choose my hours."

"So get a hobby!"

"Maybe weddings are my hobby."

This was absolutely fucking ridiculous. "Then why'd your fiancé hire me in the first place? Why don't you just plan your own damn wedding?"

He gave her a blank look. Just then, he reached out towards her, and she flinched, stepping back, startled. "Relax," he drawled. "There's a leaf in your hair." He showed it to her. It was a leaf from the lilac vase. "Or maybe I should have just left it there, so you could walk around looking like an idiot all day," he mused. "Really, Granger. It amuses me that you always seem so surprised to see me so involved in my upcoming nuptials."

"Surprised wouldn't be the word," she muttered to herself. "It isn't normal," she spoke up. "Grooms usually don't give a shit about weddings. And seeing how as you clearly don't give a shit about anything—"

"Now that's not true," he interjected. "Contrary to popular belief, Granger, I do have a few beloved things in this world."

"Oh?"

"For example, I take great care of my hair. Don't tell me you haven't noticed?"

"Jesus Christ, Malfoy." He clearly was not even attempting to take this seriously. "Why are you even getting married?"

She thought about Ginny's and Malfoy's different maturity levels. Ginny was twenty-two, while Malfoy was twenty-three. Which approximately meant that Malfoy still, probably, had the maturity of a thirteen-year-old. It was completely mismatched. She told him all of this, too, in an attempt to make him see some sense before he went and sabotaged her friend's life.

"Do me a favor," he told her, "and warn me before you go off on your awfully long spiels that don't ever let me get a word in. I'd like to walk away before you do that again."

She didn't get it. No matter how many times she mulled it over in her head, or tried on Ginny's tiny little shoes and looked at it from her view – she didn't get it. Malfoy from any view was still. . . Malfoy. Repulsive. Arrogant. Insufferable. Even with the insults deeply muted between them (and this was all for the sake of Ginny), and the fact that she had opted to ignore his presence altogether instead of give into her childhood grudge, there was still tension. Not that she expected that to ever go away. With the way things were going, if Ginny were to actually go through with marrying the annoying fuck, Hermione had already made peace with the idea of seeing her sparingly.

"If you hate me so much, Granger," he said, lowly, and she stiffened, "then why don't you tell Ginny not to marry me? I'm sure Potter and Weasley weren't too thrilled to hear the news, either. You wouldn't be alone, if that's what you're afraid of."

"She loves you. I don't know why, but that fact remains unchanged. Who am I to tell her who she can't marry?" She should already know, she thought to herself, seething. She shouldn't be so quick to forget, like the rest of us.

He smirked triumphantly. "That she does." He looked around. A couple passed by, giving them strange looks. "Still, it shocks me you haven't even tried."

"Why? Are you just doing this to piss us off, Malfoy? Because if you are," she said, hissing at just the thought, "that's a new low, even for you."

He leaned in, his breath grazing her face. "I," he whispered tauntingly, "am pure of intention, Granger. Maybe you hate it. Maybe you refuse to see it. But I am marrying her."

That night she couldn't help but think about the unlovable people out there who were being loved – and all of the perfectly lovable people who weren't being loved, and thinking about that, she couldn't help but feel a sense of cruel injustice and frustration. Not only because it hit close to home (in this equation, she would be one of those perfectly lovable people who weren't being loved), but because she was seeing it play out right before her eyes (Malfoy was completely unlovable, yet there he was, choosing his damn vintage plates and planning his wedding). That was when she came upon her choices, like she did, every night, and every time she came home to find a note on her table vouching for a missing Harry.

She could get out of this. She could break things off and that way she wouldn't have to be caught in a dead-end like this – because, after all, it was a dead-end. A few months ago she had a little torch of hope for the day that Harry would wake up and be free from wanton feelings for Ginny and be able to love her, only her – but now, no matter how she tried to revive the embers, that little flame was gone. It was cold and gone and just completely, absolutely dead.

Which brought her back to this: she could end this. She could tell Harry that she wasn't stupid, and that she had eyes, and yes – she fucking knew that he loved Ginny and not, in fact, her. In the moments she felt completely selfish and fed up and scorned and angry, she thought about the cruelest way she could expose him. But then, a few minutes later after she'd had a few glasses of wine and a few minutes to compose herself, she realized that that was something she wouldn't be able to do. She didn't hate Harry. That was the worst part. She loved him, and thus couldn't hate him – she could only sit there, pathetically, and think about how much she hated what he was doing.

Now you must be thinking, She's Hermione Granger! And Hermione Granger we know didn't take shit from anyone! That was. . . partially true. The facts were these: she'd loved Harry for a very long time. First as a friend, and then more than that. Another fact was that they'd been happy together for quite a long time before his sulking and mysterious walks started. She'd considered breaking things off at least three times a week, but then when she looked at the state he was in, she wouldn't have the heart to. The worst of it was that she loved him too much to do that to him.

This was a problem, she realized, with mankind, and humanity in general. The power of unrequited love, no matter how truly unrequited it was. There she was, a naturally fierce no-shit-taker, and here she was, taking shit and forcing a smile. She wished love was like a power switch – a flick for ON and another for OFF. Because then people could stop themselves from loving someone who didn't love them back, and they could also decide to love someone back who had, in turn, decided to love them forever. They would have it in control, and that meant the world would be simpler, easier, and maybe – just maybe – less painful.

That night, upon Harry's return from one of his walks, she realized switch or not – she would pretend – she was turning it off.

That had been her original plan – until Harry had walked in.

"Hermione," he said to her once he'd seen her in the kitchen, with a glass of wine in her hand. He was fresh-faced from his evening walk and had a wild look in his eyes. "Let's get married."

She stared at him. Then she blinked, looking at her glass in front of her. Exactly how much wine had she drunk in the past hour?

"I want," he said, sitting down next to her, "to marry you. Let's get married. Tomorrow."

"Harry," she said, having a hard time believing this sudden turn of events, "what? Get married? Did you happen to trip and hit your head on some extremely hard surface?"

He shook his head. "I want to marry you, Hermione. Say yes."

"Say yes to—Harry, you didn't even ask me—"

"Fine," he said. Then he got down on one knee. "Hermione Jane Granger, will you—"

That was when she knew she had to stop this, whatever this was, maybe a lapse into hysteria or mere insanity. She stood up and walked to the other side of the table, her arms folded across her chest. She took a deep breath. This truly had to be an odd day when Harry Potter, the man she loved to the point she had been willing to bear his blatant love for someone else, strode in here and asked her to marry him and she would refuse him.

"Harry, get up. Don't do this. You don't want to marry me."

"Yes, yes, I do, Hermione," he said. He sounded desperate. This was what hurt the most. Of course, she'd known quickly after the shock had drained from her system that he wasn't doing this because he'd miraculously realized he loved her – he'd done this because he needed a way, some way, to potentially distract him from what was going on. Which was Ginny's wedding. "I want to marry you."

"Harry, think about this. Think about what you're asking. Marriage, Harry."

"I have been thinking about it, Hermione. I've been thinking about it for a long time."

"A long time?" she scoffed. "How long were you out for your walk – an hour? Maybe two? Two hours is not a long time, and two hours is certainly not enough time to realize you want to marry someone." She walked back around and gripped his arms, helping him up. He silently complied. She didn't want to look at his face, but she did, anyway.

"So," he told her, point-blank, "you don't want to marry me."

She sighed, feeling a slight and painful pinging in her heart. "No, Harry, not right now. I'm not ready to get married, and neither are you. Think about it."

However, in the meantime, she tried her best not to think about it. It was ironic, finally deciding to turn her Love switch off, and he'd come walking in here, asking her to marry him. She realized this made him seem like a bad person. Not so a bad person, but. . . confused. Desperate. All of which he was. But now that he'd done what he did, it threw her completely off guard.

"Ginny and Malfoy are getting married." Surprisingly, he said this was a straight face – no flicker of hurt whatsoever in his face. But she knew him better than what his face managed to give out. His voice was dull and straight and emotionless. "When do you know you're ready for something like that, Hermione? They're just as young as we are. And – we've known each other longer."

She swallowed, trying to moisten up the insides of her throat, which had gone excruciatingly dry. "Maybe," she said, "they're just lucky."

To be fair to Harry, he hadn't always loved someone he wasn't supposed to. And he hadn't always been so secretive and shady. For a very long time, he had been her best friend, and he'd known things about her that she'd kept hidden for a very long time. Take, for example, the fact that she'd resented Ron long after their own short stint in Relationship land ended. And then he'd found Luna.

With Luna, as he'd described it to her one day as she'd tried to find the pasta recipe she'd written down from her mother she was planning to prepare for Harry's birthday, he felt as if he'd "won the fucking Muggle lottery, except. . . weirder. But in a good way. A good weirder."

And she'd seen this, too. When he'd brought Luna to Mrs. Weasley birthday party. She remembered how impressed and even mildly jealous she was of Luna. Ron looked at her the way a blind man would look at the sky after he regained his sight. Cheesy, but she didn't know how else to describe it. She even noticed the way Ron would brush his hands against her shoulder blades and give a subtle squeeze every now and then, or whisper in her ear, or refill her drink without her even having to ask. She couldn't explain the jealousy on a level people would understand, nor did she really want to. She'd just felt it because. . . it was Luna, and it wasn't her who had been meant to better him, in a way. Not that she'd still had feelings leftover for him, but it was a lingering bitterness, an ever so slight pinch she felt when she saw them that had more to do with her wounded pride than her former feelings for Ron.

"For some things, it really doesn't matter how hard you try," Harry had said to her when he had come up beside her that night, low enough for only her to hear. He'd seen where she was looking and was smart enough to have an idea of what she was thinking. "A fish can jump out of its pond every single day of its life but it doesn't mean that it'll ever get to fly."

"I don't understand," Ginny said over the phone, "why you're doing this, Hermione. Why are you backing out? The wedding is halfway planned, and I need you, you know I need you—"

"Malfoy seems like he can plan your wedding just fine."

The voice on the other line went silent. "Oh, God. This isn't about him, is it? What the fuck did he do now?"

"Nothing," Hermione said, even though she begged to differ. "It's just that things have gotten incredibly busy for me, Gin—"

"I'm not letting you do this, Hermione! And I'm certainly not going to let you back out of this because of Draco! I'm scheduling a make-up lunch. Be there. We're going to get this all squared out and things will be fine, you'll see."

For one, Ginny was right to assume that something was Malfoy's fault. But the thing was that he wasn't exactly the reason she'd called up Ginny and left her a message, telling her that she quit. He was partially the reason, but sadly, not even Malfoy could get her to quit planning her friend's wedding – or even the mere grotesqueness of it all. It just made her see how much her planning the wedding was making things worse between her and Harry. Not that she would ever tell her that. Though sometimes, she did wonder how Ginny would react if she'd found out Harry's feelings for her. Would she be happy? Would she realize she loved him back, too? Would she cancel the wedding?

Or perhaps this was just a strange way of revenge. Hermione knew that Ginny had pined after Harry for a very long time before he even took a second out of his day to notice her. And then afterwards, his affection waned fast. Maybe Ron was right – maybe life was funny, and it played by its own rules, and didn't give a rat's ass who was laughing or not.

Like now, for example. She'd come walking into the fancy little restaurant Ginny had scheduled their "make-up lunch" at, and the redheaded soon-to-be-bride she expected to meet actually turned out to be a snarky and booze-drinking blond asshole. Of course, beforehand, she'd considered not going at all, but she knew that the repercussions of doing so would be hefty and brutal. The infamous Weasley temper was infamous for a reason.

"You're late. You're always late. Why is that?" Malfoy said to her.

"It's twelve thirty-two. It's two mere fucking minutes, calm down. Besides, I wasn't aware I'd be meeting with you," she snapped. "If I'd known—"

"You wouldn't have come at all, I know the story, Granger, it's been told millions of times by those before you. But see, element of surprise. It works every time." He stared at her, scowling. "Sit down, will you? Unless you plan to eat that way."

"I'm not eating. I've lost my appetite."

"Of course you have. Now sit your ass down, Granger."

She did, eventually. But not because he asked her to.

"Now, we're supposed to make up," he said to her, after ordering for the both of them, even though she repeatedly told him that she wasn't going to be eating with him. "In all honesty, Granger, it surprised me to hear that you backed out. I know you hate me, but you always rose to the challenge before. What with trying to prove you're better than me and everything."

"Things are different. And," she added, "we're not eleven anymore."

"The only thing that's different," he said, taking out his flask and refilling his glass, "is that I'm getting married and you're with Potter instead of pining after Weasley. Unless you are still pining after Weasley, then in which case the only difference is that I'm getting married."

"Look, why don't you just make up a story about our little "make up" lunch to Ginny? I don't care if you make me show up in a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers and have me throw tea sandwiches at you. I'm leaving."

"Now, wait a minute," he said quickly. "Don't make a fucking scene, will you? Just sit down."

"What could it possibly matter to you what the difference is?" she hissed at him. "Last time I heard, you cared about nothing and nobody else but yourself."

"Now you're lying. I thought we already talked about this, Granger. I happen to care about many other things besides myself. But what good does it do to talk about it? Or show it, as a matter of fact?"

This intrigued her. In her head, she distinctly remembered what Luna had told her. Why can't love be. . . hidden? A secret? Since when did love have to be shouted from every corner of the room? And if they can't see love, why do they have to doubt it – assume it isn't there?

She sat back down.

"Like I was saying," he said, smirking a little from the success of his attempt, "isn't this one of those things they always talk about? You can say you don't care anything at all, Granger, but if you don't act that way, people don't believe you. Now why can't it be the contrary?"

"Because people need proof, Malfoy."

"Why? People believe in a God that they can't see, or hear, or touch. In fact, billions of people do. So why is that so hard to apply somewhere else?"

"That's different," she said, shaking her head.

"Tell me how it's different."

She couldn't. And when that fact became clear, his little smirk of victory became a triumphant one.

"Hold on a second," she said, not wanting him to win this one. "It's different because some people are exactly what you think they are, Malfoy, and their entire life has proved as the ultimate testament to that. And after that, any speck of evidence proving the contrary is. . . void."

He leaned back in his chair, just looking at her. She couldn't read the look in his eyes, and deep down in her subconscious, that flustered her a little. Or maybe flustered wasn't the word – uncomfortable was more the word. She realized it was all too weird that he would look at her with something other than contempt or sarcasm – just as it would be if she started looking at him like that, too.

"Has anyone ever told you, Granger, that you believe the worst in people?" he asked her. "I don't think it'd be the most pleasant conversation starter, but it's true. What you need is a little bit more faith in humankind. Not everyone out there set out to hurt you. Keep that in mind."

"You cannot," she told him, incredulously, " be lecturing me on having a little bit more faith in humankind. You — who seeks to point out every little flaw in every person you meet."

"Why not? I'm getting married, aren't I? To me, that serves as the biggest possible step in having faith in people. Besides, of course, going to war. But I figure, that's the same thing, in some ways."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, there's a winner and a loser. And on a good day, there'll be a draw, meaning you'll both be winners or losers. Either way, at the end of the day, you're both on the same page. Together, in a more conclusive word."

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