She throws up the morning of the wedding in the Potters' bathroom. Hunching over the toilet, Hermione retches a few more times, but skipping breakfast makes this a useless, painful act.
As she slumps over the sink and splashes cold water on her face, Ginny rubs her back.
"Since you won't let me murder Malfoy, let me at least do your hair and makeup for you?"
Hermione nods weakly and allows herself to be pampered. Ginny applies a light dusting of makeup, just enough to conceal her pale, clammy countenance.
As Ginny carefully handles her curls and wrangles them into a simple braid, Hermione barely avoids bursting into tears.
Her friend squeezes her shoulders. "Hey. You're the bravest person I know, but you don't have to fight this alone. You also don't have to go through with it at all."
Hermione shakes her head and swallows the lump in her throat. "No. I won't let them win. And you and Harry have done enough. Just—just be there for me. Today. During...it."
She counts deep breaths and then counts the years. Only three. This will be a mere blip in her story. Three years and then freedom. Three years of surface compliance while she works on the best way to enact a subterfuge.
In addition to a copy of the marriage dissolution form, Hermione keeps a list of every Wizengamot member who voted for the marriage law, each publication and journalist who supported it, and every member of Minister Lance's staff.
She dons her battle armor: an ivory, long-sleeved sheath dress. It's a small rebellion that she cherishes. If she's being made to marry a pureblood scion or temporarily forfeit a wand, she'll do so in Muggle fashion.
"I know you said not to interfere further, but Harry and I may or may not have sent a strongly worded letter to Malfoy," confesses Ginny as she zips the back of the dress.
"I should have known."
"Ron sent a Howler."
"I expected nothing less."
"Luna sent him a book on common poisons and their antidotes. In case you attempted the premature widow route."
"Kind of her to consider saving me from prison, but I'm not sure poisoning will help."
Ginny takes the hint and stops trying to wring laughs out of her.
The walk through the Ministry halls is a solemn one. Luna and Ginny flank her, each holding one of her hands. Harry and Ron walk in front, attempting to shield her from curious onlookers.
All three Malfoys await her in the ceremony room. Neither group greets the other; her friends usher her along to the opposite side of the room and huddle around her. Hermione at least appreciates the extremely un-romantic setting of what is essentially a conference space.
No one says a word. Hermione stares at the clock above the door and wills the oppressive silence to smother her. With a quick, covert glance, she observes the other party. Lucius is dressed for a funeral, but Narcissa looks elegant as ever in sage coloured robes.
Draco is wearing traditional, formal black robes. Full wedding regalia, cape included. He looks every bit the impending groom and the sight makes Hermione's palms sweat and her stomach churn.
Dramatic options for escape compete for her thoughts. Running out of the room, stealing several Portkeys and hiding out in Australia. Disappearing into the Muggle world. Transfiguring her features and having a new wand made abroad. In each and every scenario, she hexes Lucius Malfoy in the face on her way out.
She snaps back to the present as someone clears their throat. The officiant enters with a jubilant smile and a clear inability to read the somber room.
"If you all want to take your places, we can begin."
Hermione doesn't want to do any of this, but feels her limbs move of their own accord. A hand that might have been Ginny's or Harry's gives her one last squeeze as she walks to stand before the officiant.
The insipid, compliant bureaucrat who will doom Hermione has the audacity to hum and grin as Draco approaches.
They're side by side. He's close enough for Hermione to hear his even breathing, to smell his cologne. Though it's a pleasant scent, she still feels bile rising in her throat.
The officiant blathers for a few minutes about the joys of marriage and the importance of today's ceremony. Hermione envisions cursing the man's blood to boil within his veins and having him die a slow, painful death. She only resists because she's left her wand next to Ginny. Thinking through the particulars of a new measure she wants to draft on behalf of werewolf minors allows her to sufficiently disassociate.
She's brought back to earth with an unfortunate command.
"Please face each other and join hands," the man orders with all the cheer of a proud older relative presiding over a happy occasion.
Draco's hands tremble slightly when Hermione takes them, and she gives them a reassuring squeeze. She hates her own instinctual kindness and compensates by avoiding eye contact.
"Mr. Malfoy, please repeat after me."
A voice forces her gaze up. Draco's voice.
"I call upon these persons here present, to witness that I, Draco, do take thee, Hermione, to be my lawful wife. To be loving, faithful and loyal to thee in our married life together."
It's a tone she's never heard from his mouth before. Low and serious, his unwavering voice is warm to her ears. This was the boy who had made fun of her teeth, her hair, her blood. Now he stands before her spouting earnest-sounding pledges.
"Miss Granger, please repeat after me."
Hermione mutters the vows as quickly as she can, eyes once more centered on Malfoy's chest. False oaths fall from her lips. She does not mean these words and resents having to say them at all.
"And—ah—the rings?" asks the bellend in charge of her autonomy. The idiot at least seems to have cottoned on to Hermione's barely contained contempt.
"I have them," says Draco, producing two gold bands from his inner breast pocket.
Slightly-more-aware bellend asks Draco to repeat more binding words.
He holds the band just at her fingertip and recites in that same, oddly gentle tone:
"I give you this ring as a symbol of our love. All that I am, I give to you. All that I have, I share with you. May this ring remind you always of the words we have spoken today."
As he pushes gold past her knuckle, Hermione catches a glimpse of her new shackle: a simple band with one shining stone (muted emerald, she thinks) in the center. It's light and understated, the antithesis of everything she knows the Malfoy family to be.
"Miss Granger, if you'd now repeat after me."
Hermione mirrors Draco's actions, but not his cadence. She cannot keep the bitterness out of her voice. Draco's ring, she notices, while appearing identical in design, has a blue gem she knows very well. A sapphire.
Hermione drops his hand the second the ring goes far enough without being in danger of falling off. The officiant awkwardly clears his throat and reminds her of the final step.
"Ahem. If you could—ah—join hands, please? We'll seal the bond now."
Hermione knows it's a symbolic binding, but it burns all the same as she takes Draco's hands again and has a wand waved over them.
"With the authority invested in me by the Ministry of Magic, I now declare you bonded for life. May this magic seal your union."
Hermione immediately lets go and smooths down her dress. A kiss is not required, only customary, and she won't cooperate with that tradition today. Draco makes no move towards her either until the blasted government lackey continues his mission to make this day as hellish as possible.
"Just need to take your photograph for the Hall of Records."
He absolutely does not. It may or may not end up in an official file somewhere, but Hermione knows its true destination is tomorrow's edition of The Daily Prophet. She and Draco will likely dominate the front page.
Hermione turns towards the waiting camera and finds her arm gently tugged as Draco loops it through his elbow. The flash goes off and Hermione has no idea what sort of expression her face makes. Perhaps her moving photograph will indulge in a two-finger salute.
"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy!" announces the man whose name Hermione will learn so she can curse his entire family tree.
He produces a marriage certificate for signing. It's another stone around Hermione's neck as she waits for Draco to finish. He has neat penmanship, elegant curves to his letters, even with how hastily he signs his name.
Hermione forgot this choice would be upon her today. In the infinitesimal moment between inking the quill and signing her name, Hermione remembers every snide congratulations she's received from passive aggressive colleagues this week, and every past comment from her department head about how she shouldn't mind the long hours at work since it isn't like she has a husband or children waiting for her at home.
She recalls Draco's observations about her stalled career, how she refuses to play the game and it holds her back. A rigged game.
She pulls a half-measure, adds a hyphen after "Granger." Leaving the familiar written territory for a new land, her shaking hand manages to form the letters of a name she's never had to write next to hers before: Malfoy. It looks out of place, almost sloppy, compared to the way her practiced hand deftly wrote her own surname.
Hermione Granger-Malfoy. Her three-year sentence as this identity begins now.
The odious officiant takes the scroll, humming to himself again as he stuffs it inside his robes.
"Well, what's next for the newlyweds? Will you be—?"
"I believe we're done here," Draco interrupts, all previous warmth gone.
"Of—of course. Have a good day."
The man hurries from the room, and two people swiftly approach next, blocking Hermione's escape. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy are now standing mere feet from her. Behind them, Hermione sees her friends rise but keep a cautious distance. Ron probably already has his wand drawn.
For one agonizing moment, no one says a word. Then, Lucius offers Draco his hand.
"Congratulations," he drawls. Without sparing Hermione even a glance, he turns and sweeps from the room.
Narcissa remains before them, a demure smile on her face as if her husband hasn't just acted like a petulant child.
She moves forward, stands on tiptoes, and pecks her son on both cheeks. "Congratulations, darling."
"Thank you, Mother."
"And you, Hermione."
"Oh. Thank you." Before Hermione can register anything else, Narcissa has brushed air kisses to each side of her face.
"We hope to host you at the Manor soon," Narcissa says, eyes turning hopefully up at Draco.
"Thank you, Mother, we'll let you know," he replies. Narcissa bestows one last smile before sweeping along after her immature husband.
Her friends are upon them now with glares for Draco and embraces for her. No one utters a word, not even Luna. Hermione doesn't let the hugs linger; her friends have done all they can do and she'll take it from here. Like she always does.
"I'll be fine, it's fine," she finds herself reassuring them. "Thank you all for coming."
"Hermione—"
"Please don't, Ron. I said it's fine."
She can handle this. She will handle this.
Ginny returns her wand and gives one final whisper: "Our Floo is always open."
When her friends leave, the closing of the conference room door behind them rings out like a death knell. Hermione's throat tightens, her chest constricts. It hasn't hit her until this very moment but now the awful truth sets in.
She lost.
The last thing Hermione needs right now is small talk, but he turns to her. Her new husband. "If you're hungry there's—"
She cuts him off by apparating away, right into the flat's living room.
"—brunch at the flat," he finishes, appearing just beside her.
A veritable feast awaits her on the dining room table. Baskets of pastries, fruit arrangements—plates, bowls, and cups all overflowing with food that could feed the two of them for weeks.
"Did you—?"
"No," says Draco. "My mother arranged it all. She wanted to host a proper reception at the Manor but I didn't think you'd attend."
"How kind of your family's elves to provide us with the fruits of their unpaid labor."
When he scowls, she feels for a brief moment that she's landed some sort of victory. Provoking the tiniest bit of displeasure from him creates a little pocket of inner happiness. She is miserable and he should be too.
But now it returns: the tight throat, the constricted chest. The misery chokes her and makes her vision swim.
"Bathroom," she mutters before turning and almost sprinting down the hall. Shaky hands don't allow her the satisfaction of slamming the door, but rather she heaves it closed and locks it. Her reflection repulses her: a pale face and white dress. She is a weak, powerless thing reduced to chattel by the government.
Hermione braces herself against the counter, trying to find an anchor by noting the mundane objects that cover the surface. His toothbrush, her toothbrush. His comb, her brush. His razor, her lotion.
His things and her things. His and hers. His and hers. His and hers.
She silences the room and screams herself hoarse. The release she hasn't granted herself, hasn't allowed herself to feel, comes roaring out in streaming tears and shuddering gasps. It's an indulgence she never had time for in the weeks leading up to the wedding. Ever since the Act passed, Hermione barreled forward with a mission, a purpose. A fight she's now lost. The reminders of her failure are scattered across this beautiful granite counter, and reflected back at her in the mirror.
Sinking to the floor, Hermione gulps in breath and clutches her chest. When she covers her face in her hands, an unfamiliar bit of gold captures her attention. She rips the ring off and glares at it. Technically she doesn't have to wear it. The parchment signing and vow-speaking took care of the marriage business. But she knows a bare ring finger will attract even more unwanted attention and invasive questions. Hermione cannot afford societal shunning at the moment, nor malicious gossip. More important things than this unwanted match will need her focus now.
You lost, move on.
The ring in her palm twinkles innocently at her and the bathroom lighting reveals something odd. It's a different color now. What she'd thought of as a muted emerald is now more a purple-tinged red.
The strange gem hijacks her senses long enough for her heart rate to slow and her breathing to steady. The renewed calm lets Hermione find what little sliver of a silver lining she can.
For one thing, Draco has no stated expectations, and has made no actual demands that weren't already included in the Act itself. He graciously offered his home to her. The civil demeanor is the bare minimum, she knows, but he could have made this far worse.
Rinsing her face with cold water, Hermione has no care for whether her makeup smudges or if her red-rimmed eyes are too obvious. Along with the return of her poise, her hunger makes a sudden reappearance. She'll partake in this meal with him now, but no more elf-made feasts from Malfoy Manor.
But before she rejoins him, Hermione stops at the bedside nightstand. Conjuring a pen, she opens the drawer and takes out the Marriage Dissolution Form. She neatly inks her name, replaces the parchment, and closes the drawer. Of course, it won't do her any good for the next three years, but knowing her escape resides there provides a small comfort.
Draco has filled a plate but hasn't started eating when she finally re-enters the dining room. Hermione ignores the etiquette attempt. If he expects praise for such silly chivalry, he won't be hearing it from her lips today or any other. Only once she's piled her own plate with food does he begin to eat.
"Feeling better?" he asks. Though it's said tonelessly, the question is pointed, his grey eyes sliding to her full plate.
"Yes."
The silence becomes excruciating and oppressive. Hermione already yelled until her lungs burned in the bathroom, but the continued quiet almost spurs her to violence just for the sake of a loud noise. Flexing her hands in her lap, Hermione is again reminded of her new jewelry.
"The ring," she pipes up, "it's a lovely piece. What's the center gem?"
"Alexandrite. It's my birthstone."
"And you're wearing sapphire."
"Yes."
It's a far more romantic gesture than their circumstance calls for. Perhaps he's just playacting all the sentimental touches he'd do with a real wife.
As angry as Hermione wants to be with this man, she knows he also did not ask for this situation. Despite his statement to the contrary during their tea shop meeting, he can't possibly have envisioned this as a positive outcome and would probably prefer some fellow fussy pureblood instead of her.
"Look, I just want to reiterate that it wasn't personal," Hermione says in an attempt to broker some peace. "My objections to the law."
"I know. I read your op-eds."
While his reply surprises her, she also notes he didn't say whether he agrees with her.
"Did you also read the responses to them?"
"No. My time is valuable and I don't bother reading drivel written by barely literate imbeciles." With that, Draco stands and vanishes his empty plate. "Have you had enough to eat?"
When she nods, he vanishes her plate and then the remainder of the untouched food.
"Wait, where did you—?"
"Those dishes are charmed from the Manor and tethered to the kitchens. The food will return to the elves and won't go to waste. There's dinner in our kitchen if you're hungry later. I'll be in my study."
He strides away before she can interrogate the magical theory behind such a Charm.
Hermione whiles away the afternoon and evening in her own study. Once she's alphabetized and reshelved all her books, she moves next to her new desk. After an hour, she's satisfied with the organizational flow of all her supplies and desperate for more to occupy her thoughts.
As she settles in with her latest Wolfsbane Potion proposal draft, she hears Draco's study door open, then close, then the clicking of shoes as he retreats down the hall. When he doesn't return, she knows he's probably gone to bed.
In the bedroom where all her clothes and toiletries now live.
Hermione does not read in bed. She is an intentional reader, and the bed is for sleeping. She finishes her draft edits and picks out a book at random: a biography of one of the earliest transfiguration theologians. She lasts another thirty minutes before her eyes begin to droop. Bed is now a necessity, though the process of going to bed presents a mortifying challenge.
Feeling she can put this off no longer, she finds Draco already in bed, eyes closed and seemingly asleep. As quietly as she can, she rummages through her wardrobe for pajamas and scurries to the bathroom to change.
Exhaustion seeps into her bones and she longs for the sweet relief the gigantic and soft-looking bed in front of her could bring. The catch being that it is occupied by a sleeping sort-of stranger.
Draco's eyes snap open as she dithers in the doorway.
"Good night," he says and closes his eyes again. His body language says he's comfortable sharing. He's as far to one side as he can possibly be in the enormous bed and, from what she can see of him, is gratefully wearing a long-sleeved cotton top.
Hermione nods at nothing and awkwardly climbs in. Her feet did not receive the message that this would be monumentally weird and the second her back hits the mattress followed by her head on the pillow, Hermione's traitorous body has soundly defeated her mind.
She's asleep within minutes.
Hermione awakes with a jolt. The memories from the previous day and night trickle in before she can panic.
She had let luxury lull her into a decent night's sleep and refuses to waste time on guilt for that fact. Peeking over at her bed partner, she finds him just as she left him last night: flat on his back, eyes closed, a rhythmic rise and fall to his chest.
She gets out of bed as gently as possible and decides to take advantage of the massive shower before Draco wakes and attempts some sort of powerplay over who should shower first. But she has a blissful, uninterrupted time in the perfect temperature spray, attempting to wash away any lingering loud thoughts about her current circumstances.
Draco is awake when she exits the bathroom and acknowledges her with a monotone, "Good morning," before sweeping by her into the bathroom.
Hermione feels charitable enough to put on a full kettle, but only prepares her own tea as she: 1) has no idea how he takes his and, 2) doesn't care.
She's swinging dangerously between apathy and bitterness and is mildly concerned about where she'll land moment to moment.
He saunters into the kitchen like he owns the place. With another jolt, she realizes he does.
"I can pay," she blurts out.
Draco pauses mid-pour to look at her. "Pardon?"
"For the flat. I can pay a portion of the mortgage or rent."
"Why?" His confusion seems genuine.
"It's only fair, don't you think?"
"No need," he says with finality and joins her at the kitchen island.
"Fine, then perhaps I can contribute another way to the...household?"
He sighs and takes a long sip before answering. "A cleaner comes every other Tuesday, laundry service is Wednesday, the pantry is restocked every Friday. If you have a specific grocery request, write it on that parchment." He points towards a blank parchment nailed to the wall besides the tea cupboard.
"And this is all done via—?"
"Paid human hands."
"That must all cost an awful lot."
Draco rolls his eyes. "We'll manage."
Hermione's retort is lost to the owl tapping on the window. She jumps up before Draco can move, eager to scour today's nonsense.
She's greeted by her own face on the Prophet's front page. Expected though it may have been, it still stings to be proven right in this instance.
Her gaze zips past the photo to the article itself. Rage clouds her vision after just the headline: "Draco Malfoy Weds Hermione Granger: Inside Their Intimate Ceremony." According to this piece, both Hermione's friends and Draco's family attended in a show of "enthusiastic support" for the couple.
Quotes from presiding Ministry representative Orson Whittleby jump out at her about the "nervous, yet besotted bride" and her "equally enamored groom."
Hermione mentally adds Whittleby to what she's calling her "complicity list."
Deciding the rest will only cause accidental and possibly destructive magic to burst from her, Hermione studies the picture. While it's a moving, magically developed photo, her face has a neutral, placid expression while Draco appears stoic, yet oddly static.
"They didn't do the full Charm," Hermione mutters.
"Sorry?"
"For our photograph." She hands Draco the paper. "See how short the loop is? How stilted our movements are? If they'd performed the spell properly we'd be moving freely within the frame."
"I highly doubt the editors wanted a photo of you clawing my eyes out for such a prominent news item," he drawls.
Hermione rips the paper from his hands and flips to the back sections. Draco doesn't offer any more commentary for the rest of the morning.
She finds her new husband is cold in every sense of the word. When he happens upon her wandering about the sitting room and taking stock of the surrounding walls, he offers a cool, "You may decorate as you wish."
Hermione shrugs and wraps her arms around her middle. "Perhaps I'll put up a few pictures. I prefer a minimalist style myself."
He leaves without a word as Hermione approaches the fireplace. There are two framed photos on the mantel: one of Draco's family from when he appears to be about five or six, and another that looks like he might have just left Hogwarts. In the first, the child version pulls excitedly at both his parents' hands as they each smile indulgently down at their young son. But in the second, his parents stand behind him, each with a hand on his shoulder, their son taller than both. This Draco smooths down his robes and stares vaguely into the mid-distance.
Hermione returns with a picture of her, Harry, and Ron with baby James and another of her and her parents from the previous summer. If she has to Floo through here every morning she'll at least do it with her smiling godson's face to cheer her instead of just Lucius's dour disapproval.
She's on her way to work the following morning (yes, after another night in the shared bed, best not to think too hard about it) when she notices another frame now rests there.
Draco has put up their photo from the wedding day. A photo with the proper spellwork applied. Hermione's face is tense and frowning down at where their bodies are linked at the elbow. But it's Draco's tight, nervous smile as he keeps glancing down at her face that occupies her thoughts long after she Floos to work.
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A/N: Thanks for reading! You can find me on tumblr (heyjude19-writing) or twitter (heyjude19writes)