Author's Note: Chapter Seven!

I forgot to mention something in the earlier chapters of this memoir.

I had massive, uncontrollable crushes on not one, but two Gryffindor Keepers during my time at Hogwarts. As we all know, one of them was Ronald. The other one, however, started and ended in my Third Year, as the Keeper in question was much older than me and had graduated before I properly hit puberty.

I often went to the Quidditch Pitch to watch Harry during his practices. It was then that I noticed someone else on the team, another star player. I couldn't help myself, really. He was the Captain of the team, and not in an arrogant, 80's film sense, but in a strong, confident sense. I saw him whip that team into shape and take Gryffindor to victory.

A proud, proud moment.

His name, of course, was Oliver Wood, and he was deliciously Scottish.

Bearing that in mind, here's what happened after he stumbled late into the altar:

In the aftermath of the last groomsman's arrival, the ceremony went forth and ended with a romantic kiss at the altar between the bride and groom, after which the wedding guests were ushered into the outdoor reception area to witness the first dance.

It was an intimate dance, accented by the lush, romantic atmosphere.

There were red roses on every table and petals across the dance floor, as Harry and Ginny floated to the rhythm of 'You are' by Mree feat. Jared Foldy

I watched with tears falling down my face. It was a long time coming, and for all of us to be granted the chance to witness such a magical moment was nothing short of a miracle, considering everything we had survived.

Others followed and moved to the dance floor as the song commenced, and as Harry and Ginny switched partners. Ginny danced with Arthur, and Harry stood watching and smiling. It was then that it hit me, Harry didn't have a mother with whom he could dance. The moment more tears began to fall down my face, at the realization that James and Lily were undoubtedly watching from above, was the moment Harry found me in the sidelines and right then, I knew.

I laughed and cried happy tears as we danced to the song and avoided stepping on one another's feet — by milliseconds.

Ginny then danced with Ronald, and for a moment it felt as though our group was whole again, as if the growing distance between us was only temporary.

It was a nice moment, one that I still look back on.

But, as with most wedding receptions, there was a celebration to be had and I knew for a fact that Harry and Ginny wanted their guests to have a good, not-so memorable time, if you catch my drift.

The music changed.

The atmosphere changed.

It went from lush to lively. The dance floor was soon packed with couples and singles, dancing to their hearts' content. Jillian would probably have been right in the middle, jumping up and down in a craze, like she did at Reading Festival.

Good times. Good times.

It was around five minutes after the party started that I noticed someone at the open bar — clad in black dress robes, with a familiar glint in his eyes as he noticed me and came over.

I was into him all over again.

"Hermione Granger," he whispered to me, though it was more of a shout since the music was so loud. "I haven't seen you in ages."

Part of me was glad it had been ages, since it gave me time to develop in certain places and make sure he definitely noticed me, but another part of me was too enraptured in the music and the moment to comprehend those thoughts.

Sensing this, Oliver held his arm out and waited for me to secure mine around it, before leading me to an emptier part of the dance floor, where we danced to a fun, happy song. It was like the Yule Ball all over again — Quidditch star, included.

I laughed with him and giggled in girlish glee as he twirled me, and showed me the moves he had been hiding all those years at Hogwarts. I had always known him to be punctual and serious — and seriously gorgeous — which made his tardiness to the wedding an absolute shock, but I figured he had a good reason.

Oliver moved closer to me after the fifth song came to an end, and whisper-shouted something else, as the sixth song started. "Harry lied to me!"

"What?" I asked, placing my arms on his and leaning forward.

"Harry lied to me," he repeated. "He said you turned into a serious, crime-fighting Auror, but you're too much fun for that!"

I laughed at this and whisper-shouted something in response. "I can be both!"

Oliver laughed along with me, having kept some distance between us, despite our dancing, and finally brought me closer with his hands on the sides of my waist. He then bent down a little and asked me something I had wanted to hear all evening. "Do you know about the view from upstairs?"

Now, ladies, these sorts of questions are generally frowned upon as they are filled to the brim with clumsy, sexual undercurrents, but you must understand that I was young, frustrated and very, very deprived.

"No," I answered. "Maybe you should show me."

There was a look on Oliver's face, one that I could only describe as consumed. It had been a long since I had seen that look on anyone, and I was more than ready. I placed my hand in his and we made motion to leave the dance floor, if only for a short while, when suddenly the music changed again — but this time to a classical number.

Ginny's voice came through. "Everyone, I invite you join as we continue my family's wedding tradition and partake in an English country dance. First, I'd like to invite those in the wedding party to demonstrate."

I must have turned a bright shade of red — embarrassment, not anger — because the hold Oliver had on my hand tightened a little, as if to tell me he was in a similar predicament. Due to my hectic schedule, I had only made one of the dance lessons Ginny had scheduled for the wedding party. It was then that I realized I was a terrible bridesmaid and an even worse Maid of Honour.

Harry located me, attuned to my disposition, and waved me onto the dance floor. I reluctantly made my way over and stood in a circle with the others, an equally nervous Oliver Wood beside me. I figured he'd been too busy with Quidditch to make the dance lessons.

I then reminded myself Ron was there, and that I couldn't possibly be a worse dancer than him.

The music was light and carried echoes of the countryside, along with the dance that we were about to do. I won't go into too much detail, but I will say it's the one that starts in a circle, involves a bit of hopping, and some Jane Austen-inspired partner switches here and there.

I knew the last bit would prove to be a bit awkward, where Ron was concerned, but I tried not to think about that.

Resigned to go forth with this dance, I focused on the song and the steps and was delighted as Oliver messed up before me. Both of us laughed and tripped a little, hushed as Ginny tossed us a scornful look. I dragged an invisible zipper across my lips, which only made Oliver laugh more, but we had moved away from Ginny and Harry, by that point.

I casually glanced at the other couples and noticed Neville and Luna dancing as if in their own universe, Ron trying very hard to focus on the steps that Daphne whispered to him under her breath, George and Angelina inventing their own steps and receiving praise from their friends in the crowd, whilst, to my surprise, there was no Dudley in sight.

It appeared he and his girlfriend had opted out of the dance, a luxury that I had not been granted.

Instead, they were replaced with another couple, one that danced with poise that I had only seen in films and read about in books. To my astonishment, this couple was none other than Daphne's younger sister, Astoria, and her date.

It was difficult to pin him at first, what with all the spinning and hopping and switching of partners, but the moment I moved on to George, I saw.

Through some strange twist of fate, he noticed me at that exact moment and locked my gaze. It was sheer luck that I didn't trip up during this exchange, because my eyes were not focused on my feet or the placement of my hands. I saw only the tall, puke-eyed assistant from the dress shop. Under the floating lanterns above us, those eyes didn't look puke-coloured at all. Less of a dull grey, and more of a . . . silvery . . . thing . . .

I was in such a trance that I had switched to the next dance partner, then forced into the final transition.

His arms criss crossed with mine, one near the small of my back and the other near my front, and the same vice versa. It was a tangle of arms with the others, but he appeared to be a practiced dancer. He knew the correct timing and the correct movement to suit the rise and fall of the instrumental.

This bit moved in slow motion — at least, for me — seeing as the world loved to place me in awkward situations and torture me for the hell of it.

Instead of caving under the pressure, I kept a straight face and made sure I didn't break, but only because he expected me to.

His hands, admittedly, were softer than I had imagined. In fact, I'm not sure what I had imagined — scales, perhaps?

Either way, this dance not only served as a source of many whispers from the other people watching us, but also some worried looks from Oliver.

I realized then that everyone was not only watching but staring at us, whispering things to one another, going so far as to point out the fact that Hermione Granger, Muggle-born extraordinaire, was dancing with the Pureblood Prince himself; rather well, at that.

The moment I noticed this, was the moment the wedding party dispersed from the stage, making room for new couples to have a chance.

I quickly looked at him and felt my throat clench as he boldly leaned close forward and spoke actual words to me — like a normal person.

"Enjoy your night," he voiced, leaving me to stand there in a confused jumble as the song changed.

Ginny approached.

She looked from me to the place where Malfoy had sauntered off, and lifted her eyebrows. "Now that, was something."

I swallowed hard. "Tell me about it."

There was a confusing mix of emotions running through me.

From what happened at the dress shop, to getting pissed off my arse and whining about being single in the pub with Harry there to make fun and comfort me at the same time, to learning I had a wedding date with the guy I had dreamt about as a teenager, to being told about a 'view' that I simply had to see with him, to dancing with the boy I had once passionately hated, and, against all logic, realizing that I kind of enjoyed it.

Oliver came to me then, which Ginny took as her cue to leave, and he looked at me with those warm, gorgeous eyes. "Shall we?"

It took a moment for me to snap out of it. When I did, I nodded to him and locked my arm around his as we discreetly made left the are and made our way to the building in which the ceremony had been held.

It was an old Manor house from the Regency Era and looked like something straight out of a novel, but I wasn't there to ogle at the architecture or decor.

The entire way there, I could feel a particular set of eyes on me, but I paid them no mind.

Instead, I followed my date up one staircase and then another, until finally he led me out onto a rather romantic balcony setting, the English countryside below and the moon and stars glittering above.

"This is a nice view," I remarked, surprised.

Oliver chuckled. "What did you expect? A broom closet?"

"No…" I transitioned. "But I'll tell you what I did expect — hoped, even."

His eyes turned half-lidded, suddenly delirious. He then placed a single hand along the small of my back and another under my chin, bringing me closer.

I breathed in his scent of musk and crisp air, reminded of the Quidditch Pitch and the way he looked after a full morning of practice, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, with his abdominal muscles practically tearing through his uniform.

It was happening.

I wish I could have sent a telepathic alert to thirteen-year-old me to tell her that one day, she'd by overlooking the English countryside with Oliver Wood's hands all over her body and his lips kissing hers. It was a good moment to be me, and I immersed myself in it, responding to him through touch, as I wrapped my arms around his neck and then down his back, grazing his dress robes with my fingertips.

Oliver moaned — growled, really — and carried me to the ledge.

Both of us could hear music coming from below, where the guests were dancing and singing and laughing the night away, oblivious to us, but we weren't worried about being seen. The balcony was positioned at such an angle and so high up, that the only way we could possibly have been seen was if we were dangling off the side.

It was safe, I told myself.

It would be fine, I told myself.

"Your dress," he said to me, directly over my lips.

His voice didn't carry the rising inflexion of a question, but I knew he was asking me something. Instead of answering him and telling him I didn't care about the dress and that he could tear it from my skin whenever he so pleased — preferably sooner rather than later — as the dress could always be mended with magic, I chose to tear the dress myself.

Well, it was more of a tug that tore a bit of the seam around the zipper area, but he definitely got the point.

Oliver grabbed bundles from either side of the dress and pulled, practically tearing the thing in half, erasing all the time and effort and work Ferret Boy had put into it.

What a shame.

Not.

I waited, with shortness of breath and a rise in body temperature, as Oliver quickly shrugged off his coat and popped the buttons on his shirt, revealing to me a torso I had imagined for the better part of my early adolescence.

Before I knew it, we were back at it, except this time there were no more clothes to be removed.

Oliver tore holes through my nylons, whilst I tugged at his tie, which had remained on, loosely around his neck. It made me feel like I was in control, that he was mine, and that the tie was his collar. Shut up. I tugged at it more and relished the way his muscles hardened at my touch.

Our bodies were pressed together, with his hands safely around my waist and mine traveling all over his chest — up and down and sideways. It was the longest I had ever waited to get what I wanted, and I decided I didn't want to wait anymore.

"I'll go slow," he breathed out, kissing my neck.

"I appreciate your patience, but I'm not in the mood for slow."

The man eyed me and knew, without another second to spare, that I wanted him in every way except slow.

We moved pretty fast from there.

Before I realized what was happening, Oliver was between my legs, as I sat on the ledge, thrusting into me and against me with tremendous force. I forgot about the things that were stressing me out, and instead, focused on what was happening. It had been a long time since I last had sex, too long to put into words, but I knew I still had it when my date's movements grew faster and harder and more feverish.

I could hardly believe this was happening, but there was no time to ponder.

Oliver took my cues and tugged at my hair, light enough that it didn't hurt, but hard enough that it made blood rush to my skull and then, that out of body feeling.

I tensed up, edging closer and closer to the final stage.

I was close, so close I could taste it.

It was so long since I last orgasmed from someone else, and I wanted it more than ever, especially from him. I was on the edge. I was right on the edge. Just one more thrust and — and —

"Oliver," I panted. "I — I —"

"Me, too," he interjected, quite close himself.

But he wasn't close to the edge, not in the way I was.

"No, wait —" I shouted again, brushing the tips of my fingers along his long, strong arms as I slipped backwards and literally tipped over the edge.

Oliver stared wide-eyed, as I fell, and scrambled to reach for me, watching as my body disappeared over the balcony railing, a fall from which I would surely have died, until finally, he was able to clasp his hands around my ankles, holding me as I danged along the side of the balcony.

It was safe, I told myself.

It would be fine, I told myself.

Those words. Those destructive words had led me to this moment, to the moment I ruined my best friends' wedding.

How, you may ask? Simple.

I wasn't just dangling over the edge of the balcony, for all the wedding to witness in shock and horror. No. No, no, no. I was doing it in the nude. No dress. No knickers. Not even shoes. I instinctively closed my eyes and heard the gasps and whispers, and eventually, the sound of Harry's voice, as he tried to distract people and make them look elsewhere — the champ — but his efforts proved useless.

It was bad, though it may not shock you to learn it got much, much worse.

Oliver secured his grip on me, well on his way to pulling me up and away from public scrutiny, when suddenly, I heard the most horrific sound anyone could ever hope to hear in such a state.

It was the sound of a photograph being taken.

Gosh, Hermione is such a derp lol.