A/N: Sorry this took so long. This story's sort of tapering off to an end, and to tell you the truth, I'm growing weary with it. I think now that all my computer problems are starting to wrap up, I'm going to start focusing my energy on The Vanishing Act, and other oneshots. The RL/SB ship has grabbed me and won't seem to let go, so I've got part of that story churning in my head also. Here's to a vast update!

.x.

Frizzy ringlets pooled with her tears on the floor of her bedroom as she hacked away at the mess that was her hair. She hated the sawing sound the metal made against her tired locks, but she loved the taste of liberation. She was axing the shackles that confined her to her old life, her sins, her love. And she was sobbing, maybe from relief, maybe out of desperation. Desperation over everything–her choice, her emptiness, her life, her war.

If this was her identity, then it would go strand by strand.

"Hermione, what on earth did you do to your hair?" screeched Ginny, who immediately ran to grasp at frizzy locks that were no longer there.

"I cut it," Hermione replied tersely, her voice distant.

"No shit! You do realise–"

"Yeah. Just in time for our weddings."

"But why?"

Hermione shrugged. "I needed a change," she offered simply.

"Some change! Merlin, Hermione, you must've cut ten inches!" Ginny whined, toying with Hermione's shorter style.

"Yes, Ginny," she snapped. "Your observational skills never fail to astound me."

The younger woman looked hurt. "I... I didn't mean it like that; I'm sure we can find something to do with it for tomorrow."

Hermione smirked at Ginny's sole concern. "Frankly, I couldn't care less what we do with my hair tomorrow. This isn't the bloody apocalypse. I cut my hair. Big fucking deal."

Ginevra feigned surprise. "Hermione! This is supposed to be the best day of your–"

"Yeah, the best day of my life. But it's just like any other day, in any other war. People will still die, we'll still take the same losses. But if you want to worry about my hair, and other such frivolities, be my guest."

Ginny pursed her lips. "Well, then." She paused for dramatic effect. "I guess I'll be off. I'm sure Ron will be pleased to see that you look like a dyke." With that, she stormed out of the room, her own fiery locks billowing behind her.

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Draco sat with moonlight pounding his back, hands clasped in desperation. His professor lay feet from where he hunched, nearly lifeless, any blood he had left drained from his face to give him a chalkier-white complexion. Before, his apprentice had tended to his wounds, but now Draco needed to tend to his own. Severus would be fine in a few days. Weaker, maybe, but broken ribs and gashes heal far faster than any crevasse in the heart.

It wasn't that Snape didn't have demons, too. He did; Draco knew he did, but he was always more skilled in concealing them. Draco didn't know which was better: burying heartbreak where not even Voldemort could detect it, or lashing out. In some ways, the former was nobler. His father always taught him, first and foremost, never to involve himself in what the elder Malfoy called "women's harlequinades"–with curse words circumspectly intertwined with little concern for tact–but secondly, if the occasion should arise, never to reveal himself or his emotions. Never sleep with a mudblood would probably have come before both rules, but Draco supposed that went unsaid in his household. What was clearly dictated was that emotions delineated weakness, and weakness was definitely not power, so it was all in futility. It was understood that only power mattered in the grand scheme of things, and anything or any person that could hinder its effectiveness would be... "dealt with," to put it lightly. Malfoy men had their affairs, no doubt, but when the ends came chasing down the means, if your name was Malfoy, you'd better be lying next to your beautiful, pure-bred pure-blooded wife, and you'd better like it. He was certain his father was capable of passion, of fire and lust and rousing scandal, but as far as the rest of the wizarding world was concerned, his eye remained could as ice, in accordance to his shoulders.

A pang of nostalgia overcame him as he thought of his father, and suddenly, all he wanted to do was to see Pansy. To hold her, to kiss her, to notice the little things about her and to ignore her all the same. He hadn't missed her before–not even when they were engaged–but now, he'd do anything to be with her. He was so alone, so empty. She could fill that void, she could assuage his pain.

But she could never assuage his guilt. Finding solace was never his intent. He didn't come to the Order to avoid loneliness or to reverse his depression. If he'd wanted that, he'd have left the country. Maybe found a place by the Seine, a nice villa where he and Pans could drink Martinis all day and sit on their arses, reflecting upon their worthless lives.

He remembered how she had been the night before he left the second time. He was nervous as hell, snapping at her right and left. He wasn't even certain he wanted to leave, but every time he doubted himself, he remembered his mother.

His mother. The shallowest of the Black sisters. His mother, the one who had raised him alone when he hadn't a father to step in. His mother who had spoiled him as a child and tended to him as an adult. The woman who had sacrificed so much for him. For them, for her family.

She had been pregnant when Draco was called to his initiation. Voldemort had already done with Lucius what he wished; there was no use to torturing a perfectly capable youth. Or so he had thought. Severus's words rang in the back of his mind. I cannot bring you to headquarters with such instilled prejudice. Prejudice? What was the world without prejudice? What was his purpose without prejudice? Of course he had prejudice... didn't the Order? And if they didn't, what was so pristine and glorious about it? What had Snape meant? And then there was the bit about failing him. He had been so serious, so deathly stern. If anything, he should have accused Draco of just what he blamed himself for. He hadn't failed Draco. Draco was fine. Draco had everything again. Including his prejudice.

Didn't he?

He didn't show up at his initiation. It was too much.

His mother lost the baby.

Remembering it reminded him of his purpose. And there he was, with Pansy. Pansy Parkinson, who could never understand what it was to be the cause of somebody else's unhappiness. To fail someone else. Because despite what the man thought, he had failed Severus, he'd failed him in so many ways. He'd caused him all that pain, all that suffering and sacrifice, only to slight him by returning to the Death Eaters. And he'd done the same to his father, and now his mother.

All for some masochist who owned his family. Yes, Voldemort owned his family. His mother and father were so confined now by the Dark Lord that even if they wanted to, they could not leave him. Sometimes, he wondered if they ever wanted to leave. To run away, to evade all the pain wrought unto them. He suspected it was too late, now. That they were in too deep to change course.

He, however, still had the luxury. He could leave now, and save face. He'd been studying the Dark Lord, his past, and his plans. He knew about the Horcuxes. He knew about Voldemort's father, too.

Traitor. Hypocrite.

Mudblood.

So many words came to mind that it humbled him. To think, all this time, all these prestigious men were fighting for nothing.

He would rather die for something than fight for nothing. He'd rather make something of himself worthwhile than end up like his father. He wanted nothing more than to tell Pansy, than to convince her that what he was doing was right. He had wanted to bring her along.

But watching her, he knew it could never happen. She was sprawled out on his bed, twirling her dark hair around a finger and staring into his ceiling.

"You know, Draco, if you think about it, marriage is just an excuse."

"Yeah. Okay."

"Society's excuse for a good fuck. Honestly, I doubt there's any more to it."

"All right."

"Because nothing's going to change between us, really."

He had nothing left to say. His mind was a thousand miles away. He was leaving tomorrow for good. Leaving to find a horcrux, to see the world, to figure everything out, for once.

"Will it?"

"Nah, Pans, we'll be okay."

She sighed, contentedly. She hadn't noticed he could barely utter the words. Despite his reservations about her density, he couldn't bear to lie to her.

"So when are we going to do it? Can't we just set a date?"

"I dunno." He knew he was hurting her. He knew he was going to hurt her. And if he could have just told her that date, just let her know in advance that he was still going to care about her, he would have. In retrospect, it seemed, he'd done so many things wrong.

And now he'd done his job wrong. Not the righteousness part. He came clean, and he was satisfied with what he'd done. It was everything else. It was the doubt and the pain and the sacrifice.

Falling for Hermione Granger was never part of the plan. So losing her could not change his course of action. If anything, it would allow him to do his job better with fewer distractions. He should have been happy she ended it. But he wasn't, not even a little bit. The thought of her with any other man–let alone Ron Weasley–made him want to hurl. And did she mean what she said when she so confidently affirmed that she loved him? At the time, in all his arrogance, he refused to believe it was true, but given time to consider it, he decided that his initial analysis could have been mistaken.

He told himself it didn't matter. He told himself that what they had was nothing.

Of all the things he was, stupid was not one of them. Not even Draco Malfoy was a good enough liar to fool himself.

He couldn't desert his mission, but he had to get away, and quickly. He doubted Shacklebolt would let him switch posts, given his history, but Shacklebolt wouldn't have to know. Snape would be well in a few days; he would know what the Dark Lord was planning. If he wouldn't help Draco, he at least wouldn't try to stop him. He'd get out of this hell-hole, and he'd do it right.

Everybody had a war.

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Most people didn't even think twice anymore about Hermione being a witch. Most people, aside from Draco, that is. Indeed, she'd fashioned her mask quite nicely over the years, so that what hid behind the book-smarts was unrecognizable. If she knew so much about the wizarding world, who would think she was a muggle-born?

A mudblood?

She'd grown accustomed to her mask; she'd decorated and polished it, she'd tested it on many and sundry a wizard. It passed, top scores across the board. Nobody would know. If Hermione was good at everything, her knack for concealing herself was ten times more incredible. But she was a muggle-born, and it never left her. Because despite the fact that she used her innate bookishness for hiding herself, it was still innate. It made her, well, her. And so she knew about Archbishop Thomas Cranmer.

Cranmer, she'd read, was Henry VIII's right-hand man, and, despite his title, a Protestant. But when the king died, Cranmer found himself at the service of his Roman Catholic daughter Mary. He recanted his beliefs to stay out of prison.

She pressed her body against the doorway, hesitating for more than a moment, and considered the man. He was a scholar, a learned man, with a wife and a family. He did what he had to do. And anyway, as long as he knew what he believed, what did it matter that other people knew not?

Deep breaths, Hermione. Deep breaths. With one swift hand motion, she pushed the door open.

"Ron?" She walked into the room, carefully shutting the door behind her.

He did not move from where he sat, not even to look at her. She could hear him breathing heavily, pushing Sisyphus's stone up his own mountain.

"Ron?"

"Just tell me that you love me. It's all I need to hear."

"What? I–"

"Just say it, Hermione," he whispered, pleading.

"I love you. And I don't need you to force me to say it, because it's true."

"And everything will be all right after this?"

"Ronald."

"Just–" he inhaled sharply, but still did not turn to face her.

"Ron, we're going to make it. We're going to fix us. I promise that, but it's all I can promise." She rushed to his side and lifted his face toward hers. A sudden wave of nausea swept over her, and she exhausted most of her energy trying to hold his gaze.

"You couldn't just bend the truth for one moment?"

Guilt tied itself into a knot in her stomach at his words. She shook her head, eliciting a pained half-smile from him.

"Didn't think so."

Silence.

"Things won't be okay between us."

"I know."

At that moment, Harry and Ginny burst through the door, holding hands. Flanking them was a tall, bearded man who looked distinctly like Albus Dumbledore. Squinting for a closer look, Hermione discerned that it was, indeed, Aberforth. Lupin and Tonks trailed behind him, hands also laced.

Harry, a broad smile stretched across his face, whispered something into Ginny's ear, and she laughed nervously. Hermione couldn't tell whether it was because she was about to become a bride, or because she was about to marry his destiny, too. Because whatever happened to Harry was going to happen to Ginny, now, as the Wife of the Boy Who Lived–and hopefully Who Survived.

Hermione couldn't bear to think of what he would be called otherwise.

As soon as Ginny laid eyes on her, her expression went sour. Evidently, holding grudges ran in the family. Ron refused to hold Hermione's gaze, but at last his roughened hand reached for hers and they entwined like the world depended on it. And in some ways, it did.

"Now we wait," Aberforth said officially, although everyone in the room knew him to be the farthest thing from it. It was true that he'd been quite a help in the months directly succeeding Albus's death, but the truth of the matter was, he wasn't a bartender for no reason. They figured Albus knew the best place for him would be somewhere rather shady, where he wouldn't have to practice too much magic, but still where he could pass information to the Order whenever he overheard something interesting. Nobody gave Aberforth a second thought; it was why he was perfect, other than the fact that listening to drunkards in a bar tended to yield its benefits to the sober. But there was more to Albus's brother than most would suspect–and what they suspected was a rather slow wizard who was willing to employ less-than-dignified means to achieve his ends. And so, the Hog's Head regulars would spill their darkest secrets to Albus's Slytherin counterpart between firewhiskies, and nobody would know any different.

Nobody spoke for a good minute or so; the only sound in the room was that of the seven of them breathing, but the glow emanating from Harry and Ginny spoke volumes. Or, rather, screamed it. It seemed Ron and Hermione had made a silent pact, and although more solemn, had a relative understanding.

"In the name of Godric Gryffindor, those parents of ours had better show up soon, Ron," Ginny whined. "Or else we'll just have to do it without them."

Harry stared at her, gleaming. "We'll have the rest of our lives to wait, Gin. No point in worrying now."

A deathly silence pierced the room, and Remus exchanged an uneasy look with Tonks for good measure. Everyone knew they might not have the rest of their lives. It lasted a few minutes before Ron spoke under his breath.

"Honestly, she's right," he muttered. "Best get this over with."

"Ron," Hermione teased playfully, but the look in his eye told her to back down. She squeezed her hand more tightly around his, and they waited.

After what seemed like a decade, but was probably, in actuality, only a few minutes, Mrs Weasley opened the door and ushered her husband in. She seemed to be wearing a derivate of Ron's fourth year dress robes. Hermione didn't so much as crack a smile, but she could tell Ron was doing his best not to burst into laughter. In their haste, they had only managed to don casual robes. Hermione looked down at them and nearly chuckled they were so ridiculous. This was anything but the fairy-tale wedding Hermione had imagined as a child, but times were different, and it would do.

"Sorry we're late, dears," Mrs Weasley exclaimed, gleaming. "But, erm, we have a surprise–Arthur?"

"Oh, right, yes." Mr Weasley cleared his throat. "Um, any minute now. Any minute now."

It took less than a minute. Soon they were joined by a rather tanned Bill Weasley (with Fleur, of course), as well as a glowing Charlie. They both nodded to Ron, who flushed a bright purple colour, then offered Ginny broad smiles.

"Hey, little brother," Bill teased, and Charlie let out a hearty laugh.

"Mum, I thought you said we were going to keep this small," Ron pled. "You know, what with, erm, You-Know-Who and all."

"We are," came a voice from the door. It was Hagrid.

Harry's face lit up immediately. Ron merely brought two fingers to his temple.

"My little girl!"

"Molly, shush, honestly."

"Ah, right," Aberforth announced, evidently excited. "Well then, let's get started. Is everyone here who intended to be here?"

"Aye."

"Well, I'll be damned. Now, I'm no minister or nothin', but I've a license to marry." That was another thing about Aberforth; Albus was right in saying he was a bit... odd. For lack of a better term. "Now for the unbreakable vow."

The guests exchanged glances as to say that they knew it was a joke, but still had a few doubts.

"Er... Aberforth?"

"Oh, right, not this time." He cleared his throat and rolled his eyes a few times, seeming to be literally searching for the words in his brain. Hermione could have sworn she saw his temples glow a faint blue before he finally spoke. "Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today, in the face of this company, to join these men and women in holy matrimony, the most honourable of covenants, wizarding and muggle alike. If anyone sees a reason that Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley or Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger should not be wed, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Her eyes darted around the room anxiously, but there was no Draco to save her.

It didn't matter, she told herself, because she didn't want to be saved. There was nothing from which to be saved. She would be happy then, and she would be happy forever, married to Ron.

But a part of her still ached, despite all her good and righteous reasoning. Damn her and her Gryffindor tendencies. If she had any sense–or Slytherin–in her, she would simply go the route of self-preservation. Not this permanent pseudo-solution to a temporary problem. Anything but this.

"Right-o, look at that. S'pose not. Moving on, then!"

Her mind was racing. She hadn't been nervous a minute ago, but now she couldn't seem to stop her stomach from doing somersaults in its cavity. This was it. She was to be married. Tied down to Ronald Weasley for the rest of her life, so long as they both shall live.

"Erm, let's see." Aberforth looked up pensively, with two fingers to his beard. "Ah, yes, who is giving these brides in Holy Matrimony to Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley?"

It was a tough moment, because despite her most avid intents, Hermione knew it was not feasible to bring her parents to the wedding. She'd done her best during her school years to keep her family out of danger by feeding them only the minimal information about the wizarding world. Oh, you defeated Vol-dy-mort during your first year of Hogwarts? That's nice, dear. Children died during your second, and you were in grave danger for the majority of the time? Hmm, that's quite interesting. Yes, quite interesting indeed. And the same went for the rest of her years at Hogwarts until she told them she would pursue a career in the wizarding world. They seemed elated for her opportunity, and barely thought twice of the dangers. She didn't necessarily lie to them–she just nodded when they made broad assumptions and didn't tell the "whole" truth. And that's all she left to them. Nods and subtle agreements.

When things turned ugly, she vowed not to bring them into it. Coming to her wedding would count for one of those things which constituted "putting them in mortal peril." She'd seen too many of her peers lose their parents to the Dark Lord–her muggle-born peers, whose parents couldn't have known any better–and she simply did not have the stomach for her own parents' deaths. It was almost unfair that people died for their relatives whom they knew oh-too-little about. For a world whose surface they had only brushed lightly, dipping their toes in to test it out before flinging their offspring into it. No, her parents could be at other things. Just not her wedding. Just not this.

She figured she'd tell them she eloped. And technically, she would have.

"I am," Arthur Weasley voiced, and her nerves settled a bit. Here was a man who would take care of her in ways her own father could not, by no fault of his own. She felt safe. She felt like she was in Draco's arms again.

Aberforth cleared his throat, and said something along the lines of marriage being a sacred covenant sustained by love, not to be taken lightly, and preserved by faith in one another, and whatever else he said, Hermione did not know, for her thoughts had distracted her. Perhaps it was the pounding in her brain, or the endless wracking of it. Sure, marriage was a sacred covenant. No, she couldn't get out of it (very easily). But she wanted it. It would be no different than not being married, only now they'd have an excuse to shag as often as they did. And maybe have a child. Yes, she supposed, marriage is just a precursor for child-bearing. But the thought disgusted her. How could she raise a child in a world ravaged by war? How could she raise a child when she well knew it could be subject to the tortures of prejudice and bigotry? Violence? Death? She didn't know which of the three was worse.

"... entering holy estate of a experience and divine love. Now, erm, do you have the rings? Right, yes, carrying on. Do you, Harry Potter, take Ginevra Weasley to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and to hold, to honour and to keep, in sickness and in health, in richness as in poor, for better, for worse, in sadness and in joy, in the holy estate of matrimony so long as you both shall live?"

Harry and Ginny exchanged their "I dos" shakily, and Hermione found her mind drifting once more. The room had eyes, and they were all on her, boring into her, reading her thoughts. So she tried not to think it. She tried her very hardest, but she failed; the only thing at which Hermione Jane Granger did not succeed was fooling herself, she was that clever. Sometimes too clever. Sometimes she wished she weren't so clever, so that she wouldn't get herself into these elaborate situations, so that she wouldn't have difficult choices to make, so that she wouldn't have to be clever to make those choices.

It was just too soon. She needed to get out. Her head was throbbing, her thoughts racing through her mind like it was a quidditch field. There was no way out. She couldn't stop now, it was too late. And she couldn't pick her feet up to run, either; they were glued firmly to the ground.

No, this was normal. Typical wedding jitters. She was about to be a bride, after all, and she could only be a bride once in her life.

"Miss Granger?"

Her mind snapped back to reality. "I do," she gulped, and offered Ron a reassuring smile. Her hand was shaking violently when she gave it to Ron to place on her finger a smooth golden band. She wanted to tell him it wasn't his fault, that it wasn't because of him that the supposed best moment of their lives into an awkward one. He finally managed to shove the ring on and she did the same to him, but his hand stayed firm and resolute, akin to his facial expression.

Aberforth Dumbledore seemed to have lost his place in the service; Hermione doubted he actually memorised it at all, but rather charmed it temporarily into his mind. The spell was wearing off, evidently, because for a few minutes he stared at the ceiling, eyes swimming in "what to do nexts." He ended clumsily with a terse "you may kiss the brides," and then smiled triumphantly, very pleased with his achievement.

By the time Ron and Hermione had ended their brief, open-mouthed kiss, Harry and Ginny were just getting started, it seemed. They were so very much in love that it made Hermione want to vomit.

Everyone else seemed to enjoy the display. Remus Lupin so much so that he took it upon himself to kiss Nymphadora, who, by that time in the ceremony–however abridged–was probably considering her own wedding to a certain werewolf. There were cheers from the small audience, and everything was a'bustle when the two couples went to sign their marriage contracts.

These magical artifacts were originally completely binding, but recent, hip-er decades had forced that sort of thing out. Whatever the logistics, they were still magical, and signing them meant a magical binding. It was the sort of thing one did not play games with.

Hermione signed it with a flourish of her pen. Dip, dip, swirl, curl, sign, swoop, loop, loop, dip, sign.

Her mind drifted back to sixteenth century England.

Thomas Cranmer, after being convicted for heresy, was sentenced to burn to death, like he was some sort of common witch. There he stood, atop his pillar, calm and collected. Calm and collected–as he stared death in its hideous face! He watched the flames that would soon asphyxiate him dance around him before shouting, "I have sinned, in that I signed with my hand what I did not believe with my heart. When the flames are lit, this hand shall be the first to burn," and he triumphantly cast his right hand into the fire.

She stared at her own right hand, unable to breathe.