When Hermione's parents had taken her to Paris, her mother had made her walk all the way to the top of the Eiffel Tower with her, depite the fact that they were both foot-sore form shopping all day, and despite the fact that Mrs. Granger knew perfectly well that Hermione was terrified of heights. Mr. granger had waited for them at the bottom- he had had enough of shopping with the girls all day, and was feeling, for the first time in an age, the need for a stiff pint in a smoky, dank pub. His refusal to trek up the famous monument hadn't phased Mrs. Granger in the slightest. "Oh well- come on, Hermione we'll go." And despite Hermione's protestations, they had gone, all the way up to the top, Hermione's feet aching like they never had before, and Mrs. Granger depressingly energetic about it. Hermione's nausea had grown to a peak by the time they reached the top- so dizzy and travel sore and hungry and thirsty was she that when they got to the top and went to the viewing window she felt as though the tower would topple over. "Mum," she had croaked. "Mum, I'm not well."

"Nonsense, Hermione, don't be difficult. Come and look at the lights, they'll make you feel better."

Obediently, Hermione had gone to look at the lights of Paris below them, but they danced around like fireflies, and made Hermione feel worse. "Come on, Hermione, all the way up to the window." Hermione had obeyed, to her own detriment. The gusty wind at the top of the tower gave Hermione the sure, horrifying idea that she was going to fall completely out of the tower and be dashed to pieces on the street below. "Mum!" she had screamed, lurching from side to side, until she collapsed, and they had to pay two Francs each to take the lift down. Hermione had been sick that night- her least favourite activity because it entailed vomiting and having a headache.

But before that, before the dizziness had quite stopped, just as her feet touched the ground, Hermione had felt an irrepressible longing, and it was all she could do not to turn and dash back up the tower. For a split second, she had teetered on life and death, hovered between agony and ecstasy, a life changing event or just another minute in her life. The feeling had stuck in her memory because she had never been able to recreate it, not even when she was flying high on Buckbeak's back around the school, not even when she whizzed around the Quidditch pitch on Harry's broomstick- those activities were adventures, magic spells, cleverness, and even when she had been on Buckbeak's back, hugging Harry round the middle, she knew that things would turn out all right. That night on the Eiffel tower, it hadn't been her brain screaming, but her heart. And that was an entirely different matter.

The feeling Hermione had as she followed Ron out of the tent was similar to her feelings on that night in France, that terrible mix of nausea and hopeless longing that turned her legs to jelly and her brain to mush. Her heart was aching for something, an ache which was at once terrible and beautiful. Ron's touch was burning on her cheek and around her clavicle as though his arms had branded her. At the same time, the back of her neck was tingling with the touch of his phantom fingertips. She was terrified, and yet, in his arms, had felt so safe; she was smitten and yet, instinctively drew away. The ambivalence left her feeling deflated. So did the nonchalance with which Ron was acting. She watched him up ahead with Harry, as they joking shoved each other around. Didn't those past few moments in the tent mean anything to him? All that he'd said? That letter he'd written? Here was she, battling the urge to either leap at Ron and throw her arms around him and never let go, or turning around and running off into the white countryside, and he was acting like nothing had happened.

"If he's calling the wedding off," Ginny was saying seriously, as they reached the door, "I'm going to kill Percy."

"What if he does call the wedding off, but not because of Percy?" harry suggested.

"Then I'll kill him anyway. I mean it," she added as Harry started to laugh. They went inside, and Bill was sitting in the armchair that didn't match the sofa, onto which Fred, George and Charlie had already piled themselves. Charlie, whom Hermione had long ago dubbed "the Cheerful Sibling" was looking grave. So were Fred and George, which was odd enough. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were standing by watching. Fleur was sitting tearfully on the arm of Bill's chair. When Hermione and the others came in, she got to her feet at once, ran over to Hermione, and sobbed noisily into Hermione's hair. "There, there," Hermione managed awkwardly, aware that Ron was looking at her. Tough, she thought, I'm not even going to look at him until he decided what on earth he wants from me.

Of course, there was the small problem of what Hermione wanted from him.

"You 'ave 'eard?' Fleur sobbed, giving Hermione two wet kisses on both sides of her face. "It is too, too terrible!"

"I know," Hermione said heavily. She meant it too. What had happened in the Weasley's living room that morning had shaken her to the core. She had always viewed the Weasleys as an extremely tight-knit bunch that could only be broken apart by some class of evil, all powerful force. Apparently the Weasley until had met their match in Cornelius Fudge. He certainly seemed to have gotten to Percy. Everyone knew that the Minister of magic did not take kindly to Dumbledore anymore, since Fudge refused to believe that Voldemort was back, but Hermione thought that somehow, Percy was smarter than that. Obviously she had been wrong. Some of the things that Percy had said had made her shudder, and the expression on his face had been reminiscent of Draco Malfoy's consistent sneer.

Bill stood up then, and cleared his throat. His announcement turned out not to be, as Ginny feared, a cancellation, but a change to the wedding party. Charlie, who was his original best man, would now be joined by Ron, Fred and George at the altar. His best men. "I want my brothers by my side," he said grimly. Fleur nodded along with everything he said. When Bill had finished talking and sat down (Fred, George and Ron sat with stunned faces), Fleur said, "I 'ave also come to a decision. In light of recent events, I would like to invite Ginny, Angelina, 'Ermione and 'Enrietta to be my bridesmaids, along with Gabrielle." She beamed, waiting for their applause.

"Wow!" Hermione said, when she could breathe again, "Fleur, that's- I don't know what to say!"

"Th-thank you," Ginny said, quickly. Hermione nodded fervently.

"Um…" Angelina said shyly, "Um, I didn't bring a dress, or anything."

"Not to worry," said Fleur triumphantly, and then proceeded to tell the girls what they would be doing for the next six hours, the objective of those hours being to fit all the girls with the same bridesmaids dresses as Gabrielle Delacour. If Hermione had known she would be Floo-powdering to Paris during her stay at the Weasley's abode, she certainly would have brought some more decent clothing. As it happened, she only had her jeans and her sweaters and felt more than a little out of place as she stood in a very expensive designer bridal boutique in Paris wearing the sneakers that she'd had since she was twelve and the jeans that she'd visited her grandparent's farm in, all those years ago. In fact the only people that looked like they should have been in the stylish little boutique were Fleur and her younger sister Gabrielle, who met them there, along with Mrs. Delacour, who behaved curiously indifferent to the whole process. After sweeping in, casting a disparaging eye over the new improved bridal party, and proclaiming them to be "Bon," she retreated outside to the cold street to smoke a cigarette from a long holder. Fleur's face betrayed her dismay, but she took over the fitting process with the air of a professional. Mrs. Weasley went to a menswear store over the road to buy suits for the boys- Fleur insisted that she would pay for them.

Sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair watching Henrietta be measured, Hermione wished mightily that she could be back at the Burrow talking quietly with Ginny, or even Harry. Ron would be there- at least she'd be able to stop thinking about him because she'd know what he was doing, if he was smiling or laughing, flashing those gorgeous dimples- or perhaps he was being serious, chewing on a thumbnail as he watched Fred and George try to lighten the –quite frankly- strained atmosphere of the house. She thought briefly of Bill, and how bad it was for his stag night to be ruined by Percy's behaviour.

"Mon cherie, it is your turn!" the dress maker, an opulent witch in pale green corduroy (apparently, corduroy was back in) motioned Hermione up onto the table. Fleur, who seemed to have selected Hermione to be her best friend, beamed and helped her up onto the table. The dressmaker tsk-tsked. "I 'ave never met a bridal party with such different colourings!" she cried, "No matter, I love a challenge. I 'ave the perfect tone for you all."

Hermione privately thought it would be a miracle to find a colour that matched all the girls- creamy skinned Henriatta with a short black bob, Angelina with her ebony colouring and black dreadlocks, Gabrielle Delacour, the mirror image of Fleur but shorter, and Ginny of course, with her long firey hair and scatterings of freckles. But by the time everyone had been measured, the dressmaker had amazingly produced a solution.

"Mauve, pastels- zat sort of thing is very, very now, my dears," she announced, pulling yards and yards of pastel violet silk from underneath her desk. With a wave of her wand, she transformed each cutting of silk into a dress, and bid the gaggle of girls to go and try them on. Wizard weddings, as Hermione was to learn, took on a definite medieval theme. This didn't surprise her, of course, as she knew perfectly well about the curious fashion standards of wizardry- their style seamed to be to adopt several different eras of clothing at once. The dress reminded Hermione of something out of a Jane Austen novel at first, but as she out it on, she realized that the fitted corset for her torso was more reminiscent of the early 1900s. Thankfully the empire line cut of the neck was higher than most dresses from that era (the last thing Hermione wanted was to be showing off cleavage at a wedding)- the corset, she thought at first, was mercifully not so tight as it should have been, but then she realized that was because of the buttons. A row of tiny diamond buttons ran up the back of the dress from where the skirt began. She would have to get someone to help her do them up. The sleeves were not so much sleeves as a wide strip of thin silk that hung down from the shoulders- the end of each strip tied around her middle finger- remaining Hermione of the early 12th century dresses she'd once seen on a tapestry at Hogwarts. The skirt was lovely- silky, moderately full, and embroidered with roses a shade darker than the rest of the dress around the hem. All in all it was a very nice dress, and Hermione began to feel a little better about being a bridesmaid. Angelina helped her with the buttons and then, after Fleur had deemed the dresses "the most beautiful things I 'ave ever seen in my life!", the girls met Mrs. Weasley across the street, and they all went home, where they spent the rest of the night in the girl's tent, hiding Fleur form the rest of the boys, as tradition dictated, before they all eventually dropped off to sleep.

It was midnight, then, and there was less than twelve hours to go.

*

The wedding was at eleven o'clock on Christmas day, and everyone was up early. For the part of the Weasley boys, Bill's stag night didn't' seem to have taken it's toll at all. In fact, most of them seemed a lot more chipper than Hermione, as she stumbled through the front door at seven am that morning.

"Merry Christmas, starshine," George said, raising his eyebrows at the usually alert Hermione. "You look, excusing my French-" he paused, and then adopted an obnoxious French accent. "Buggered."

"Late night?' Fred asked, pouring her a cup of tea.

"Yes," she mumbled. "For some insane reason I was kept up past sunrise by a bunch of rowdy men in the backyard."

"Well, with your looks, my dear, I'm sure you'll never be short of rowdy men who want to keep you awake," said George, winking.

"Flatterer," Hermione said, with an involuntary smirk. "I look terrible," she added, catching sight of herself in the mirror next to the pantry. "But I know who to blame for that, don't I?"

"Random genetic drift?" Fred suggested.

"No. You two- you were so bloody loud last night! I couldn't get to sleep for ages. I swear they must have been able to hear you in Scotland. I never realised your mother cross bred you both with foghorns when you were born."

"Surely you jest. Foghorns? No way- we're too classy."

Hermione sighed and drained the last of her tea. "I'm going to go and have a shower."

"Can I come?' said Fred innocently.

"Now, now, Fred, don't hit on Hermione- you know her heart belongs to somebody else," said George. "Where's your brotherly loyalty?"

"In the garbage, along with my conscience and sense of decency. Boom, boom!"

"What are you talking about?" Hermione said irritably, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. Fred and George looked at each other, and then simultaneously, sighed. "Nothing." they said, in unison. Is it my imagination, Hermione thought, as she tramped up the stairs, or did they look disappointed in me?

She smiled wryly as she thought about what they had said. "You know her heart belongs to somebody else." Tired old jokes about her and Ron were ten-a-penny. It was just a pity that lately they hadn't becomes jokes so much as an ironic observation of the truth.

You know her heart belongs to somebody else…

As if on cue, Ron emerged from Charlie's room just ahead of her. "Oh!" Hermione said, taken by surprise. He turned and looked at her. Hermione felt her heart turn over. When had he become so beautiful?

"Um, hi. Good morning."

"Morning." She tried to sound colder than she actually felt.

Ron jerked his thumb at the door. "Um, Ginny's in there, and she's, um, getting her face all done up." A sort of pathetic smile edged its way into the corners of his mouth. Hermione suddenly couldn't remember why she was supposed to be mad at him.

"Oh- am I supposed to-"

"Yeah," Ron nodded his head uncomfortably, and pushed back his hair, still wet from showering. "Have you had breakfast?"

"I'm not very hungry."

"Oh, right," Ron said. He tried to smile but it came out as a crooked grimace. "Um, anyway, I'd better-"

"Yeah, I've got to shower…."

"Okay- I'll leave you to it." He slipped past her down the narrow staircase, and despite the fact that he had practically plastered himself to the wall opposite the door to Charlie's room, his hip still bumped hers as he passed her. "Oh, that's right," Hermione mumbled, "I'm supposed to be mad at him because he turns me into a brainless idiot." Somehow, things had gotten extremely awkward between them. Hermione wondered how it could have happened. On the trip from London they had been more comfortable with each other than ever, then all of a sudden they were fighting again, all because of…

Why were they fighting? Maybe it wasn't so much them fighting as Hermione herself trying to fight off the undeniable feelings she'd been having for Ron. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, with the bizarre feeling that she was looking at a stranger. She tried saying it out loud. "I'm Hermione Granger, and I have feelings for Ron." She had said it in barely more than a whisper, and yet she still went bright red and looked around, lest anyone had heard. Suddenly she felt furious with herself.

"For god's sake," she hissed at herself, "it's not a bloody affliction to like someone. What on earth is wrong with you?" Why couldn't she just say it? Was it not a natural process? Girl meets boy, girl and boy become friends, girl and boy become more than friends?

"It's more complicated than that…" But that was the price one had to pay when one was friends with Ron. He made things complicated by making them so simple. Never in her life had Hermione experienced such clear feelings for a person, and yet it seemed to her to be wrong.

Why?
I don't know.
You must know. Why can't you just tell him? Why is it such a problem?

Because…everytime I try to picture myself telling him that I like him…I can't. It's not meant to be.
Just because something is "not meant to be" you won't make it happen? Since when have you started paying any respects to destiny. Just do it. Say it. Admit it. Do SOMETHING, for God's sake!

Hermione had a shower. Now wasn't the time to be thinking about her own problems with Ron. It was Fleur and Bill's wedding day, wasn't it? She had to focus all her attention on being Fleur's bridesmaid; it wasn't fair to anyone if she wasn't concentrating.

So she plastered on a smile for everyone in the make up room, and comforted Fleur, who was crying again. A girl named Marie- one of Fleur's Parisian friends- was in charge doing everyone's make-up, and she sat Hermione down and proceeded to rub several different lotions into Hermione's skin. "You 'ave beautiful eyes," she kept on saying.

"Merci…" Hermione said, feeling uncomfortable. She didn't use make-up, normally. Her mother shipped in a lot of very expensive foundation, lipstick and mascara from Paris for her, but Hermione refused to wear it. Ginny had managed to persuade her last year to wear a tiny bit at the Yule Ball, but even then Hermione hadn't felt like it suited her. Hermione knew that she wasn't bad-looking, but she'd always thought that making a fuss about it would be putting herself in the same class of girls as…well, Parvati Patil. She was especially loathe to do that in the present circumstances. "Marie- not so much on the eyes, s'il vous plait."

"But they are so beautiful," Marie said, disappointed, as she brandished her mascara wand.

"Let's leave it that way." Hermione said firmly.

"Oh well," Marie sighed, motioning Henrietta to the chair. "You' ave natural beauty anyway, 'Ermione."

Hermione was heartily embarrassed, and felt glad that Sophia- the girl in charge of doing everyone's hair- had no compliments for it. As for my natural beauty, Hermione thought with disdain, as Sophia rubbed shampoo Hermione's scalp with long fingernails, I've never owned anything more useless in my life. Hermione thought about the beautiful people she knew- Parvati, who was downright nasty; Fleur who had been so unhappy with herself until she met Bill; Cedric Diggory, who had been scorned upon as a "pretty-boy" simply because of his looks when he had always appeared, from a distance, to be perfectly amiable and charming; her own mother, who Hermione had always regarded from a very young age, as a beautiful but entirely unapproachable creature- Hermione thought about them, and thought that surely Being Beautiful was overrated. But then again, she thought, they're not the only beautiful people I know. Angelina Johnson was probably one of the most sought-after girls in the school, and she remained one of the most down to earth, lovely people that Hermione knew. Then there was Harry, with his striking green eyes and wild midnight hair, who was becoming something of a heart-throb around Hogwarts- Harry was not only her best friend, but someone she had always fervently admired. Bill Weasley was beautiful in his own mild way, with a rogue's grin and his long red hair- in addition to that he had a wonderful sense of humour and had charmed the socks off Hermione within five minutes of meeting him. And then there was Ron, of course. There was no denying it- Hermione was attracted to him. But it was only recently that she had started noticing his more lovely features. She had always known Ron's eyes were brown- but not until lately had she begun to notice that they sparkled with greenish flecks. She had always thought Ron had perfect teeth- but only lately had she begun to notice his gorgeous smile. She had always thought the colour of Ron's hair was lovely- much nicer than her muddy brown, anyway- but it was only lately that she had begun to watch the way it shone in the light, the way it flopped onto his face, the way he twiddled a lock of it round his finger when he was thinking. Surely this new attraction she felt to him had something to do with her feelings for him. Was knowing how wonderful a person he was enough to make him seem beautiful on both sides? And if that was the case, why had touching him always been so taboo? Hermione and Ron rarely hugged, and small incidents such as Ron touching her knee or Ron pushing a wisp of hair off her face became burned into her memory. She certainly never had the physical comfort with Ron as she had always had with Harry- who she could hug every day if she wanted to. But hadn't they just recently become far more physically comfortable with each other?

Hermione was still struggling with what it meant when Sophia proclaimed her finished. "You should consider doing zis with you 'air always, 'Ermione," she said, giving her an encouraging smile. "Ze style suits you."

Hermione looked in the mirror. Sophia had weighed down her coarse, tight waves with a moisturizing conditioner, and they fell into long, soft curls. Normally Hermione's hair reached just past her shoulders, but now, the long ponytail trailed down her back, entwined with purple ribbons with tiny violets sewn onto them. "Oh," said Hermione. "Well…"

"You look fantastic." Angelina said admiringly, pausing in her effort to fend off Marie's mascara wand.

"Oh 'Ermione, Fleur cried, bustling into the room. "You look so beautiful! Oh, I am so 'appy!" She promptly burst into tears. Marie sighed.

"Not again…"

Angelina gratefully escaped the make-up chair and let Fleur be seated to have her running make up redone. Sophia turned to Hermione as she grabbed Angelina for her hair to be done. "You 'ad best go and put your dress on," she said, and tapped her watch. Hermione looked at her own wristwatch. It was nine thirty already. Only an hour and a half to go.

She dutifully escaped to Ginny's room where all the girls were to get dressed, and found no one in there. She donned her gown, being careful of her hair and make up, and then, after trying to do up the tiny little buttons by herself, gave up. "Ginny!" she called, venturing out onto the rickety staircase, "Ginny- oh."

It was Ron again, craning his neck around as though looking for someone. "Charlie-" When he saw her, he stopped dead. His mouth dropped open. His eyes took in the hair, the dress, the make-up. Hermione felt a blush tear up her neck and flood her cheeks, stinging the back of her eyes.

"Hermione-" Ron finally managed. "You…you look…"

"Have you seen Ginny?" Hermione interrupted. She was highly embarrassed, not to mention confused. Did Ron think she looked stupid or what?

"No," Ron said, still seemingly unable to tear his eyes away. "H-have you seen Charlie?"

"No." He was half-dressed in his wedding outfit. He had not yet put on his black pants but had started to do up his white dress shirt. The top few buttons were undone, and his neck looked long and graceful. "What's wrong?"

"Sorry?"

"Stop staring at me."

"Oh- gosh, sorry," he said, looking at his feet in a bashful way that Hermione found adorable. "Um, did you…want anything in particular?"

"I just need someone to help me do up the buttons. Why, what did you need?"

"Just someone to help me do up the cuffs." He held up his hands- the cuffs of his shirt were indeed undone- and suddenly they were smiling at each other.

"Come here, then," Hermione said, and Ron dutifully held out his hands. Each shirt cuff had three tiny diamond buttons, exactly like the ones on the back of the dresses. It was no wonder Ron couldn't do up the fiddly things by himself- Hermione had much smaller fingers than him and she was finding it difficult. That might not have all been due to the size of the buttons though. Hermione had a feeling it was a lot to do with the close proximity in which she and Ron were standing. The top of her head as practically touching his chest, and she could feel Ron's eyes boring into her. As it happened, Hermione was wondering how much longer she would be able to go, standing so close to him and yet feeling so unable to touch him. She felt lost again.

"Are you nervous?' Ron said suddenly.

"About what?" Hermione had finished his right hand and moved onto the left.

"The wedding."

"Oh," Hermione said, and didn't answer. She was feeling rather fluttery in the stomach, but that wasn't so much anything to do with the wedding as it was Ron's breath tickling her forehead. He felt warm and he smelt of cologne. Ron dipped his head.

"Are you nervous?" he said again, this time, softer.

"I'm terrified," Hermione whispered, without thinking.

"Don't be," said Ron, as Hermione finished doing up the last button.

"You're done," she said quickly, afraid to look up. She knew she'd be caught by his gaze, and she had no wish to do anything rash right before the wedding. No point in creating a stir.

"Okay, thanks. Would you like me to do up those buttons, then?"

"Oh- all right," said Hermione, and cursed herself as the words came out of her mouth. Not a good idea, not when she was feeling so bizarre

"Okay," Ron murmured, sweeping her mane of curls over her shoulder. For a moment or two, he struggled with the buttons down the bottom, closest to the skirt. The silence between Hermione made her feel oddly sick. Think of something to say. "Um, are you nervous? He is your brother…"

"Yeah but, you know…Bill's always going to be okay. I guess it'll be weird now that he's all grown up and going to start a family."

"Hey, you could be an uncle, one day soon."

"Maybe," laughed Ron. There was a melancholy tone to her laugh the made Hermione turn her head as far as she could. His hair was vivid out of the corner of her eye.

"Ron…"

"Yeeeees?"

"How do you feel about Percy? Really?" She swallowed. Ron's thumbnails had just grazed her back- the touch was feather light against her skin. "Are you okay?"

A long sigh. "Yeah. I think I am."

She turned to face him. She knew Ron, with or without his beautiful eyes, and she could read him –well, like a book. "Really."

"Hermione," said Ron, looking down at her passively, "I don't care about Percy." He said it with such aplomb that Hermione didn't even have to wonder if he was telling the truth. Her expression must have prompted him to explain. "What I care about is…how do I put this?" He paused, fiddling idly with the cuff buttons Hermione had just done up. "I care about what he's throwing away, I suppose. I mean, he's looked up to Bill since he was out of nappies, and…" Another long sigh. "I don't know. Let's not talk about it today."

"You're right," Hermione said, "Sorry." Ron didn't say anything, just swept back her hair again and did up the buttons, one, two three, his fine touch making the skin on her back tingle. She wanted to run away, and yet she never wanted it to end; she wanted him so, but he made her so scared…. Then suddenly Hermione was breathing again, and Ron was smiling at her. "Thanks for doing this today, for Fleur."

"Not at all, it's my pleasure," said Hermione, her face burning. (She'd suddenly become aware of the fact that, through the back of the open dress, Ron must have seen the fastening of her bra.) Another moment or so. Both looked up into each other's faces, then away at the ground, with short, breathy laughs.

You know her heart belongs to somebody else.

"Hermione," Ron said desperately, as Hermione turned to go. She looked at him. "You do look…really nice. Really, really nice."

"Oh, well…" Hermione forced a laugh. "Thanks, Uncle Ron."

His hand reached forward and brushed a wisp of hair from her face. "Don't mention it." And as his hand lingered around her cheek, Hermione did something else to not mention. She reached up and placed her hand over Ron's, which gently relaxed onto her cheek. Eyes locked, they stood there for what was in reality a few seconds but what to Hermione seemed like forever. For those few seconds, Hermione honestly believed that she would have had the courage to tell him how she felt- like holding Ron's hand gave her some sort of…strength.

"You look nice," Ron repeated, drawing away, gently. "Really, um, beautiful."

Hermione wished she'd never gotten out of bed.