A Lonely Walk and an Unlikely Escort
Hermione stood frozen in place, her hands curled tightly into fists at her sides. The heavy doors had shut behind Draco, leaving her alone in the dimly lit corridor. Her chest ached—not from regret, but from the suffocating weight of solitude.
She had always known this day would be difficult, but she hadn’t expected the loneliness to cut quite so deep. There was no reassuring hand on her shoulder, no familiar voice to tell her she was doing the right thing.
Her parents weren’t here. They were safe in Australia, blissfully unaware that their only daughter was about to become Hermione Malfoy.
A sharp inhale. A steadying breath. Just get through it.
She turned, ready to take the dreaded steps forward—when a voice stopped her.
"You didn’t really think I’d let you do this alone, did you?"
Hermione whipped around, her breath catching in her throat. "Harry?"
He stood in the archway, dressed in formal robes, his green eyes softer than usual. He pushed his glasses up and gave her a lopsided smile. "I thought I’d find you here."
Her throat felt impossibly tight. "What are you doing?"
He shrugged. "Making sure my best friend doesn’t walk down the aisle by herself."
Hermione stared at him, something raw and overwhelming pressing against her ribs. She had spent the past few hours bracing herself for solitude, but now—Harry was here. And despite everything, despite his clear disapproval of this arrangement, he was still showing up for her.
"You don’t have to do this," she whispered.
Harry gave her a pointed look. "Yes, I do. I’ve got you, Hermione. Always."
Her vision blurred for a moment, but she quickly blinked away the threatening tears. Then, with a shaky breath, she stepped forward and took his arm. "Thank you."
He grinned. "Anytime. Now, let’s go ruin a pureblood wedding, shall we?"
Hermione let out a watery laugh, and together, they stepped forward.
The Wedding Ceremony
The hall at Malfoy Manor had been transformed into something out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on one's perspective. Golden chandeliers dripped with enchanted candles, casting an ethereal glow over the gathering of only the most prestigious in wizarding society. Every seat was occupied by a who’s who of power and influence, pureblood elites and political giants alike, all watching with veiled curiosity.
Hermione felt their eyes as she walked down the aisle, her spine rigid, chin high, refusing to show weakness. She was draped in silver—a deliberate choice by Narcissa, blending her into the Malfoy legacy before she even spoke her vows. The intricate embroidery shimmered like stardust, but she felt like she was wearing chains.
At the altar, Draco Malfoy stood waiting.
His expression was carved from marble, impassive, cold. He was dressed in black and deep emerald, a prince of the old world, his signature platinum hair gleaming in the candlelight. If she didn't know better, she might have thought he looked almost... resigned.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, the world held its breath.
As the officiant spoke, Draco leaned slightly toward her and muttered under his breath, "Congratulations, Granger. You're officially stuck with me forever."
Hermione arched a brow and smirked. "Oh, I don’t know, Malfoy. Forever is a long time. I might just outlive you."
Draco’s lips twitched in reluctant amusement, as if caught off guard by her quick wit. He squeezed her fingers slightly—whether in irritation or something else, she wasn’t sure.
The ceremony was mercifully short. Before the vows were spoken, the rings were presented on a silver tray, glinting under the flickering candlelight. Hermione lifted Draco’s ring—a band of pure gold, simple yet timeless. She hadn’t chosen it because of its meaning or tradition. It had simply felt right. Something about the weight of it, the way it gleamed in the light, had settled into her bones like certainty. As she slipped it onto his finger, he frowned slightly, as if seeing something for the first time.
His gaze flickered up to hers, his fingers grazing the ring as if testing its weight. "Gold?" he murmured under his breath, his brows furrowing slightly as he studied it. Then, as the candlelight flickered between them, he noticed something for the first time—her eyes, gold in the low light. The thought struck him unexpectedly: It suits her.
Hermione arched a brow, a mischievous glint flashing in her eyes. "It just felt right when I picked it out. Like it was meant to be yours. Lucky you, Malfoy—destiny has good taste."
Something unreadable flashed in his expression, but before he could respond, she turned to receive her own ring. It was a stormy gray gemstone, nestled in an elegant silver band, intricate but strong.
Draco hesitated only for a moment before sliding it onto her finger. He glanced at the ring, then at her, and smirked slightly. "Well, Granger, now you have something that stares back just as intensely as you do. Try not to let it intimidate you."
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the sentiment in his tone. Their eyes met—gold against gray, defiance against defiance.
The officiant cleared his throat, breaking whatever moment had lingered between them.
Vows were exchanged in clipped tones. Magic sealed the union, an ancient golden glow wrapping around their joined hands before sinking into their skin. A bond. A cage.
Draco’s fingers tightened briefly around hers. It was a warning, a challenge.
I will not break first.
Hermione met his gaze head-on.
Neither will I.
The Reception Dinner & First Dance
If the wedding ceremony had been stiff and formal, the reception dinner was an exhibition of opulence, elegance, and absolute Malfoy precision.
Narcissa Malfoy, the master orchestrator of high-society affairs, had outdone herself. The long dining hall had been transformed into something out of legend, the standards rivaling those of the most sacred pureblood traditions. Silver and gold accents glittered under enchanted chandeliers. Ice sculptures enchanted to subtly shift shape lined the hall. Floating candles and intricate flower arrangements adorned each table, each piece a subtle nod to both the Malfoy and Granger legacies.
Hermione had expected a cold, formal affair. What she hadn't expected was the subtle warmth that clung to the event—a quiet, understated sense of welcome, as if Narcissa had ensured this was not just a Malfoy event, but something meant to reflect Hermione as well.
She took her assigned seat beside Draco at the head of the main table, stealing a glance at him. He was seated with the poise of a man bred for events like these, his posture perfect, his every movement measured and deliberate.
To her surprise, when the first course was served—a delicate soup infused with rare herbs—Draco turned to her and murmured, "You should try this one. It’s one of the Manor’s oldest recipes."
Hermione blinked. Not a command. Not a sneer. Just a quiet, unexpected courtesy.
She hesitated before lifting her spoon. "If I didn’t know better, Malfoy, I’d say you were actually being polite."
Draco smirked but didn’t look at her. "Don’t get used to it."
Throughout the evening, she caught glimpses of something unfamiliar—Draco Malfoy, the well-mannered gentleman. He engaged with guests with effortless charm, responding to conversations with an ease she had never associated with him before.
He was charming without being insincere, firm without being cruel. Even when Pansy Parkinson—who had been glaring daggers at Hermione all evening—attempted to make a snide remark, Draco simply gave her a cool, pointed look that had her clamping her mouth shut.
It was… unexpected.
More than once, she found herself watching him, reevaluating everything she thought she knew.
Draco Malfoy was many things. But in this setting, surrounded by people who expected him to embody the Malfoy name, he was something else entirely.
And Hermione wasn’t sure what to do with that.
Then the music shifted.
A soft melody filled the hall—the unmistakable opening notes of a traditional wizarding waltz, one so deeply ingrained in pureblood culture that Hermione had only read about it in books. She had learned it, once, on a whim, in preparation for the Yule Ball all those years ago. But she had never expected to use it.
Draco turned to her, one brow raised. "You know this dance?"
Hermione lifted her chin. "Of course. Why do you sound surprised?"
"I suppose I shouldn't be." A flicker of something crossed his face, too quick for her to catch. "You were always insufferably prepared."
She rolled her eyes but took his offered hand. His grip was warm, firm but careful as he led her to the dance floor. The gathered guests parted for them, their eyes watchful, expectant.
As the music swelled, Draco moved smoothly, guiding her effortlessly into the steps. He was a practiced dancer, his movements refined, precise, impossibly graceful. And despite her initial hesitation, Hermione found herself matching him beat for beat.
"My mother made sure I learned properly," he murmured, his voice low. "She always said a Malfoy man must be a gentleman."
Hermione glanced up at him, intrigued. "She succeeded, then."
Draco huffed a soft laugh. "Tell anyone and I'll deny it."
She smirked, but before she could quip back, he dipped her.
It was smooth, effortless—Hermione barely had time to react before she was suddenly weightless, her breath catching. And then—
"Careful, Granger," Draco murmured, his voice amused but softer than before. "Wouldn’t want you to fall."
For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them. His hands steady on her waist, his expression unreadable.
Then, just as quickly, he pulled her back upright, returning to the waltz as though nothing had happened.
Hermione’s heart thundered.
"You’re full of surprises, Malfoy," she muttered, exhaling to steady herself.
His lips quirked. "You have no idea."
She almost stumbled at that.
Draco caught her with frustrating ease, his grip firm as he steadied her. He leaned in just slightly, just enough for only her to hear.
"I told you," he murmured, "I’ll never let you fall."
Hermione swallowed, something unreadable settling between them as the final notes of the waltz played.
Neither of them moved right away. Neither of them let go first.
Then, as the applause erupted around them, Draco finally released her hand, stepping back with an unreadable expression.
And Hermione was left wondering if, just for a moment, she had imagined everything.
The First Night
The reception had been an exhausting display of forced smiles, political maneuvering, and veiled threats wrapped in pleasantries. By the time the last guest departed, Hermione’s patience had run razor-thin.
Draco led the way through the grand halls of Malfoy Manor, his pace measured, calculated. Hermione followed without a word, her gown trailing behind her like a ghost.
The doors to their bedroom loomed ahead. A massive, intricately carved set of double doors that sealed her fate.
Draco pushed them open and stepped inside. Hermione hesitated only a fraction before following, her pulse loud in her ears.
The room was grand but dark—deep green and silver accents, high windows draped in velvet, the centerpiece a massive four-poster bed that dominated the space. The tension was suffocating.
Draco turned to face her, hands in his pockets, gray eyes sharp and unreadable.
"You can take the left wing of the room. I won’t bother you."
She hesitated. Then, before she could overthink it, she spoke. "Draco… stay."
His brow furrowed slightly. "What?"
Hermione swallowed. "I know we didn’t choose this, and we’re not in love, but…" She exhaled sharply. "I don’t want to be alone tonight. Not on our wedding night."
Draco studied her for a long moment before nodding. "Alright."
He moved to the opposite side of the bed, removing his outer robes with methodical precision. "I’ll take the right side. Don’t kick in your sleep, Granger."
She snorted softly. "No promises."
As she lay down, she felt the mattress shift slightly as he settled beside her. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not suffocating.
Just before sleep claimed her, she heard him murmur, "For what it's worth, I wouldn’t have left you alone, anyway."
Hermione closed her eyes, a small, secret smile curving her lips.