Unwilling Wedding
The day of the wedding dawned gray and heavy, as if the very sky shared Hermione's reluctance. The Malfoys, however, had spared no expense. Malfoy Manor had been transformed into an opulent showcase of power and prestige, a grand spectacle designed to cement this union in the minds of wizarding society. There would be no doubts, no whispers—only the undeniable truth of their binding.
The Expectations & The Dress
Hermione stood before a full-length enchanted mirror in one of the many rooms of Malfoy Manor, feeling like a stranger in her own skin.
The gown was exquisite—too exquisite. Crafted from gossamer silk in hues of silver and white, the fabric shimmered with each slight movement, as if laced with the magic that bound her fate. The neckline was modest but regal, the sleeves delicate lace that hugged her wrists like a binding spell.
Narcissa Malfoy watched from across the room, her expression unreadable. "You look magnificent."
"I look like a trophy," Hermione said stiffly, adjusting the intricate platinum clasp at her waist.
Narcissa’s lips barely curved. "That is precisely the point."
Hermione turned sharply. "If you think I will stand by and be a decoration in your world, you are gravely mistaken."
The older witch regarded her carefully. "You misunderstand me, my dear. A trophy is displayed and forgotten. You will be something far more dangerous—a Malfoy bride."
Before Hermione could respond, Narcissa stepped closer, her gaze sharpening. "You are not just any bride, Hermione. You were powerful before this marriage, before the Malfoy name was ever uttered alongside yours. Now? You will be a Malfoy woman. And a Malfoy woman is a force unto herself."
Hermione swallowed. "And Draco? How does he fit into all of this?"
Narcissa’s lips curved ever so slightly. "My son is strong-willed, but he is not invincible. If you choose, you could bring him to his knees. He believes himself untouchable, but every great man is made or unmade by the woman at his side." She tilted her head slightly, as if evaluating Hermione one last time. "I expect great things from you, Hermione. You will be a fearsome thing to behold."
Hermione held Narcissa’s gaze for a long moment, something shifting in her chest. Then, the doors opened, and a house elf peered in hesitantly. "Mistress, it is time."
The Interruption
Just as Hermione took a step toward the door, another voice rang through the corridor—one she knew all too well.
"Hermione!"
Ron.
She turned sharply as Ron Weasley burst into the room, his face flushed with frustration, his eyes darting from her wedding gown to Narcissa Malfoy, who merely arched a delicate brow at the intrusion.
"I need to talk to you," Ron said, ignoring Narcissa entirely. "Now."
Narcissa, looking thoroughly unimpressed, gestured toward the house elf. "Give them a moment. But not too long—this wedding will not wait for misplaced Gryffindor sentimentality."
As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Ron turned back to Hermione, his hands clenched into fists. "Tell me this is a joke. That you're not really going through with this."
Hermione inhaled deeply. "Ron—"
"No," he cut her off, stepping closer. "Marrying Malfoy? You—of all people? Do you have any idea what you're doing?"
Her eyes burned, but she held her ground. "I know exactly what I'm doing. I don’t have a choice, Ron. The contract is magically binding. If I break it, I lose everything."
Ron scoffed, shaking his head. "You say that like it’s already decided. Since when has Hermione Granger ever let anyone decide her future for her?" His voice dropped lower, tinged with something Hermione wasn’t sure she wanted to name. "I thought we—we could’ve—"
She closed her eyes briefly. "We tried, Ron. You know we did. And it didn’t work."
He let out a sharp breath, looking away. "But this? This is worse than anything I could’ve imagined. I—bloody hell, Hermione, you don’t even like him!"
She let out a humorless laugh. "You think I don’t know that?"
Ron opened his mouth as if to argue, but before he could, the doors swung open again.
Draco Malfoy stood there, looking bored but vaguely irritated.
"Oh, wonderful. Another Weasley tantrum," Draco drawled, leaning against the doorframe. "I was wondering when you'd show up."
Ron's hands curled into fists. "Piss off, Malfoy. This isn’t your conversation."
Draco smirked, eyes flickering to Hermione for a split second before settling back on Ron. "Actually, it is. Seeing as how she’s marrying me today."
Hermione could feel the tension rising between them, like the charge in the air before a thunderstorm. Ron was trembling with the effort to keep himself from hexing Draco, and Draco—damn him—looked annoyingly smug about the whole thing.
She refused to let this spiral further. "Enough. Both of you."
Draco gave her a slow, deliberate look, then exhaled. "Fine. Weasley, if you’d like to cry about this later, I’m sure you can send a very touching letter to the Prophet. But right now, we have a wedding to attend."
Ron's jaw tightened. "You don't deserve her."
Draco’s smirk disappeared. "I know. But here we are."
For a brief, unguarded moment, their gazes locked. Something wordless passed between them—a shared resentment, an unspoken understanding that neither of them had truly won anything today.
Ron took a step back, swallowing hard. He turned to Hermione, his expression tight with emotion. "If you ever need to get out… if you ever need anything, you know where to find me."
Hermione nodded, her throat suddenly too tight to speak.
Then, without another word, Ron left, leaving behind a thick, heavy silence.
Hermione exhaled sharply, pressing her fingertips against her temples. She could still feel the tension lingering in the air, the weight of Ron’s disappointment pressing against her chest.
"Well," Draco drawled from where he stood, adjusting his cufflinks. "That was a delightful bit of Gryffindor dramatics."
She shot him a glare. "You’re not exactly subtle about your dramatics either, Malfoy."
Draco smirked. "I don’t throw tantrums in other people’s homes. That’s a Weasley specialty."
Hermione sighed, rolling her shoulders to shake off the lingering unease. She wasn’t about to let Ron’s words dictate her emotions. "It doesn’t matter. This is happening, and that’s that."
Draco studied her for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his silver eyes. "You really are determined to go through with this."
She turned to him, arms crossed. "I don’t have a choice, Malfoy. Neither do you."
"Right," he said smoothly. "But I can’t help but notice—this doesn’t seem to be about duty anymore, does it?" He tilted his head. "You could have fought harder. But you didn’t."
Hermione’s stomach twisted. She hated that he could read her so well.
"You don’t know anything about what I want."
"Maybe not." His voice was quieter now. "But you stayed here even after Weasley gave you an escape. That means something."
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t.
Instead, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "Are we done psychoanalyzing me, or do you still have more theories?"
Draco smirked but didn’t push further. "Wouldn’t dream of it, Granger. Come on, let’s go play our roles."
Draco glanced at her one last time, something unreadable flickering in his gaze, before turning on his heel and striding toward the altar alone.
Hermione remained where she stood, watching his retreating figure with a strange, unsettled feeling in her chest. She hated how much she wished her parents were here, how much she wished someone—anyone—was there to tell her she wasn’t as alone as she felt in this moment.
But she was alone.
Completely, utterly alone.
And no amount of forced bravado could change that.
She inhaled sharply, squared her shoulders, and followed. But the feeling of isolation lingered, curling around her like a phantom whisper, a reminder that this wasn’t just a marriage—it was the start of something far more daunting. Or so she thought.