Author's Note: Chapter Five!

Sorry about that!

I had to feed the kittens, and don't you dare make cat lady jokes or so help me Godric, I will leave you with even worse cliffhanger.

Anyway, where were we?

Right.

"Ron?" I watched, with wide, tear-filled eyes as my boyfriend of one year left me to rot in the aftermath of my mistakes. "Ron, please. Just listen to me."

There was no use in trying to get through to him. Once that light bulb went off, it was game over. I knew that even before he stormed out of my bedroom and into the foyer, struggling to shrug on his clothes and lace his boots. Ron was a changed man, but he was still in the process of working through some insecurities, and his girlfriend shouting another man's name during sex probably didn't help very much.

Regardless, I followed him, having slipped on an oversized t-shirt for cover. It was the only thing I could find in all the chaos. I couldn't risk leaving things on such a horrible note.

"I — I'm sorry," I apologized, for what felt like the thousandth time within one, maybe two minutes. "Please, you have to believe me. Nott means nothing. Less than nothing. I love you. I want to be with you."

Ron paused for a moment and faced me. I expected anger, but the expression on his face was far from angry. It was closer to disappointment — which was infinitely worse. "Do you think I want to end things like this?" he asked. "Do you think I want to give up?"

"Please listen —"

"I don't want to do this at all," he furthered, causing warmth to pool over my chest at the chance that we could still be together. "But I have no choice."

I stood there, silent and still, as he reached for the front door, and, without further word, left me hanging on the edge of his words. "Ron . . . " I whispered, teardrops rolling down my cheeks.

It was the worst case scenario, and it was caused by me, by my own secrets and my own idiocy. Ron had the decency to keep details of our breakup between us, which led to most people, including his own family, thinking he had been dumped by me. How wrong they were.

If I had my way, we would have moved in together and married within a year.

But, as we've learned, I'm a massive idiot.

I cried that night. In fact, I cried most nights for the next four months. Before then, I had never been dumped. Ron wasn't my first sexual partner but he was my first boyfriend. I didn't know how to cope or what to do, when memories came flooding back. It didn't help that he had left a ton of his belongings in my flat, most of which I had to pack in boxes and leave at the Burrow for him to pick up. It was foolish to me, the fact that we couldn't spend a couple minutes together, long enough to exchange our things, but he wanted space.

I understood and respected his wishes.

Did I mention I hated being Gryffindor?

If I had kept my mouth shut, we would have moved in together and walked off into the sunset without a care in the world. It would have been great, but it would also have been a lie. Ron broke up with me, not because he was insecure over me sharing my first time with another person, but because, after three years, this person was still on my mind — as evidenced.

I was very much in love Ron, but it was clear to me that I didn't love him as much as I thought I did, or, admittedly, as much as he loved me.

It was a rocky end to our relationship. I hated myself for what I did, but I had to move on, especially after he moved on with Daphne Greengrass. I'm sure I've mentioned her before — tall, slim, beautiful, and very, very Slytherin.

Did I mention she was rich?

Nonetheless, it seemed Ron would carry on his pureblood lineage. I'm certain this was coincidence, but there was no telling. Daphne had changed him in a lot of ways, and it was clear to me that the Ron I had grown to know and care about was in the past.

Suddenly, he wore nice clothes and shaved his beard — and made the effort to eat like a civilized human being. Sorcery. Absolute sorcery.

I tried for years to clean him up, but his hygiene was no longer my concern.

It seemed everyone — apart from me — had moved on with their lives, including my best friends.

Four Years Later

You are cordially invited

to the wedding celebration

of

Harry Potter & Ginevra Weasley

I tucked the invitation card into the confines of my purse and crossed the glistening street. Several vehicles honked at me. It was pouring rain, and I had no idea how to get to the dress shop Ginny had picked out for her bridesmaids. By some strange twist of fate, she had chosen me to be her maid of honour and although I was honoured, I had no time to spare.

I was swamped with work, and the Auror Department needed me as much as my friends did. I could only imagine what Harry must have been going through, being the groom and first officer to Kingsley.

It wasn't an ideal time for a wedding, but neither Harry nor myself, could hold off on our part in this joyous occasion. In realizing this, I left the office about one hour early and traveled through Muggle London, in search of the dress shop. It wasn't typical to choose a Muggle designer for ones wedding, but the designer in question was a squib whom Ginny had met during a photo shoot for Quidditch Weekly.

Did I forget to mention? Ginny went pro about two weeks after she graduated from Hogwarts. She made headlines and front covers at least once or twice a month and was compared to the likes of veteran Quidditch players (Viktor Krum, being one of them). She was no longer known for being Harry Potter's girlfriend turned fiancee. She was now an icon in her own right.

Along with her newfound fame, came massive, massive perks; being close friends with one of the top designers in London was one of them.

I entered the dress shop, drenched from head to toe, and instantly felt out of place. It was not my scene, not at all, but I had to remember I was doing this for Ginny.

Ginny's designer, a man called Benoit, clicked his tongue at me — or rather, the fact that I had spent about three seconds in his shop and already ruined the cream carpet with my soaking wet shoes. It was not a good day to wear suede oxfords.

"Miss Granger, I presume?"

I'm not sure what I expected when I heard about him, but an American accent was not it. I nodded my head, like a student called out for bad behaviour, and followed him to the area with the fitting rooms. It was a nice shop, filled with loads of neutral colours and fancy light fixtures to trick people into thinking they had beautiful skin and looked gorgeous in their overpriced dresses.

I wanted nothing more than to try on the dress and leave, and perhaps grab a bite at the Nando's down the street.

Part of me wondered if Benoit had ever stepped foot inside a restaurant as common as Nando's.

"Mind the drapes!" he told me, as I mistakenly brushed my soaking wet hair along the eggshell divider drapes that hung from ceiling to floor in the fitting room area.

My guess was no.

(Small rant: I've always been bothered by fitting rooms without proper doors and proper locks, to make sure overly eager sales assistants don't come barging in whilst I'm clad in nothing but granny panties and a worn out bra. It happened once, but we don't speak of such horrible things.

I had recurring nightmares for weeks — weeks.)

I cringed thinking about the TopShop incident and followed Benoit into the fitting room farthest from the entrance. It seemed he was ready to start and end this fitting session as much as me, which made for a quick reveal.

Benoit unzipped the dress cover and revealed the garment Ginny had chosen for me — her maid of honour. It was, without a doubt, the most beautiful dress I'd ever seen. I felt bad knowing it would go on me in about thirty seconds. Benoit seemed to share this sentiment, because he carefully explained how to put on the dress without tearing the seams or detonating the dress bomb that was hidden under the skirt in case the wearer was a peasant.

I kid.

Despite myself, I carefully closed the divider drape and shrugged out of my clothes at top speed, whilst taking my time with the dress. It was a beautiful blush rose colour, made of the softest chiffon. Perfect for a summer wedding. I longed to run the streets in this dress and have the skirts flowing behind me, caught in the breeze, but doing so would probably have given Benoit a heart attack. I opted for a simple twirl in the confines of the fitting room and surprisingly enough, giggled.

It seemed Benoit heard my giggle, because he signalled for me to come outside and show him whether or not I was worthy of something so impossibly gorgeous.

"Miss Granger? Have you tried on the dress?"

"Y — Yes," I stuttered, spelling my hair dry and taking a deep breath, before stepping outside and in front of the large triple mirror.

Benoit, dressed completely in black in contrast to the decor, gaped at me. It was less of an open-mouthed look of disgust than I'd imagined. In fact, the longer he looked at me, the more I began to think he thought I looked good in his creation.

It seemed he approved, judging by the way he clapped his hands together like a dance instructor. I took this as my cue to give him a twirl and was met with another clap, this time one of excitement.

"I've done it again," he thought out loud, adjusting the dress here and there. "I've created a masterpiece."

It was around then that I snapped out of my Disney princess fantasy and watched as Benoit went over to bring one of his assistants to tailor the dress to me. It was a near perfect fit, which rarely happened, what with all the Nando's and ice cream binges, but there were still some adjustments to make. It was a little long for me — given my height of 5'5" — and a little too deep around the neckline.

Through my peripheral vision, I saw Benoit's assistant come traipsing over in all black with his head down. I was still a little glamoured by the dress, so it took a moment for me to give this assistant a proper look — and when I did, let me tell you, shit hit the fan.

I gasped and spun away, trying to cover my face.

If I hadn't been so caught off guard, I would taken note of the fact that the young man who bullied me throughout my adolescence for being 'less than' was now on his knees, fitting a dress to me.

Benoit came back. "Gorgeous! Simply gorgeous!"

His assistant remained silent and barely looked at me. It was only when he reached the front of the dress that he was forced to acknowledge me, and the fact that I was visibly embarrassed.

Benoit was none of the wiser, offering his estimates here and there.

It was much, much worse than the TopShop incident. I would have taken a million TopShop incidents over this, any day of the week. I tried to take my mind off of it and silently wondered if Ginny had known our old nemesis worked at her favourite dress shop. Probably not. Benoit probably helped her himself, given their close acquaintance.

Regardless, I was still standing in front of a triple mirror with my hair frizzier than it was after a night out with Jill, whilst the bane of my existence tugged and pinned the fabric over and around my body. Oh, yes, this was not a dress that favoured bras, which made for a particularly awkward moment, when my body decided to respond to the nervous feeling in my gut.

It was then, and only then, that he looked me in the eyes.

"Cold?" he asked, a hint of a smirk on his lips.

I literally could have died right then and there, but Benoit was a complete mate and stepped in to make some corrections around the neckline. Despite my relief, his assistant decided to linger, catching me look at him in the mirror every now and then. I recognized him, of course, but he looked different than how I remembered. His hair was still pale blonde and his clothes were still black from head to toe, but he didn't look as wraithlike as I remembered.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to focus on what Benoit was doing, but the mortification had yet to leave my bloodstream.

I decided then that I would have words with Ginny.