In retrospect, it shouldn't have been surprising that Lady Amelia's zeal for event-planning and zeal for getting-Hermione-married-and-out-of-the-house combined into a supersonic boom of organizational energy— but, all the same, Hermione was surprised by how quickly the wedding preparations were underway. It had been scarcely three days since the engagement party before the wedding invitations began to go out, printed in record time (doubtlessly through her father's connections) and going out in envelopes addressed by hand by her mother. No part of the wedding was being left for Hermione to organize: not the invitations, not the decorations, not the food... There was no way, after all, that Lady Amelia was going to let her daughter mess up the wedding she had been craving for years. That was, after all, why she'd set a date only a month from the engagement announcement, for Hermione and Draco to be married at Rosebury House itself like legions of Grangers before her (Lucius had not even offered up Ashcroft as a venue). But still, it was a little overwhelming just how quickly Rosebury had gone from its normal state into the wedding whirlwind.
And today, caravans of men, their overalls bearing the seal of the town florist, had begun carting floral arrangements into the main hall of the house. Lady Amelia stood in the middle of the lobby directing them to different corners of the house with all the rigor and demeanor of a drill sergeant. As she walked into the hall from the library —the one spot of the house that still seemed to house some sort of refuge from her mother's craziness—, Hermione swept the towering arrangements with a glance. They were big white vases spilling over with pink and white flowers, and altogether (though Hermione was reluctant to hand it to her mother) quite tasteful, if a little over-the-top.
"Won't they wilt?" was all she said to Lady Amelia as she neared her in the center of the hall. Lady Amelia stopped barking orders at some poor florist's envoy, whipping around to look at Hermione without turning off sergeant mode.
"Wilt?" Amelia said, as if she'd taken personal offense even at the suggestion.
Hermione nodded vaguely at the floral scape around them. "The flowers? What with the wedding still being three weeks away?"
Lady Amelia scoffed as if the mere idea was ridiculous. "These are potted arrangements, Hermione. That's why the vases are that big. They're supposed to last three weeks— in fact, they're practically just buds at this point. Mrs. Sprout will send her staff around, just like today, regularly so they can water them or do what they must to take care of the plants."
"Can't Pierrot do it?"
Again, there was that sharp look of offense. "These are special arrangements, Hermione. Pierrot is very good, but these require a delicate and highly-specialized hand. How do you expect them to fill out the vases otherwise?"
Now Hermione understood why the arrangements had seemed so tactful and self-contained: they weren't even at half their proper size yet. All of a sudden, she couldn't stand to be around them: with Lady Amelia turning back toward the florists, Hermione took her leave of her mother quietly, eyeing the entrance to the servants' staircase longingly. Seized with the overwhelming urge to see Ron, she remembered the small trapdoor that led through the tunnel and to his cottage. He must be there right now, and if he wasn't, he was bound to come in at some point relatively soon, right? The ache to feel his touch on her skin again propelled her forward: she wouldn't be missed around here, that much was clear, and if she had to stay out of her mother's path anyway, it would be nice to sneak in a visit to Ron in the meantime.
Still, she was careful not to let her mother see her as she crossed the hall toward the staircase, trying to be as inconspicuous as she could. She looked over her shoulder as she headed to the door; however, when it was within arm's reach and she turned her head around to see where the knob was, she found that Cormac McLaggen had slid between her and the door, leaning casually against it.
"Boy, we sure are fond of this stairwell, aren't we?"
Hermione barely resisted the very strong urge to throttle him that sprang within her at that moment. Instead, she forced a smile through onto her lips. "Well, the main staircase is just crowded with florists right now, and I had to go up. I didn't want to get in the way."
In his eyes, Hermione could see that Cormac didn't believe her, but he went along with it with a perverse sort of pleasure, as if pushing her to admit the truth. "I'm sure they wouldn't have a problem with letting the future Lady Malfoy through."
The words stung, and Hermione knew he knew how much. Nonetheless, she didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her crack. "I still don't want to distract them from their work."
"In that case, allow me to escort you up. I'm not abashed."
"I'll get over myself," Hermione said, swallowing the bile that had swelled up in her throat. With every word Cormac uttered, Ron's cottage seemed farther and farther away, the tunnel extending indefinitely (but definitely out of Hermione's reach). But the last thing she wanted was to have him accompany her upstairs, because who knew what then? Still holding the fake smile, she gave him a little nod of the head and then turned to walk mechanically up the main staircase, going upstairs without any real need for it other than to maintain the charade.
As she pulled her skirts up and started upstairs, weaving through the florists as they juggled the ornate vases, she again had to resist the primal urge to scream. It had happened again— Hermione didn't know how, but McLaggen had somehow found a way to be exactly in the right place at the right time to foil every attempt Hermione had made to see Ron ever since the wedding announcement. Joining her for walks around the grounds, never leaving her side after dinner, offering to escort her to her room and back... He seemed almost like a guard dog or a hound hot on her trail, always two steps behind her and unwilling to let her get much farther. Though Orlando had tried his hardest to engineer a way for Ron and Hermione to meet when they could, McLaggen had always been lurking close by, and his attempts had been largely futile.
This, however, did not deter him from trying. Two days after the florists had decked out the lobby, Hermione was made to look up from her book by a loud slam of the door of her bedroom as it opened and closed almost instantly. She raised her gaze to see Orlando, but didn't even have time to welcome him with the usual sarcastic witticism before he announced, almost panting: "Go. Now. Servants' quarters."
It took her a second to process what Orlando was implying: "But how—?"
"I finally caved to mother and Lady Aileen and acquiesced to a chat with darling Cormac so he can teach me what he has learned about managing an estate in the modern day. You have about an hour. But you have to go now."
"Orlando, I can't possibly—"
"No one will look. Take the servants' staircase all the way down and look in the workrooms. Ron's in one of them— I gave him a picture frame to fix. But hurry up. And I mean that."
He gave her a stern look that did nothing to cloak his excitement before barreling back out of her room and downstairs, presumably to the start of his appointment with McLaggen. Hermione took a couple of seconds to shake off her stupor before she shifted herself into gear: she closed her book and followed Orlando out of the room, except she didn't go toward the main staircase, but rather rounded the corner to the servants' stairwell.
As she padded down the narrow steps, she felt an overwhelming rush of gratitude toward Orlando. The fact that he'd willingly put himself into a situation where he'd have to spend time with Cormac (and, moreover, listen to him speak about himself) just to give her a few minutes with Ron was something she would have to remind herself periodically to thank him for. Now, however, there was no time to think that over. She had to venture into the unprecedented (and the utterly improper) and do something no noble she knew of had ever done before: step foot into the servants' quarters.
When she reached the lowest level of the staircase, she peered out of its door just to ensure that the servants' corridor was clear. But Orlando had done his homework well: he had chosen the time of day when the kitchen staff would be preparing the luncheon, the footmen would be doing odd jobs like winding the clocks and polishing the silver, and the maids would be cleaning out the bedrooms. The hallway, usually bustling with activity, was entirely deserted. He doesn't need the lesson from Cormac, Hermione thought as she marveled in the excellent emptiness of the hallway, he already knows his estate like the back of his hand. Still, rather than dwell on her little brother's burgeoning timetable skills, she took advantage of the empty corridor and quietly walked out into it.
Downstairs was dusty and dim, with very little light flooding in through the ground windows and the smell of cleaning products and chicken stock wafting in the air. This end of the corridor, after the thick black door that marked the way into Gramsley's butler's office, was lined with simple white doors that led into workrooms where servants could take the specialized tasks that the servants' hall was too cramped for, such as sewing or hemming garments, polishing leather articles, or shining table clocks or other knicknacks from the bedrooms. Every time she got to one of these doors, Hermione pushed it precariously with her hand, checking to see if there was anyone in them without outright pushing the door open, which would only give her away if the room was indeed occupied.
The first two workrooms were vacant, but when she pushed open the door of the third, she was greeted by a gruff "Who's there?" that delighted her.
"It's me," she almost whispered, keeping herself from just flinging the door open and leaping into his arms.
"Hermione?" Ron said, looking up from Orlando's antique wooden frame (which, excuses aside, did need leveling). "What are you doing here?"
"Never mind that," Hermione said, and then she couldn't contain herself before she was flying into the room and kissing him desperately, ardently, her arms weaving around his neck and clinging theree.
Ron held her back and melted into her kiss and embrace before he seemed to come back to his senses: he disentangled himself from her (although somewhat reluctantly) and marched to the door to close it, wincing at the too-loud sound it sent reverberating down the hall.
"Lock it," Hermione said.
"The workrooms don't have locks," Ron explained, still leaning against the door as if to keep it shut against some intruder, "Gramsley needs to be able to enter them anytime to check on who's in them. Y'know, to prevent theft, or illicit alcohol consumption, or—"
He was interrupted again by Hermione's lips on his, having marched over to where he was to press a defiant kiss to his mouth even as it spoke. Ron now let himself hold the kiss for a little bit longer, seizing Hermione's shoulders and almost squeezing them as he pressed her tightly to him, breaking off the kiss when it felt like the breath had been knocked out of his chest. When he pulled away, he finished his thought on what exactly the no-lock rule was supposed to prevent: "Or this, actually, I feel like it's mostly things like what we're doing that Gramsley's trying to dissuade servants from."
"So I'm breaking downstairs rules, then?" Hermione said, her hand settling on Ron's lower back and —Ron suspected with delight— threatening to start creeping lower.
"Well, if it's the lady of the house..." Ron said, responding in kind by placing his hands on Hermione's lower back as well and engaging her in a kiss again. He let out a contented grunt when his suspicion was proven right by Hermione's hand venturing lower and settling decisively on his bum.
It was again a lack of breath that made them break away from one another: kissing as they were, desperately, with every ounce of soul they had in them, it was not surprising. Only then did Ron realize that the eagerness with which Hermione was kissing him couldn't only be attributed to desire: she had been aching for him just as badly as he had for her, and the clash of teeth against teeth with which every kiss had started today only demonstrated it.
This realization sent a mixed wave of tenderness and sorrow coursing through Ron, up to his arm, which he raised to gently brush Hermione's cheek with the back of his hand. "I've missed you."
Hermione held on to his wrist and kept his hand on her face, turning it slightly so she could lean against his palm. "I've missed you too, Ron. Badly."
"I couldn't believe it when I heard your voice behind that door."
"We have Orlando to thank," Hermione said with a smile, tilting her face slightly so she could peck a kiss onto his open palm.
"Smart lad, your brother."
The pain of why they'd missed each other rushed into Ron all of a sudden then, and despite how badly he would've liked to stay where he was —in this reality where Hermione kissed him openly and ardently, where they were alone and undisturbed, where he could let his hand linger on Hermione's cheek—, he remembered this was the first time he'd seen her since he had peered in through the library window at the engagement party.
"Hermione, we have to talk," he said, but didn't move his hand from where it rested.
"Can't we stay like this?" Hermione said, the yearning sadness so evident in her voice that Ron's heart felt like it was breaking with hers.
"I wish we could, my dear, but we have not seen each other since... since..." He struggled to get the words out, but Hermione was glad: if she had to hear them, she might break right then and there under his touch.
"I know we have to," she mumbled, closing her eyes to relish more deeply in the warmth of his hand against her cheek. "I wish we didn't, but I know we must."
Ron had barely opened his mouth to start —still unsure of what exactly he would say—, but he hadn't even had a chance to start forming the words when the silence was instead filled by the crack of the doorknob as it twisted and the creak of the door as it opened.
"Ah, Weasley," the smug voice of Cormac McLaggen came through, the odious opposite of what Ron had felt when it was Hermione's voice that had reached him from the hall. Ron hastily yanked his hand off Hermione's cheek as she dropped both of her own to her sides. In the doorway stood the broad, blond figure of Cormac McLaggen, smirking with some smugness. In his right hand, he held a pair of shoes. "I thought I might find you here."
Though that was addressed to Ron, Hermione would've been a fool not to understand that it was directed at her: I thought I might find you here. McLaggen had an insidious quality to anticipate her whereabouts, and the message was clear: no matter how hard Orlando tried to distract him, he would always be a step ahead.
Looking straight at Hermione, McLaggen showed himself into the workroom and plopped his shoes onto the table. The impact of their thud shifted the frame, displacing the joint Ron was fixing and thus undoing all his leveling work. If McLaggen noticed (and if it wasn't intentional to begin with), he didn't care.
"I know you're busy, so I'm sorry to disturb, but I need these dinner shoes polished by tonight."
Hermione was bursting with so much she wanted to spit in his face: how did you find me? How did you get away from Orlando? Why are you so hellbent on continuing to make me miserable? However, she contented herself with scowling at him and saying, "Ron doesn't polish shoes. He's a handyman, not a footman or a valet. If you need your shoes polished, I suggest you go find one of those."
"Oh, I know shining shoes is not in his job description, but I just thought he would know how— it just seems like a skill a village boy would've picked up."
The dig at Ron's social status almost made him double over and stare at the ground with shame, his ears flushing furiously red. Hermione, however, didn't back down. "Village boy or not, he's handyman here. So go find someone who will polish your shoes."
"I'll do exactly that," McLaggen said. However, he didn't budge to leave, remaining standing at the door looking into the workroom.
"Didn't you have an appointment with Orlando you should be getting back to?" Hermione snapped.
"I do, but your mother asked where you were and I told her I might, ah, have an inkling as to your whereabouts. She asked me to bring you back into the library. She seemed to think it was rather urgent."
Once again, the message was loud and clear: Hermione was to be yanked from Ron's arms and escorted back upstairs on the iron-grip arm of Cormac McLaggen. She stifled a frustrated cry and looked apologetically at Ron before she traipsed slowly toward the door. McLaggen made to hold her by the wrist, but Hermione recoiled and swatted away his hand.
"Methinks the lady doth protest too much, huh?" he said, looking at Ron. Ron saw red, and every fiber in him wanted to lunge forward and tackle McLaggen to beat him to a pulp. However, knowing what he'd jeopardize if he so much as entertained that idea, he stayed where he was, and merely felt the tips of his ears radiate with red-hot ire. Seeing no reaction from him, McLaggen's smile vaporized and turned into a cold grimace. "Get those polished and brought up to my room before dinner," he ordered, nodding toward the shoes on the table.
"Yes, sir," Ron eked out through gritted teeth, his fists held at his sides and trembling with rage as he watched McLaggen set a hand on Hermione's back and disappear to take her away from him and back upstairs where she belonged.
"Well, I'm going to call it a night," Lord Philip declared contentedly after an hour in the drawing room following dinner, rising from his armchair.
The rest of the dinner party followed suit, either moving from where they stood and closer to the door or rising from their seats and preparing to head out. As Hermione rose from her own chair, she felt a hand settle softly on her forearm.
It was Draco. "Can we stay behind for a few?"
"Yes, of course," Hermione said, a little puzzled.
As the dinner party trickled out of the drawing room, Draco and Hermione stayed behind, lingering by the armchair where Hermione had been sitting. Lady Amelia, who since the wedding announcement seemed to have a tracker on Hermione, stopped as she was about to exit the door and turned to Hermione and Draco.
"Hermione, aren't you going to bed? The seamstress will be here quite early tomorrow, and I want you looking your best, it's not every day one gets the first fitting for her wedding dress—"
"I'll be up in a few, mother," Hermione said, gritting her teeth at the reminder that Madam Malkin was due here almost at daybreak tomorrow —before her shop in the village opened— to begin fitting her for the wedding dress her mother had always dreamed of. "I just wanted to stay behind for a bit... with Draco."
She was happy she had added this last bit, because Lady Amelia looked between them both and a sly, self-pleased smile appeared on her lips.
"Oh, but of course... just don't delay too long," she said as way of farewell, evidently delighted at Hermione's first sign that she was taking an interest in the husband she'd appointed for her. She gave them a conspiratorial wink that made Hermione gag as she closed the door behind her— and then Hermione was all alone, for the first time ever, with the man that was to be her husband.
"My mother seemed pleased," she said, turning to Draco with a smile that hinted at her wanting to share that joke with him.
"Well, for a couple that is to be married, we do not spend nearly enough time alone," Draco shared in the smile, taking a seat in the long pink sofa at a 90º angle from Hermione's armchair. Taking the cue, Hermione resumed her place on the armchair.
"You wanted to talk?"
"Yes, well— we scarcely have had a time to, since the announcement."
"Try 'no time at all,'" Hermione huffed.
"I just wanted to get some things out of the open, if— I mean, since we're going to do this."
Draco shifted in his seat, wringing his hands and keeping his gaze fixedly on them. His evident display of nerves led Hermione to guess at what lay under his words. "If this is about Harry, don't worry, I already know."
Draco's eyes widened with terror. "How—?"
"Harry told me," Hermione quelled his fears. Draco seemed to relax in his seat, to breathe a little easier. Almost immediately, though, he tensed again.
"And you don't think— I mean, you're not— repulsed?"
Draco spat out the last word with such virulence that Hermione felt earnest sadness for him. She remembered Harry's words about Lucius, and felt anger flare up at him, no doubt responsible for his son growing to think his love was anything near repulsive. "No, not at all," she said, extending a hand to place reassuringly on his knee. His eyes looked pained as he looked at her. "I wouldn't dare think of any iteration of love, especially the kind you and Harry seem to share, as repulsive."
"That's good," Draco sighed, the relief again deflating some of his body into a more relaxed posture.
Wanting to comfort him more, the words tumbled out before Hermione had even measured them: "Besides, I'd be a hypocrite if I did, considering how you're not the only one going into this marriage with an unapprovable love on the side."
Draco cocked an eyebrow. "I'm not following."
Hermione realized what she'd said and bit her tongue in reproach for it. "I suppose if we're being honest..."
"Yes, I believe it'd benefit us to go into this marriage with as much honesty as we can." He smiled coyly as he spoke next. "Who is it?"
"It's Ron."
"You can't possibly mean the handyman?" Draco sneered.
Hermione felt fury at the Malfoy lineage again, but this time because its classism was so evident in how Draco had responded to Ron's name. "Listen, Draco, I know you were raised to think that anyone without a snobbish title to their name is utterly worthless, but I'll have you know that Ron is the best man I know, not to mention inordinately intelligent and exceedingly kind. And you would do well to remember that your precious Harry was brought up middle class."
Draco winced at her rebuke. "My apologies."
"It's not your fault," Hermione grumbled, "we don't choose how we're raised. But you could work on being a little nicer."
"Alright, Granger, point taken," Draco said.
They idled there in silence, looking absently at the door Lady Amelia had closed in her wake. It was Draco who spoke again first.
"I'm going to miss him, you know," he sighed, propping his elbow up on his knee and his chin on his hand as he gazed after the door. "All the guests are bound to leave in a few days, which I suppose is only proper with the wedding coming up, but still..." He sighed. "To think of going through this whole affair without Harry is excruciating. I would've wanted to at least have him during the run-up."
Hermione looked at Draco and was surprised at how drastically his harsh features seemed to have softened under his pain. "Do you want Harry there? At the wedding, I mean."
"Yes," Draco answered without hesitation. "Yes, of course I do. And, more importantly, he wants to be there. He said he wouldn't miss it for the world." His voice cracked under the strain of the last sentence.
"I'll tell you what," Hermione said, moving to the spot on the couch beside him and placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I may not be able to do much, and we may not be able to stop this, but I can promise you I'll do my best to keep Harry at Rosebury until the wedding."
"You will?" Draco said, raising his gaze to look at her through a sheen of tears.
"I promise," Hermione reiterated. "I know what it's like to want for time with the person you love. If I can give you that, I will."
"Thank you," Draco said, giving her a sad smile. Hermione returned it, and they sat there for an instant, the grandfather clock ticking in the background and Hermione's hand steady on Draco's shoulder. "This is all my fault."
"Your fault?"
"My father walked in on Harry and me in a— ah, a compromising position," Draco said, balling up the hand that rested on his other knee as if to squeeze out the memory. "I'm sure he was the one that proposed this marriage to your mother, to keep the family name, or save face, or who knows what. If I hadn't disgraced him, you'd be free to keep seeing your gardener—"
"Handyman."
"—handyman, sorry. But I'm sorry, Hermione, that my folly did this to you."
"What are you saying?" Hermione said, sidling even closer to him. The comforting hand on his shoulder had now moved further into an almost-hug. "Didn't you hear my mother say it was McLaggen's proposal? If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. He caught me and Ron in the staircase and basically said that if he couldn't have me, then nobody else could. It was him that went to my mother with the idea, Draco. This is not your fault."
"It's not yours either."
Strangely, to hear those words felt relieving. "Thank you," Hermione said, her chest feeling somewhat lighter. "I suppose it's good we've talked about this. We can't go into this harboring grudges against each other. It's neither of our faults, it's just— we have dreadful parents."
"I'll second that," muttered Draco.
"I know neither of us wants this, but can we agree to go into it as friends?" Hermione said.
Draco raised his head from where it rested on his hand and turned to Hermione, a slight glint in his gray eyes. "Of course. You don't even have to ask."
And as they exchanged a handshake and a smile that was fighting to stay put, both Draco and Hermione started to feel the tiniest bit better.
Though Hermione was, technically, well aware that the wedding was a little over two weeks away and rushing ever closer, the speed at which the days were flying by didn't really sink in until it was the day assigned for the guests to leave.
As Hermione watched her mother exchange cheek kisses with Lady Aileen and Lord Angus, however, she couldn't say she was sad to see them leave. Without Cormac breathing down her neck, though she was much too caught up in nuptial preparations to really try to sneak off to see Ron, she was bound to feel a lot more relaxed. Besides, Cormac had never been a pleasure to have around.
Hermione was happy to see, however, that the Blacks' carriage was not lined up in the procession that would soon take off toward the train station. She had played up her friendship with Harry to her mother, requesting that Sirius and Harry be allowed to stay through the entire run-up to the wedding as her personal guests of honor. She had vouched for Harry where Draco could not, and whether it be a slight twist of guilt in her mother's gut or the insistence of Hermione's nagging, Lady Amelia had given in and agreed to extend the Blacks' stay all the way through the wedding date. This, at least, was a small victory, and one that she could feel comfortable in celebrating alongside Draco— if this was what marriage was supposed to be, then she was nailing it.
"Lady Hermione," the snide, unpleasantly familiar voice crawled up to her ear from behind her, and Hermione allowed herself a fleeting grimace before turning to face the source. "I've just come to say my farewells."
"Goodbye, Cormac," Hermione said curtly, not even deigning to pay him the slightest modicum of hostess's politeness.
"That's all? No well-wishes for my travels? No goodbye kiss?"
"You know as well as I that I am happy to see you leave."
"I should hope it otherwise, but then again, if it was, it would be me you were marrying," Cormac said. Hermione felt vindictively pleased at detecting the slightest hint of bitterness in his words. Sore loser, are we?
She had started to rail against him, and she was sure as hell not about to stop now. After all, what reason had she to restrain her fury? He had won. "I'm glad it's not."
"I'm sure you are," he spat. "Well, Lady Hermione, you may be glad to see me leave now, but I... I look forward to returning for the wedding," he said maliciously, and with that, took his leave of her to climb up onto the carriage that would bear him away.
As the horses hauled the carriage away and down the path that led through the village and toward the station, Hermione was indeed glad to see him leave. Perhaps she would have been less so if she had known just how much quicker the days would fly by without the guests there to quell her mother's fervor for all things wedding. And the wedding was coming fast.
"Father?" Draco ventured, knocking faintly on the door to his parents' guestroom. He hadn't spoken to his father, alone, in all the days since he had walked into his room while he was with Harry, but this was a matter he would have to wrestle him on alone. He had been putting it off, but he had seen his mother go out for a walk with Lady Amelia and Lord Black after luncheon, and so it was clear: it would have to be now or never.
That, however, did not do anything to stifle the overturning of nerves and terror in the pit of his stomach when he heard his father's drawl call him in: "Come in, Draco."
Draco pushed the door slightly more ajar and peeked into his father's guestroom. The blinds were closed and the room was dark except for a sliver of sun that trickled through the curtain rods, as well as the hearth that only his father would have going this early on in the day. No doubt the grimness of the room was an attempt to emulate Ashcroft Manor, which was never as well-lit as Rosebury. But like Ashcroft Manor, the room seemed colder in its darkness, and Draco felt a purely psychological shiver run up his spine as he tiptoed in and shut the door softly behind him.
"Well?" Lucius said, using his cane to rise from the ottoman where he had been sitting by the fire. Draco got the impression that he was walking into some dangerous animal's lair. "Are you just going to stand there?"
Realizing that he'd been frozen to the spot and his mouth agape, Draco collected himself and swallowed his fear. "There is a matter I must discuss with you."
Lucius remained silent but raised an eyebrow to signal he was listening. Though Draco wished Lucius would interject —he was looking for any delay before he had to say his next words—, he knew none would come. Once again, he stifled the impulse to turn around and bolt out of the room and forced the words to exit his mouth.
"I want Harry to be my best man," he blurted out, ripping off the bandage to keep himself from hesitating further.
Lucius's eyes gleamed with fury. "I thought I made myself very clear on this matter. I do not want him to be even remotely associated with you in the public eye."
"Yes, but—"
"Theodore Nott will be your best man."
"I don't even know Theodore Nott!"
"The Notts are a well-respected family, of high lineage and noble origins, and they have always been good friends to the Malfoys. To have a Nott beside you at your wedding day will be an honor and reflect well on our name."
"That's not the point of a proper best man."
"What would you know about propriety, though?" Lucius said.
Draco knew he was fighting a losing battle, but nevertheless he persisted, infuriated by his father's words. "I want Harry to be my best man."
"And I have told you that that is not happening."
"It is MY wedding!" Draco exploded, startling Lucius. "It is MY wedding, father! Sure, it is a wedding I didn't even want, but it is MY wedding. And I didn't even get to pick the bride, or the date, or the venue. So please, let ONE thing about MY wedding be MINE and— and— I'll promise you I'll go through with it." He spoke the words before he even knew how much of an impact they would have. But he couldn't back out. He sighed and continued, lowering his voice slightly. "I know you're still worried I'll back out, father. You're worried I'll run and disgrace you. But I promise you, if you let me have this, I'll see it through. I'll marry Hermione Granger without another complaint."
Lucius weighed this. On the one hand, he could not fathom the sight of Harry Potter anywhere close to Draco, and would have killed him singlehandedly if it would've kept him from even showing his face at the wedding. On the other, however, it would be a greater dishonor if Draco made a run for it and failed to go through with the wedding— a dishonor that would make Lucius a laughingstock. Besides, he hadn't even formally talked to Lord Nott about it, and he supposed nobody knew about the Potter boy and his son so as to snigger (or, worse, whisper) when they turned up on the altar. However much he may dislike it, Lucius Malfoy was a practical man, and the choice (especially involving an ironclad promise from Draco) was clear.
"Fine," he said. "Potter can be your best man." The light on Draco's face had scarcely had time to gleam before Lucius extinguished it once more. "But you have sworn to marry the Granger girl now, and it will be against your oath to fail to do so."
"I understand, father," Draco said.
"Now go," Lucius said, gesturing brusquely toward the door.
Draco didn't need to be told twice, and he scrambled out of the room and back downstairs, feeling simultaneously as if he'd both freed and doomed himself.
With every passing day, the wedding dress on the mannequin in the corner of her room grew increasingly ornate and beautiful— but ghastly, because yes, it was objectively gorgeous, but it was a very tangible reminder of just how much closer the date was getting.
Madam Malkin had been thrilled to have been called in to make Hermione's wedding dress. She had come in, indeed, at daybreak, before her shop was due to open— which meant Hermione had been shaken out of bed and into a corset a few good hours earlier than she would've liked to.
"When you came into my shop all those months ago, cherie —for that lovely champagne-pink number, remember?— I thought that was the only dress I would ever have the honor of supplying for the Rosebury House," she cooed as she snaked the measuring tape around Hermione's body, jotting down the numbers in the same small notepad she had used back at the shop. "Never in my wildest dreams did I even fantasize about getting to make your wedding dress!"
"Well, we were really satisfied with the work," Lady Amelia said through a saccharine smile from the corner of the room, where she had stood, like a hawk, rigidly observing the first fitting. "Besides, you know how Lord Granger believes in supporting local business and the town tradesmen."
Hermione almost laughed at how outrageously false that was: if Lady Amelia had had her way, Hermione's dress would have been confectioned in Paris, preferably after a few days' trip that they would have spent traipsing around dressmakers' shops and picking out fabrics and jewels that Amelia deemed worthy of a noble wedding. It was because the wedding was in so short a time (Lady Amelia wanted to get it over with, to prevent Hermione from bolting) that she had, in her mind, stooped low enough to commission the garment to the town seamstress.
With every fitting, however, Hermione grew to like this set-up more and more. Her mother had wanted one of those big, chiffon-laden Victorian numbers that to Hermione seemed too stuffy and way out of fashion; Madam Malkin, however, had deferred to Hermione as soon as the first fitting.
"How do you envision your dress, cherie?" she asked as she readied the pins to push into a preliminary swath of white cloth that would serve as the model for the underdress.
Lady Amelia was prepared: "It will be a polonaise with a Bertha neckline."
Madam Malkin turned to eye the Lady: "Oh, have you and your daughter discussed this already?"
Lady Amelia seemed befuddled. "My daughter?"
"Yes, well, she is the one getting married, isn't she? She should be the one choosing the dress. One's wedding, after all, is a once-in-a-lifetime occasion— or at least, it should be," Madam Malkin added, chuckling to herself at that last part.
Reveling in her mother's sour look, Hermione chimed in: "Yes, Madam Malkin, that is exactly my feeling about it."
"But we– we had spoken about this," Lady Amelia futilely made one last attempt.
"I know, mother," Hermione played along at her game, knowing that was the only way to wholly devastate her with what came next, "but I think I might be changing my mind."
Because Madam Malkin had already been paid (and so Amelia couldn't hold that over her as a threat), and because Hermione had made it clear that this was a hill she was willing to die on, Lady Amelia had no choice but to allow Hermione to make her own decisions concerning the wedding dress. And because Madam Malkin, pompous and sweetly as she was, had offered her more agency over her own wedding than her mother, Hermione was more than happy to go along with it.
Which is how she had ended up with the dress of her dreams, coming together in bits and pieces in the mannequin that Madam Malkin left in her room and worked on periodically every time she was here, which was every other day. Hermione had learned not to mind the too-early wakeups such appointments necessitated: Madam Malkin was a skilled worker and a pleasant conversationalist, and what's more, she had long since banished her mother from the fittings because 'she didn't need the distraction'. Slowly but surely, the dress had appeared on the mannequin: it was slender and fit her body with no extra flair or pomp. The dress line was slim and almost all straight lines and angles, the skirt falling down straight from her waist parallel to her legs and the neckline square and simple. The actual dress was simple enough, just the square neck and a V-shaped half-open back, but Madam Malkin had added a silk organza layer over the white starter dress, embroidered with white floral motifs and finished in lace. The organza was cinched at the waist with a thick white silk ribbon belt, and belled out in two short sleeves that teasingly covered Hermione's shoulders. At the back of the dress, the organza extended into a short and very manageable train, where the floral embroideries became even more elaborate.
All in all, it was a stunning dress: beautiful, understated, and practical, it was everything Hermione had ever wanted. To look at it, however, was painful: the mixed elation of getting to wear a dress straight out of her storybook dreams clashed violently with the reminder that she would not be wearing it to wed the man she loved. As Madam Malkin worked on the dress, she allowed her mind to indulge in the fantasy of walking down the aisle and finding, at its end, not a head of white blond but of fiery red, and having its owner turn not to reveal the sharp, delicate features of Draco but the rougher, rounder, freckled face of Ron. She always chastised herself when she fell into these images: she would never be able to have it, that was for sure, and to envision herself playing an active part in her dreams only made it hurt more when she realized just how out of reach they were.
And just like that, the dress and the progress made on it serving almost as a tangible clock on which Hermione could truly fathom the speedy passage of time, the days continued flying by in a flurry of preparations. Even with McLaggen gone, Hermione had been so ensnared in the preparations —the tasting session for the 11-course dinner, the continued tinkering of her dress, the rehearsal of the wedding ceremony— that she hadn't even had time to even think of how she might sneak off to go see Ron. She had had to content herself with the image of Ron in her head, because even when it got too painful, it was all she had of him. And so the weeks until the wedding went, seeming pressing but not entirely real— until that day that Madam Malkin gleefully announced that the dress had finally been finished and, just like that, hanging on the mannequin, was the solid reminder that they had reached the day prior.
Draco had remained quiet throughout the whole dressing session, merely lifting his arms and shifting around as necessary for his valet to get him into his dinner clothes. To tell the truth, he didn't particularly have an appetite: this was his last night as an unmarried man, and to say he felt excited about the prospect would be a lie. So how could he eat, when his stomach was already full with the twists and pangs that periodically showed up to remind him of just how nervous and scared he felt? How could he eat, when he'd have to sit by Harry at the dinner table and know that this would be the last time they could share a meal as a couple?
An unexpected knock at the door made both him and his valet look toward the door of the bedroom.
"Who is it?" Draco called.
"It's Harry," came the muffled voice from the other side of the door.
The giddiness rushed into him with such speed and force that it almost made him lightheaded. Nonetheless, Draco kept his outward composure for the valet's sake as he called: "Come in!"
The valet looked nervous, and whispered to Draco as Harry pushed the door open: "Milord, I am under express orders from your father not to let the Potter boy into your chamber—"
"I'll just be a second," Harry said, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him.
"What do you need?"
"I just wanted to come by and see if you were ready for dinner, so we could both walk down together. But I see you're still being dressed, so I suppose I'll wait around until you're done."
The valet looked queasy, eyeing Harry warily, as he moved to the dresser and grabbed the small leather display box on it. He opened it to show Draco the cufflinks within, compelling him to choose so he could put them through his shirtsleeves and be done with the dressing. Draco swept his options briefly before he settled, rather sentimentally, on a pair of thin silver ovals engraved with a swirling motif, the only pair Harry had ever given him. He pointed and his valet responded with one swift nod, setting the box back on the drawer and withdrawing the two cufflinks.
Harry had taken a seat on the trunk at the foot of the bed, from where his eye, ever keen, noticed the cufflinks Draco had chosen. He waited, however, until the valet was close enough and starting to fit the cufflinks through Draco's shirtsleeves to stand up and move closer.
"But really, man, is it so hard to fit these in correctly?" Harry said, peering at the cufflinks.
The valet looked perplexed. "I beg your pardon, sir?"
"Well, these— these are American cufflinks."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"They have to be fitted differently, see, because the Americans do it differently, otherwise you risk damaging the cufflink or sliding it in wrong. Though I can't really blame you, I s'ppose, you wouldn't know, what with being trained as an English valet—"
The rambling had achieved its purpose: the valet stepped away from Draco, his head spinning. "Would you rather do it, sir?"
"Yes, I think that would be best," Harry said, wasting no time in standing where the valet had and placing his hands around Draco's wrists just as the valet had scarce seconds ago. The brush of Harry's hands against him, even through the shirt, felt like a spark.
"Thank you, Keane," Draco addressed his valet, "that will be all. You can take your leave— Harry will finish me off."
The valet looked hesitant, but ultimately he nodded serviliously and exited the room. It made sense, Draco thought: after all, Lucius had asked Keane to keep Harry out of the room, and if he should walk in to find the valet and Harry in the same room, he would be promptly fired. No, at least like this, if they were found, it would be all on Draco's shoulders, and not his job on the line.
Harry pored over the sleeves and finished fastening the cufflinks, latching them in place with a satisfying click.
"Were the cufflinks really off?" Draco asked.
"Oh, no, the cufflinks were fine," Harry said, raising Draco's wrists so he could check both cufflinks had snapped in place properly. "I just had to get the valet away. To be alone with you."
Despite the months that he had spent knowing Harry was his, Draco had never gotten fully accustomed to the elation that invaded him every time Harry said things like that. He was at a loss for words, but merely let his hand clasp Harry's as Harry dropped both his arms back, satisfied with the cufflinks.
"I talked to my father, by the way," Draco said, the thought popping into his head. "Two weeks ago. About the whole best man thing."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "And you didn't think to tell me until now?"
"My father never gave me a chance to even get close enough to you to tell you. I think he was hoping if he kept me away I might never be able to tell you, and then it couldn't happen."
"I'm always glad to foil one of Lucius Malfoy's plans," Harry said, one more reason to be glad he had come into Draco's room tonight. "So what should I wear tomorrow, that won't upstage you on the altar?"
"Come off it, you know my father wouldn't even let you in the church if you were wearing anything short of a tuxedo."
"And even then he might think twice about it."
Draco laughed briefly, but the mirth in his eyes was soon replaced by sadness. He grabbed Harry's other hand and held it. "It seems to me that this will be the only time we will get to be on the altar together."
It was wishful thinking, considering that the prospect of marrying Harry would never be a real one, but still he said it— after all, if you already knew you could never have something, what was the harm in letting yourself yearn for it just a little longer?
Harry sighed. "It seems it will be. And I will swear eternal devotion to you, till death do us part."
"Harry, you don't have to—"
"I'll whisper it," Harry said, stepping closer to Draco without letting go of either of his hands. "I'll mutter it under my breath, I won't even move my lips, but I'll be saying 'I do' right there beside you. I'll mean it for you. It's the only time I'll get to say it."
The gap between their lips closed, exchanging a slow, tender kiss that threatened to be the last one ever. Perhaps because of that, Draco breathed deeply to take in Harry: his scent, like chocolate and freshly-mown grass, the feel of his plump lips between his own thin pair, the strength of his hands as they held his. There, exchanging that kiss and all it signified with both their hands held and resting between them, Draco and Harry resembled the closest thing to a proper wedding than either of them thought they would ever have.
"Shall we go on a walk?" Orlando's voice came up behind her, drawing Hermione out of the lull into which her mother's incessant and excited chittering had placed her.
"Hm?" she said, lifting her gaze from the fire where it licked the hearth logs and glancing at her brother's face, hanging over her place on the edge of the red library couch.
"I said, fancy a walk?" he repeated, extending his hand to her.
"I don't know, Orlando," Hermione sighed, sinking further into the couch.
But Orlando didn't budge; instead, he reached for her hand where it was folded on her lap and took it decisively. "Fine, then, I'll rephrase. We're going on a walk."
He pulled Hermione upright and out of the couch. When she stood up, sure enough, Lady Amelia turned toward them rapaciously. "Where are you going?"
"I'm taking Hermione for a walk," Orlando said. Hermione was grateful to him: Lady Amelia was bound to be a lot more lenient with her son. "If she's to fit into that dress tomorrow morning, she should burn some off before dinner."
Never one to shy away from an opportunity to criticize Hermione's body, Lady Amelia mustered a smile that to Hermione seemed more like a grimace. "Very well, but don't be too long. We can't let it get cold."
"We'll be back," Orlando reassured his mother without even paying her a second glance as he marched Hermione out of the room.
"What's this about?" Hermione asked, trying to pry Orlando's hand off of her wrist and ceasing when she realized he wouldn't budge.
"Wait and see," Orlando said enigmatically, broaching the length of the main hall toward the front door in a few fast strides.
With the servants busy readying dinner, the main areas of the house were mostly empty, and Orlando could get through the door and out of the house without having to answer any questions or ward off any curious eyes. Once outside and on the gravel pathway, Orlando started toward the east wall, away from the windows of the library where the pre-dinner congregation was still in session. Hermione saw the circlet of stone cottages come up, but Orlando didn't say anything until he had finished rounding the house and reached the southeast corner— where, swaying idly with his hands in his pockets, waited Ron.
Hermione could hardly believe it: "R– Ron!" she sputtered, now yanking her hand from Orlando's loosened grip to fling herself into his arms. Ron caught her and hugged her to him, breathing in the scent of her hair as the top of it tickled his chin. Hermione squeezed him tightly and then pulled away to arms' length, looking Ron up and down. "It's been so long, I— I'm sorry I couldn't get to you earlier, but my mother has me doing all these things for the wedding, and I've hardly had any time at all to breathe, let alone come find you—"
"I get it," Ron cut her off, his hand reaching up to caress the back of her hair. "I know you've been busy. But that's why I asked Orlando to sneak you away for a bit tonight. So I could say goodbye."
The joy that had burst onto his face upon seeing Hermione now melted into sadness, and Orlando took that as his cue to shrink behind the corner and make himself scarce, while still keeping a lookout to guarantee Ron and Hermione their privacy.
"Goodbye?" Hermione said, refusing to make sense of the words until she could no longer stave it off. Then she fell into Ron's chest, nestling right under his chin, her arms even tighter around him than they had been in the first hug. "Oh, Ron, no—"
"I know," Ron whispered, his hand still stroking Hermione's hair, making no attempt to disentangle itself from the little strands that tangled through the gaps in his fingers. "But we have to, love. It's better like this than if I let you walk down that aisle without getting to kiss you one last time."
Hermione's eyes filled with tears, and she buried her face obstinately into Ron's chest as if to keep them off. "Don't say that."
"Believe me, I don't want to—"
"This can't be the last time, Ron, I won't let it, I refuse to believe it—"
"Well, believe it," Ron snapped, a bit more harshly than he'd intended. Hermione stopped her mumbling and withdrew slightly from his chest to look up at him, her eyes watering. Ron hated to think he could've played any part in the tears that pooled at her eyes, and softened his tone. "I'm sorry, Hermione, but the wedding is tomorrow. It's time to face the facts, and let our goodbye be a sweet one."
Hermione began to sob in earnest, and watching the ready tears flow down her cheeks, Ron felt his own begin to collect. Not knowing what to say, he held her tighter to him, feeling his own chest rack with the rhythm of her crying, her tears dampening his shirt. "I'm sorry," she eked out, barely intelligible between her cries, "I didn't mean to— to b-betray you, Ron."
"How can you say that?" Ron said, his voice cracking with the threat of tears. "Hermione, how can you seriously say that? Like it's not your mother's doing? Like it was your choice?"
"I could've– could've fought harder, could've r-resisted her, could've—"
"You fought for me as strongly as you could, Hermione. And it was more than I could've ever asked of you."
"But you d-deserve more than you've ever asked– asked me for, Ron, more than I could d-dream to give you—"
And with that, Hermione dissolved into wailing, clutching at Ron's shirt and shaking with the force of her sobs in his arms. That broke the floodgates, and Ron wasn't surprised to feel the hot tears begin to stream down his own cheeks. Crying, Ron and Hermione clung to each other with desperate force, holding on for dear life, wanting to extend the last time into infinity, into never having to end. Behind the south wall, Orlando listened to the sharp breaths and shaky words and held down his own impulse to cry. He stayed there, wanting to give them as much time as humanly possible, until the dreaded sound reached his perked-up ears: the dinner bell.
Reluctantly, Orlando stepped out from behind the corner and wavered to speak. Ron and Hermione, still crying faintly, were tangled with one another, Hermione grasping Ron's shirt and burrowed firmly into his chest and Ron pressing her closer with a firm hug around the waist, his face buried in her hair and his breathing deep and resonant, taking as much of her in so as to embed it permanently in his memory. Watching them stand like that, Orlando hated to have to be the one to break them apart, but it was either that or risking being caught when Lady Amelia inevitably came looking— and Orlando didn't think Hermione could bear to be caught another time.
"Hermione, we have to go," he forced out a hurried whisper. She didn't move an inch, and Ron didn't shift either, still wrapped around her. "Hermione," he pressed, the insistence creeping into his voice, "we have to go, now, before mother sends out a search party."
That seemed to get Hermione out of it: reluctantly, she pulled away from Ron and looked up at him, drinking in every feature on the face she'd grown to love with the desperation of knowing she was seeing it this close for the last time.
Only one thing seemed right to say. "I love you," she said, quietly but making sure it reached him loud and clear. They had meant it before, during their little exchange at the library window the night of their escapade to the dilapidated barn, but he had to hear it. She need it to say it, at least once in her life.
"I love you too," Ron said, the words closer and closer as he leaned forward and kissed her. The kiss was soft and full of feeling, and Hermione felt Ron's streak of tears rub up again her own wet cheek as his face moved delicately over hers, his thumb rubbing tenderly over her other cheek. They parted without being fully convinced they had, their lips still brushing even as they separated, and it took every ounce of will Hermione had to widen the gap and step away from Ron.
She thought about saying goodbye again, but she thought better: if these were to be her last private words to him, she'd prefer to leave him with 'I love you'. Ron seemed to understand, and he didn't open his mouth to even try to say anything, but merely watched her duck back around the corner with Orlando and pretend he hadn't dreaded the moment when her eyes had finally been torn from his.
Watching the whole scene, just one resolve was clear in Orlando's mind: he couldn't let this be the last time. As he ushered Hermione into a washroom to freshen up and disimulate the crying, and as they entered the dining room and sat at their respective places, that resolve only strengthened. He couldn't let that have been their last goodbye. A love like the one Hermione had for Ron deserved a better denouement, something more than a stolen kiss marred with tears.
If Lady Amelia had noticed the splotches on Hermione's cheeks or the swelling around her eyes, she didn't comment on it, too busy chattering animatedly about the wedding the next day: the little church in the village, the guests that had filled the inn to the brim, the dress, the garden party after the ceremony... It was easy, Orlando noticed, to drown her out. Hermione, sullenly prodding at her dinner and making a point of not looking up from it, seemed to be doing the same.
It wasn't until the end of dinner that there was finally something in his mother's babbling, no doubt directed at Draco and Hermione, that caught his ear: "...since, by tradition, you're in separate rooms, you should enjoy your last night of truly having your room to yourself— I know I've certainly missed it when Philip snores..."
That was enough: he let his mother trail off about her superficial marital-bed woes and tried to pace the machinations of his mind. Separate rooms. Truly having your room to yourself.
All of a sudden, the plan formed in Orlando's head: now, latent even beyond the resolve not to let Ron and Hermione's tearful farewell be the last one, was the clear-cut certainty of just how he would achieve it.