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Hermione Granger was nervous but not the kind that she could reason away with logic, breathing exercises, or a well-structured list of pros and cons. She thinks it might be cold feet but she had already gone through the motions before finally agreeing to the two wedding ceremonies they would have.
She wanted a small and quiet wedding where her grandparents could walk her down the aisle into a new life. Although technically, it would just be the same life. She and Draco Malfoy had already started living together and, aside from the legal implications, not much would actually change after today.
She couldn't possibly be having cold feet on the morning of her church wedding. Metaphorical cold feet have often occurred in situations of possible permanence. Although if there were ever a time to falter, a wedding would be the most appropriate and expected time.
However, she was confident that she wanted to marry Draco.
She had insisted on holding the muggle ceremony first because it seemed like the most sensible compromise at the time. She could not bear the thought of standing beneath enchanted ceilings, while the people who had raised her would not be in attendance.
This way, she told herself, she could have both and not have to choose which among her two worlds to value over the other.
If there was anything she had learned from her years living, studying, and working in the wizarding world, it was that she would always be a muggleborn first. That wasn't to say she existed under constant exposure to bigotry or blood supremacy; most of that rhetoric had waned after the Second Wizarding War, but the reactions to their upcoming nuptials made it clear to Hermione that the distinction never fully disappeared.
The media spectacle following their engagement announcement mostly focused on pureblood traditions they feared the Malfoys wouldn't get to uphold because Draco had a muggleborn fiancée for the first time in the family’s generations.
Of course, her dutiful fiancé had intervened before the media could go any further and start prying into heirs or how the Granger-Malfoy household would raise them.
Draco and Hermione had already discussed raising children before. Hermione wasn't opposed to having them but she wanted some time to mentally and physically prepare herself. Draco, despite the usual pureblood expectations of popping out an heir within the first two years, told her that they would do it at her pace.
Hermione stood before the full-length mirror in the bride's room, her fingers brushing lightly over the fabric at her waist, as though she needed to confirm that it was real. That she was finally in Eyam, standing on the very same ground where her parents had once stood, years ago, to get married.
Hermione could hardly recognise the blushing bride in white staring back at her. Her makeup made her look soft and luminous and touched with a gentle pink warmth that made her seem newly discovered, even to herself.
A sheer base evened her complexion while letting her natural skin tone glow through with a fresh, dewy finish. Her freckles were less pronounced but still visible, accented by a delicate rose blush up to the apples of her cheeks. Her eyelids had muted pinks and champagne tones, while a faint highlight at the inner corners brightened her gaze, making her eyes appear wider. A warm brown liner softly smudged along her lash line kept the look tender and romantic. Her lashes were curled and lengthened, feathered rather than thick, which framed her eyes with a gentle openness. Her brows brushed into place, leaving them natural and slightly full. Her lips, tinted a soft petal-pink with the faintest sheen, completed the look.
The overall delicate and luminous effect was the result of careful cosmetics and discreet wizarding charms, courtesy of Pansy Weasley. Aside from her makeup, Pansy had somehow managed to tame Hermione's usual voluminous curls into a romantic updo that fitted her personality. Defined coils, layered and deliberate, were gathered into a low, loose knot at the nape of her neck, softened by a few delicate tendrils that escaped to brush her cheek and trace the line of her jaw. A fine, diamond-studded hairpiece had been threaded through the curls, glinting faintly as it curved along the side of her head before disappearing into the knot.
She had handed Pansy complete control over her hair and makeup and the result spoke for itself.
She gently adjusted her long white gown as she stepped closer into the mirror. The soft, luminous white dress had thousands of tiny crystal sequins that caught the light in quiet, shifting glints, giving the fabric depth and radiance, making parts of it look more silver than white and creating the illusion that she was covered in diamonds. The satin bodice was tailored perfectly to her form, the clean seams tracing the natural lines of her body to sculpt her curves. It dipped into a modest sweetheart neckline, tempered by a sheer overlay of fine lace that rose delicately toward her collarbones with an intricate floral pattern.
The sleeves were long and fitted, the lace continuing down her arms in a whisper-thin layer that revealed only the faintest suggestion of skin beneath. Along the underside of each wrist ran a row of tiny, nearly invisible buttons that made it easier to adjust sleeve length. The backside lace dipped into a low, graceful curve, fastened with a row of covered buttons that trailed from her spine to the small of her back.
The skirt fell from her waist in dramatic volume with an elaborate train. It was classically elegant and a bit heavy, the fabric moving with a fluidity when she shifted her weight, catching the light in subtle ripples. A layer of tulle lay beneath to give it shape and more volume. The train was long, trailing just a few feet behind her, stitched with the same delicate sequins that adorned the bodice.
Hermione's wedding dress looked, unmistakably, like an exaggerated version of her mother's wedding dress, but so absurdly luxurious and elaborate that if someone told her it cost as much as a car, she'd believe them without question.
Hermione swallowed, her gaze fixed on her reflection. For a moment, she did not see herself but her mother standing in the familiar old photograph, smiling with a softness Hermione had only come to understand much later in life.
And yet, as she stood there in a white dress that felt heavier with every passing second, Hermione wondered if she had intentionally delayed the inevitable complexity of binding two worlds together.
Ever so often, Pansy would look at her intently, as if trying to read her mind or gauge her mental state, without saying anything. She adjusted the delicate fall of her veil carefully. Hermione caught a glimpse of her in the mirror as she continued to fuss over the details.
"Elise has your flowers," Pansy explained as she adjusted the dress train so Hermione could move away from the mirror.
Elise Harcourt, the eldest of Hermione's maternal cousins, stood as her maid of honour. She was handling the day's logistics and liaising closely with the wedding coordinator so that Hermione didn't have to think beyond the next step. With Elise occupied in that capacity, Pansy stepped in without hesitation to take charge of Hermione's hair and makeup.
Ginny Weasley, Pansy Weasley, and Daphne Greengrass made up her bridesmaids, an unlikely but carefully balanced trio whose presence spoke more to the life Hermione had built after the war than the one she had left behind.
There were other former Hogwarts classmates scattered among the guests, but Hermione had left that side of the guest list entirely in Draco's hands. Hermione hadn't asked for names, trusting that if he had invited them, there was a reason.
On Draco's side, Blaise Zabini stood as best man. Theodore Nott, Gregory Goyle, and Harry Potter were groomsmen. Hermione could hear them moving around in the other room as they prepared to exit first.
Across the room, Ginny Weasley stood near the small table by the window, pouring hot water into a teacup. The faint curl of steam rose between them, carrying the familiar and calming scent of chamomile. "You look nervous, you should drink this. It’s in stasis," Ginny said, looking at Hermione's reflection through the mirror. "Before you faint halfway down the aisle."
Hermione let out a soft breath, trying not to laugh. "I'm not going to faint."
"You say that now," Ginny replied with a light tut. She nudged the table a little closer to the mirror before turning to leave. "I'm going to check on mum and dad, I'm honestly worried dad might start asking your relatives something inappropriate or disastrous."
Before Hermione could respond, there was a soft knock at the door.
"Come in," she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
The door opened, and Narcissa Malfoy stepped inside, carrying with her the same authority, elegance and composure that seemed innate to her. Her gaze swept the room in a single, measured glance, taking in every detail, before coming to rest on Hermione.
Through the mirror angled toward the open door, Hermione caught the movement in the corridor outside the bridal room as members of the entourage filtered out of adjoining rooms in a quiet flow. Swathes of ivory and black drifted past, heels tapping lightly against the polished floor.
Ginny took that as her cue to leave. She cast Hermione a knowing, warm, reassuring, and conspiratorial glance, before slipping past Narcissa and reaching for the handle. The door eased shut behind her with a soft and deliberate click, leaving the room wrapped in a sudden, contained stillness.
For a moment, no one spoke. The quiet settled almost immediately, pressing in where the movement and voices had been.
After a few seconds, Pansy stepped forward, adjusting Hermione’s veil and train with careful hands, smoothing the fine layers of tulle where they fell over her shoulders. Her fingers lingered for a fraction of a second before she withdrew.
“I’ll just check on Ron and call Elise,” Pansy said. In the mirror, Hermione caught the brief flick of Pansy’s gaze toward Narcissa before she turned.
Then she was gone as well, the door closing once more behind her, leaving Hermione alone with Narcissa.
Hermione straightened instinctively, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of her dress. She had only spoken to Narcissa a handful of times since Draco had formally announced his intent to court her, an announcement made, of course, with all the ceremony and intention one would expect from the Malfoy heir, during a candlelit dinner that had felt more like a negotiation than a declaration.
Those conversations had been civil and polite but distant and strained, usually over family tea or dinners.
However, despite the absence of open hostility, Hermione was not foolish enough to believe she had earned Narcissa's approval. She could see it in the subtle tightening of the woman's smile, in the way her gaze lingered just a fraction too long, as though searching for something that would never quite be there.
Narcissa was far too refined to voice her disapproval outright, but that did not mean it wasn't there. If anything, it was better concealed, draped in silk and silence, expressed through the smallest and most deliberate choices— the traditional pureblood way.
Narcissa had never been discourteous and somehow, that made it worse. There was nothing for Hermione to push against. There was no sharp remark to parry or open hostility to meet head-on. Narcissa offered no foothold for conflict and no fracture in her composure that Hermione could challenge.
In all their interactions, Narcissa only showed flawless manners, measured civility and the quiet scrutiny that was impossible to name and even harder to escape. It left Hermione suspended in a space where she could not defend herself, because Narcissa had said nothing, and yet, she could almost hear the words.
The persistent and unspoken impression that no matter what she had done during, after and every year since the war, it would never be enough. Not in the way that mattered to the pureblood society, and not in the way that would make her worthy of Draco.
Leave Draco. You're not good enough for my son.
Her favourite muggle telenovelas often featured love stories not unlike her own. A man born into generational wealth falls in love with a woman who wasn't. And somewhere, inevitably, a mother who intervened with practised composure and a cheque already prepared, offering money in exchange for the female love interest's absence.
Hermione had long since braced herself for that conversation, even if it had never come to pass.
Sometimes, in moments like this, standing still beneath Narcissa's measured gaze, feeling that careful and immaculate restraint, she found herself idly wondering, if Narcissa were ever to put a price on Draco's future without her in it, how much would that be in galleons?
She never allowed herself to linger on the thought for too long because of the guilt that followed almost immediately.
Narcissa had never openly said anything of the sort or indicated that she thought of Hermione's love and loyalty as something she could easily dismiss or buy away. To assume that Narcissa would do something like that felt unfair and may be a projection more than the truth.
And yet there would be fleeting moments like a glance that lingered a fraction too long, a smile that never quite reached Narcissa's eyes or an assessment so cool and exacting that it bordered on something just shy of contempt.
And just like that, the thought returned and the guilt evaporated like it never existed in the first place.
Hermione had never voiced any of her concerns to Draco.
As far as he was concerned, Narcissa had given her blessings the moment Draco told her that he intended to immerse himself in the muggle world. He had taken her suggestion that he bring guests as quiet approval of everything that would follow. In other words, Draco believed that his mother's awareness of his intention to court Hermione was an implicit endorsement that naturally and without dispute extended to the matrimony itself.
Hermione had let him believe it. There had been no sharp or threatening words, actions or anything that she could name without sounding paranoid, or worse, ungrateful, only Hermione's instincts and feelings.
With Lucius in Azkaban and all but entirely removed from the equation, Draco, on paper, in title, in expectation, was already Lord Malfoy. The decisions on his and his family's future legacy were his alone.
Hermione also knew that Narcissa's displeasure wouldn't change his mind.
"Hermione," Narcissa said at last after a few moments of silence, her voice smooth as glass. "You look… appropriate."
It was, Hermione suspected, the closest thing to a compliment she was going to receive. "Thank you," she replied, tilting her head slightly, pretending that it was the only movement that her gown afforded.
"I won't keep you long," Narcissa said, her voice measured and composed. "I merely wished to see you before the ceremony."
A brief pause followed before Narcissa turned, her attention shifting to the small table where Ginny had left Hermione's teacup, preserved neatly in stasis. With a subtle flick of her wand, the charm dissolved, and the faint curl of steam returned, as though the tea had only just been poured.
Hermione looked away from Narcissa for a moment as she gathered a handful of her skirts, lifting the layered fabric just enough to move without disturbing the careful drape, and stepped closer.
"I can assist," Narcissa said, approaching Hermione. She lifted the teacup and placed it into her hands. Then, without waiting for acknowledgement, she moved behind her. Narcissa bent gracefully to adjust the train and smooth the fabric where it pooled against the floor, aligning each fold.
Hermione brought the cup closer, inhaling the soft, familiar chamomile scent, but the tea seemed to be a special brew with a faint rose or jasmine scent.
Narcissa studied her for a moment longer, her gaze lingering with quiet intensity, as though she were revisiting a conclusion she had already reached and finding reason to express it out loud. With the faintest shift in her expression, she spoke. "My son has always been particular in his choices. As an only child, his father and I have endeavoured to give him everything he has ever desired."
Narcissa's eyes flicked, almost idly, to the teacup in Hermione's hands as she took a sip. Hermione drank the tea carefully, making sure that none of it would spill on her dress or ruin her lipstick.
"When he told me he wished to sull*—surround himself with muggles as part of his pre-courting immersion," Narcissa continued, the brief hesitation smoothed over almost imperceptibly, "I assumed it was merely a phase. He had shown an interest in Hermione Granger of Gryffindor even before he knew you were muggleborn. I remember telling him there were no pureblood Grangers in the wizarding world."
A delicate pause followed. "Shortly after, he confirmed what you were. A muggleborn. As he approached courting age, he began to question Lucius and me, at length, on whether we would ever consider non-pureblood prospects for marriage. At the time, the Dark Lord had only just fallen, and we believed that being seen in your company would be advantageous for the family's more progressive image."
Hermione lowered the teacup slowly, the last trace of warmth fading from the porcelain as she set it down. The faint clink it made against the table sounded louder than it should have in the quiet room. She drew in a measured breath, her mind already reaching for something that might serve as a response, rebuttal or polite deflection.
Even a carefully worded acknowledgement that would neither concede nor provoke.
Normally, it would have come easily. Hermione Granger had rarely struggled for words. But now, as she searched for them, her thoughts felt strangely distant, as though each possible reply dissolved before she could fully form it.
"He has always had a fascination for the exotic," she added, the word placed with surgical precision. "As a child, he made companions of house elves, and, if I recall correctly, even kept garden gnomes as pets."
Hermione's breath caught. She knew what Narcissa had implied and understood it with perfect clarity. The Malfoy matriarch had all but confirmed her disdain for Draco's fascination with her. As though Narcissa had reached directly into the quiet spiral of Hermione's thoughts from moments before, given them shape and voiced them in a language so impeccably civil that no one could challenge them without sounding hysterical.
However, she couldn't feel anything but a lingering calm, settling deeper with each passing second, until even the need to respond felt less urgent than it should have at that moment.
Hermione said nothing and, surprisingly, felt nothing.
What could she say? That she had expected this? That she had imagined, more than once, a harsher version of this conversation?
Per usual, there was no direct accusation to answer or insult that she could name beyond the implication that Hermione was no different from a house elf or garden gnome.
Narcissa fell quiet after that, her attention returning, almost absently, to the final arrangement of Hermione's train, as though the conversation had merely been another detail to set in order.
Hermione tried to gather her thoughts in the silence that followed Narcissa's declaration. None came. She knew that Narcissa had just said something significant. She had heard every word as it was spoken and had understood the implications.
Yet, as she tried to hold onto it, the words began to slip like water pooling briefly in her hands before seeping through her fingers, leaving nothing behind but the awareness that it had once been there.
Hermione Granger did not forget conversations, especially interactions with the Malfoys.
"I have accepted my son's choice," Narcissa said at last, her tone even and unhurried. "You should not mistake that for anything more." Her cool and unwavering gaze lifted to Hermione's reflection in the mirror. "Happiness, in this instance, would be a heavy ask. Especially when you started a Malfoy union in a muggle church."
At that point, Elise Harcourt had entered with her bridal bouquet and extended her hand to assist her.
As Hermione left the room, she wondered what Narcissa Malfoy had been saying to her for the past few minutes.
🍵
Finally, Hermione and her grandparents had arrived near the front of the church, where Draco Malfoy had been waiting since the beginning.
Hermione placed her hand in his, her fingers settling instinctively into his palm. For a fleeting second, the world narrowed with the soft hush of the church, the distant swell of the hymn, the steady warmth of Draco's grip anchoring her in place.
They turned together, poised to take their proper positions before the vicar.
Then, there was a sharp metallic groan from above, the sound cutting cleanly through the quiet like a blade. Hermione's head snapped upward just as the chandelier overhead gave a violent, sickening lurch.
The heavy fixture tore free from its chain and came careening straight down toward them.
Instinct took over before thought could catch up. Hermione launched herself out of the aisle, skirts gathered instinctively in her hands as she twisted mid-step and threw her weight to the side. She hit the ground with a heavy thud, the impact jolting through her bones as layers of silk and tulle tangled beneath her. Her eyes squeezed shut, her body braced for the crash. The shatter of glass. The scream of metal. The inevitable, violent end of it.
But nothing came after.
No impact. No sound. No falling debris. Just awkward silence as the church organ player momentarily paused the hymn. Out of shock or conclusion, Hermione didn't know.
Hermione's breath came shallow as she opened her eyes. Slowly, she turned her head.
Draco was still standing at the altar, exactly where he had been moments before, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief. Elise was already at Hermione's side, hands reaching for her, helping her sit up with careful urgency.
Hermione's gaze lifted. The bare ceiling loomed above.
There was no chandelier. No broken chain, shattered glass or any sign that anything had ever hung there at all.
For a moment, her mind couldn’t reconcile the reality with what had just transpired.
Draco stepped forward, his mouth already moving, forming words she should have been able to hear. "—you alright—?" Or something like it. Elise was speaking too, likely in an urgent tone.
Hermione heard none of it.
Instead, there was only a sharp ringing filling her ears, swallowing every other sound in the room. It echoed until every voice became nothing more than the shape of words she could not reach.
She looked around. The guests were watching. Some leaned forward in their seats, confusion etched plainly across their faces. Others exchanged glances, murmuring to one another as they tried to make sense of what they had just witnessed.
Her grandparents looked appalled.
Then—
“Ni.”
The single syllable cut cleanly through the ringing in her ears as Hermione's head snapped toward the source.
Gregory Goyle stood in the front, 6 feet tall, broad-shouldered, imposing, dressed in an ivory three-piece tailored suit. He looked better than she had ever seen him before, but the voice and the words didn't fit.
It carried, instead, an unnatural clarity that seemed to bypass the air entirely and land directly inside her skull.
"Ni."
A beat. Then, as though something unseen had passed through the room—
"Ni," all the guests said like a chorus.
Hermione's gaze flickered from face to face.
Their guests stood now, lips moving, perhaps, in conversation or concern but only sound that reached her was—
“Ni.”
“Ni.”
“Ni.”
Gathering, layering and rising into a synchronised unnatural pitch without effort, breath or variation.
The vicar. Her grandparents and cousins. Blaise. Theo. Ginny. Molly. Arthur. Harry. Pansy. Ron. Even Draco.
All of them said, "Ni."
Hermione's fingers dug into the fabric of her dress, feeling for texture and making sure she wasn't dreaming. She wasn't.
No one looked like they were saying it.
And yet, Ni was all she heard.
Ni!