"Bride: A woman with a fine prospect of happiness behind her." – Ambrose Pierce

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

In which Narcissa is conspiring and Hermione feels like Mother Ginger…

September 29, 2003

"Step lightly, dear, we haven't got all day!" Narcissa called, stepping easily through Diagon Alley's mid-day crowds as if they weren't there at all, a blonde head bobbing ever farther ahead of Hermione as they traipsed deeper into the congealing throng.

"But where are we going?" Hermione was practically running to catch Narcissa's stiletto-held steps (she'd insisted on changing before they left the Palais.)

"You'll see…" Narcissa called back. Hermione pushed her way past big paper bags and people with over-sharp elbows, getting thoroughly banged up in the process.

Finally, Narcissa stopped. "We're here!" she declared. Hermione stopped examining a not-quite-bruise on her shoulder and looked up at the storefront where they were stopped. "Madame Malkin's" Narcissa declared, as though Hermione didn't already know. The pristine storefront had changed very little since she'd been to get her first wedding robes. "I've arranged for Mum to pick up your mother and sister and meet us here, shall we go?"

Hermione hesitated, there was a warning about Madame Malkin's, but she simply couldn't remember it. She wished she had the list.

"Shall we go?" Narcissa repeated. Hermione shrugged and followed her inside. She was, after all, powerless to stop fate.

"Ah! Narcissa!" Madame Malkin, a plump witch robed entirely in maroon, crooned, rushing to cover Narcissa in socialite kisses and butterfly hugs "We've been expecting you!"

"Oh, Muffin, I'm just oh-so-excited!" Narcissa oozed. Hermione cast around for something, anything but the two women schmoozing their hearts out in front of her, to focus her attention on. She found Jeanie.

Her mother and sister were sitting in over-stuffed leather lounge chairs and snacking on tiny biscuits and crackers, being wildly entertained by something Pansy Parkinson, who was sitting on Jeanie's left, was saying. Ginny Weasley was sitting on Rebecca's right, scowling into a fashion magazine, and Tamryn (who Hermione had almost completely forgotten about when she left her to run the store) was sitting on Ginny's right, conversing with Aemilia Lestrange, who was sitting in a leather armchair on Tamryn's right. Cordelia (Hermione was resolved never to call her 'Mum') was standing behind Aemilia's chair, one hand resting on the back, the other being used as a cup holder as she talked animatedly with a Madame Malkin's employee. They looked like the quarrelsome family of a dying person waiting tensely in a hospital lobby; very few of them really wanted to be there, and those who did were nothing if not all smiles. She felt, for the umpteenth time that week, that she'd quite suddenly stumbled into a very strange and purposeless dream.

Jeanie caught Hermione's eye and waved her over. "'Mione, 'Mione, 'Mione!" she squealed, standing and tottering over to where Hermione was still gawking. "Pansy was just telling us the most hilarious story!" she exclaimed, after imitating Narcissa's socialite-kiss on a lackadaisical Hermione. "Ohmygod, is it true that your fiancé made up an entire song about what an awful goalie Ron was?"

Hermione stole a glance at Pansy, who was watching them and grinning as though her teeth were covered in venom. "Yeah, he did." Hermione shrugged. Ginny began grinding her teeth and loudly shaking her magazine.

"What a guy!" Jeanie laughed. "When do I get to meet him?" She forcefully steered Hermione over to the other women, seating her directly between Pansy and herself before asking again. "When, huh? When do I get to meet the bloke you finally hooked?"

"I don't know, Jeanie…at the wedding?"

"At the WEDDING?" Jeanie shrieked.

"Ah, Jeanie, that was my eardrum!" Hermione rubbed the ear Jeanie had been screaming into.

"Ooh, sorry, 'Mione." Jeanie pouted and blinked a few times. Hermione had never understood how this was supposed to invoke compassion, but she was too tired to say that. Instead she said nothing and buried herself in a fashion magazine.

"Alright, ladies, let's get fitted!" Narcissa beamed a moment later. "Muffin wants to know your measurements, Harmony, darling."

Hermione tried to smile and followed Madame Malkin into the fitting room.

"Alright, dear, this might tickle a bit," the buxom woman chirped. She flicked her wand at a limp tape-measure and it instantaneously jumped up and wrapped around Hermione's waist. "So, what were you thinking, as far as this thing goes?"

"Oh," Hermione smiled shyly. "I hadn't really though about it," she lied.

"Oh, nonsense." Malkin sung. "Everyone's thought about their wedding clothes! Let's start with the basics. White, of course."

"Of course," Hermione echoed automatically, then frowned. "Actually, you know what…" She thought for a moment. "I don't think I want to get married in white."

"What's this I hear about not getting married in white!" Narcissa, who had been listening through the curtain and now stuck her head through a flap, yelped as though she'd been slapped.

"WHAT!" all the women echoed, sticking their heads through the flap as well, so that Hermione was faced with a totem-pole of gaping women.

"Not wear white, dear?" Cordelia laughed as though she'd just heard that the moon was populated by giant baby beluga whales. "But that's ridiculous!"

"I don't know…" Hermione began, becoming very irritated at the tape measure now measuring around her head "this isn't my first wedding and I—"

"YOU'VE BEEN MARRIED BEFORE?" Pansy shrieked.

Hermione scowled. "No! But I have planned a wedding before and I read somewhere that if it's not your first wedding you're not supposed to wear white."

"You're not supposed to be pregnant, either," Aemilia drawled.

Jeanie looked as though she was about to say something, so Hermione was very glad when a Mysterious Voice said "I think it's a brilliant idea."

With a sudden swoosh! the curtain fell back into place and all the women turned to face the newcomer. Hermione stepped down from her podium and peaked around the drapes. Lucine and Rachel Malfoy were standing upright in the doorway, looking for all the world as if they weren't supposed to be there.

"Hi." Rachel waved nervously.

"Don't bother apologizing for not inviting us. It's not like we're family, or anything." Lucine sneered.

"Lucy!" Rachel hissed.

"Mum!" Lucy hissed back.

Cordelia sighed. Their invitation clearly had not been lost in the mail. "Rebecca Granger, Rachel Malfoy, my… daughter-in-law. Rachel Malfoy, Rebecca Granger, Draco's mother-in-law-to-be."

"Hello," they said, two ill-fitted women being introduced to their outcast companion and finding the similarities wholly unflattering.

"Lucine—" Cordelia began again.

"Lucy."

"Lucine Malfoy, Jaquenetta—"

"Jeanie, please."

"Jaquenetta Granger, Draco's prospective sister-in-law."

"Jaquenetta—"

"Jeanie."

"Jaquenetta Granger, Lucine—"

"Ugh."

"Lucine Malfoy, Draco's cousin."

Jeanie eyed the black streaks in Lucy's otherwise platinum hair with impolite interest and a hint of suspicion. Lucy made a face at Jeanie's very unnatural blonde highlights and the length (or lack-thereof) of her skirt. They nodded.

"Alright. Let's get shopping!" Narcissa declared, throwing her arms open and bursting to the center of attention as if she'd just come out of a cake.

"Yay!" said everyone.

The backroom of Madame Malkin's, where the finest, most expensive robes were kept, always reminded Hermione of the upscale London Department Stores she'd visited as a child, holding her mothers hand on one of their daytrips, skipping through the evening-dress department as Rebecca tried on hats, throwing the big tulle skirts over her head and getting lost in a vibrant world of crimson, or rich violet, or the pure, pristine white of a wedding gown, asking her mother please, please could she buy one of the taffeta confections she coveted so, falling asleep on her mother's shoulder as they left at the end of the day, one paper shopping bag filled with one wide-brimmed hat, a pair of gloves, and two chocolates, all they'd bought after four hours of 'consideration' (a word Hermione did not yet understand but which she liked to use as often as possible), then, later, watching Jeanie gurgle in her carrier as she rubbed one soft silk scarf after another over her little baby cheeks, "testing for softness compatibility".

The main difference, of course, between Hermione's department stores and Madame Malkin's backroom was the tulle, the netting that muggles used to give volume to ball gown skirts. Wizards had never found any purpose in tulle, which they replaced with inflation charms and magical fabrics. Hermione had noticed this when she had begun searching for her first wedding dress, checking under every skirt for a quantity of itchy netting she couldn't find. It was a little disappointing, she'd decided. Hermione may have been practical, but even the practical are allowed their dreams, and Hermione had always dreamed of a tulle underskirt she now knew she simply wouldn't get.

The women swarmed over the tulle-free room like bees to a honey-coated daffodil. Hermione wandered around the edge, observed the mass of white fabric and lace set before her, and wondered why she suddenly felt so out-of-place.

She wandered over to the far corner, where a pile of rainbow-colored dresses was set aside with a sign reading "One-of-a-kind: Creations by Muffin" and then below it "Five for a Galleon" It was a pitiful collection of mismatched fabrics and unflattering cuts. Hermione lifted a hot pink tube dress from its resting place and laughed. She doubted Barbie would have fit it. She dug deeper, past putrid greens and vomit-inducing purples. Her hand brushed slick vinyls and even what felt like burlap. She amused herself with the ugliest, holding them up for an instant before letting them drop again. Quite suddenly, she froze, one hand holding up a white, denim ball gown while the other was thrust deep into the pile. She dropped the ball gown and plunged the other hand in after the first. Could it be? But… she was so sure… Yes, she decided, it had to be. She broke into an ecstatic grin and made to pull the bottom-most dress up into the light.

"Harmony, there you are!" Narcissa sang, grabbing Hermione around the waist and dragging her sideways, away from the dress in question.

"But… I…" she stammered, but it was too late, she'd already been steered straight into the foray.

"Sit," someone commanded. She did. She barely noticed other people moving around her, forms sitting beside her and excitedly rubbing her shoulders. The room erupted in one climactic buzz and then:

"Ladies!" a posh female voice oozed from the air. "Madame Malkin's presents: White Wedding, a completely impromptu show designed for your specific tastes and wishes, presented for your viewing pleasure and shopping ease!"

"You're going to love this!" Narcissa whispered conspiratorially into her ear, and Hermione bothered to notice that she was sitting on a long leather couch. Narcissa was on her left and… she turned. Her mother was sitting on her right, looking thoroughly awe-struck as a thoroughly solid wall melted away into a long white runway.

"Oooh!" she clapped and smiled proudly over at Hermione.

"First, ladies," the terribly posh voice drawled, "Madame Malkin's presents a Muffin creation." There was a sudden pop! and then a tall, stick-thin woman built entirely unlike Hermione was posing at the end of the runway, straight-lipped and looking wholly unlikable. "A mermaid silhouette," the voice announced, "with a raised waistline and an empire bodice. This dress has a sweetheart neckline with short bandeau sleeves and a sweeping train." The model remained posing, shifting weight from hip to hip for a moment, and then turned and was gone.

"I liked that one," Hermione admitted.

"No," Narcissa sighed. "You would never fit something like that, not growing at your rate!" Jeanie and Rebecca suppressed snorts. Ginny didn't bother not laughing. Hermione was very glad when another model (still built entirely unlike Hermione) apparated onto the runway and the announcer said "This Wera Vang creation, a special from her "Moon over Transylvania" collection, has a ballgown-style skirt with rosette decoration, a dropped waistline, and a princess bodice. The long sleeves and much of the bodice, including the illusion neckline, are made entirely out of Merlin-era lace, as is the elegant, short train."

"Oooh!" Narcissa cooed. "That's lovely!"

"Erm…" Hermione frowned. "Don't you think it's a bit, Ms. Havisham?"

"Of course, of course." Narcissa nodded vigorously, clearly having no idea who Ms. Havisham was or why that would be a bad thing. "You're right, it's much too small. NEXT!"

The model popped away and the announcer started up again. "The next dress," she began in her terribly posh accent. "is truly one-of-a-kind. Designed by Muffin herself, this was her first design, a wedding dress that was never sold due to cost complications and a lack of refinement in the general populace. Perhaps it is the dress for you."

There was an oddly ominous pop! followed by a collective gasp and an "Oh, Harmony, I think that's the one!"

It was, by all accounts, a monstrosity of a dress. Wearing it, Hermione looked more like an icing covered cupcake queen than a blushing bride. The top half of it was a tight-bodiced, heart-shaped corset-like… thing, with super-puffed marshmallow sleeves larger than her head covering her arms from shoulder to elbow. The skirt was a large, skeleton-hooped contraption that made her hips, "child-bearing" as they already were, massive watermelons balanced on her thighs, which were invisible under the mass of bows, pearls, lace, ribbons, and white silk that gave the skirt its monstrous mass.

She felt as though it might swallow her whole.

For the nth time, she twirled before the mirror, scrutinizing every bit of fabric and pearl from the lace neckline to the mammoth white bow strapped gracelessly over her posterior.

She could not imagine anyone designing such a dress, which, as well as breaking all the laws of physics, also broke nearly every rule of passable taste. She could only reason that it had been created entirely out of spite, or perhaps the designer merely wished to extract it from her nightmares.

The only thing about it that said "wedding dress" was that it was white. A more pristine, clean white had never before been conceived, it seemed not only to reflect light, but to exude its own snow-white glow.

Knock! Knock! Knock! For the nth time, Narcissa rapped sharply on the changing room door and for the nth time she said "Are you alright in there? It's just, the rest of us are dying to see how fabulous you look and we simply can't because this silly door is in the way!"

"I'm still putting it on!" Hermione lied through the door. "It's much harder than it looks."

"Oh, alright, just, come out as soon as you're ready!"

She turned her attention back to the mirror. She twitched her hips and watched the huge skirt swish back and forth, more like a huge fabric bell than a dress.

She sighed inwardly. As much as she hated it, she knew she was going to be wearing it, not because her family and friends liked it so much, but because she'd seen herself wearing the exact same hideous dress only ten days earlier, standing in a park and giving her now-self warnings about house-elves and edible knickers.

Damn it. Again, she tried to convince herself that she was simply being biased, that the dress wasn't so bad and that she only loathed it so because she herself hadn't picked it. She almost believed it until she opened her eyes.

The hundreds of bows and silken swags screamed out "No! This is hideous!" The pearls and lace and rosettes joined in and a chorus of "Ick!" momentarily filled her head.

Yes, the dress was hideous. Yes, her in-laws were either tasteless or evil. Yes, her sister was a sycophantic socialite-in-training. Yes, she was largely on her own. She didn't even have Draco to corroborate her frustration and that was the most frustrating bit of it all.

"Ohmygod, 'Mione! Hurry up you fat lard!" Jeanie called through the door. "Do I have to come in there or something!"

"No, that's alright, Jeanie." Hermione called back, lifting her crumpled pants and taking her wand from their pocket. "I'll be right out."

"You better be!" Jeanie called back. She could hear her smiling in that oh-so-cute way that Hermione had never quite mastered.

"I will be!" Hermione prodded the changing room wall and muttered "Fenestra Foraminis…" A slow, meandering string of orange light eeked from the end of Hermione's wand and she traced a large orange rectangle on the wall. When that was done she quickly tapped the wall, which lifted up and away to reveal a perfectly rectangular window onto a muggle alley.

Perfect.

Somewhere in the deep dark bowels of Diagon Alley, there was a dance studio. It was an unassuming dance studio, with hardwood floors and mirror-covered walls.

It was called unassuming because it did not need to assume. It was simply the best.

It was very exclusive, there the best and the most flexible trained for stints in Weird Sisters shows, back-up dancing in quidditch half-time performances, and possible guest appearances in Celestina Warbeck's PMCs (Picture and Music Cards).

On any given Monday, ten to twenty men and women from all over the world could be found rolling, bunny-hopping, pirouetting, and somersaulting across the floors. Monday the 29th was no exception.

Cleo McMillan stood on the edge of a group of men and women frugging, shouting criticisms and generally being an arse.

Quite suddenly, she was struck with the urge to go to the bathroom. She shouted one last criticism and shuffled out to the ladies room.

Once inside the door, she suddenly forgot why she was there at all (it was a Monday and she was old, this is not so surprising) and turned to leave. Fortunately for this story, her way was blocked by a man dressed all in black and a man who looked like he'd rather not be there.

Their names were Draco Malfoy and Ronald Weasley.

"Good evening, Cleo McMillan," said Draco Malfoy.

"It's barely past noon," said Ronald Weasley.

"We've come with a proposition for your dance troupe," said Draco Malfoy.

"It's not a troupe," Cleo McMillan snapped, as though he'd said something really foul. "It's a dance corps."

"A dance… corpse?" Draco Malfoy tilted his head to the side and did not look vaguely interested.

"Yes," she said. "We've changed our name. We are now the Dread Pirate Roberts Dance Corps."

"Oh. Well, I've got a lot of money and lots of somewhere elses I've got to be," Draco Malfoy snapped. "I don't have a lot of time alotted for you, so I'm going to give you the next ten seconds to accept one-thousand galleons."

A/N: Yeah, okay. I had so much I wanted to get into this chapter, so I've split it in two (smart,I know) If you review, I will love you! If you don't review, I will love you... less! MWAHAHAHA. Thanks for reading (12 Days until HBP!)