Chapter Text
Church bells used to be comforting to Hermione. She’d never been particularly religious, but her parents had attended church to get Hermione into the school attached to it. Her mother used to volunteer to ring the bells, and Hermione would wake up hearing them like a secret signal from her mother. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.
Church bells used to be comforting to Hermione, until she learned to distinguish between them and learned the difference between wedding bells and funeral bells. They were comforting until her mother was no longer ringing them. Comforting until her mother was long gone and Hermione was alone.
There’s church bells ringing right now, and it sure sounds like a funeral.
***
“They can’t seriously expect you two to go through with this, right?” Ginny asks, anxiously, “there has to be something we can do - we can’t just take this lying down!”
Harry and Hermione share a knowing look, neither of them really has a choice in the matter no matter what they might wish. Kingsley knows exactly how to control them, how to control all of them. Hermione’s tired of pondering the what-ifs and the how-abouts, the impossible daydreams. This is happening.
“Hermione… Can you do my tie?” Harry asks.
Hermione has seen him do his tie hundreds of times, it was a standard piece of their school uniform, but she also knows he’s not asking because he can’t. Deep down, Harry has always dreamed of his wedding day, how his friends would help him get ready and Ron would be his best man and Hermione would shed a happy tear for him and his new family would welcome him with open arms and he’d be happy, so happy.
He hadn’t had time to get his robes tailored, and Ron’s off in a strop somewhere. His face is grey and his hands won’t stop shaking and there’ll be no warm welcome to the family… but Hermione can tie his tie. She can straighten his collar. She can kiss his cheek and remind him he’ll always be family to her. So she does and then she turns around and asks him to zip up her dress.
“I love you,” he mumbles.
“Love you too,” she says quietly.
This man is like a brother to her, the closest thing to family she has left - asides from the Weasley clan who have basically adopted them, except Hermione doesn’t know if she’s still welcome at their table. She was meant to marry Ron, but she just… she couldn’t.
They stare into the mirror, side by side, taking themselves in. Hermione stares at her arms, double-checking the long-white sleeves are thick enough to hide her scar. They don’t get to see this. No one else gets to see the word carved into her arm.
There’s a knock at the door, a persistent banging they can’t ignore.
“Mr Potter? Miss Granger? They’re ready for you,” a ministry official calls out. He hasn’t set foot inside, but their changing room has been warded with anti-apparation spells and there’s no fireplace for them to floo through. Hermione wonders if any of the other brides and grooms have tried to escape.
Ginny is crying now and Harry takes her in his arms. Hermione can’t watch. She wishes Ron were here and doesn’t at the same time. She wants to fall into his broad chest and cry while he strokes her hair but also knows that version of him only exists in her fantasies. The Ron of the real-world is busy sulking.
The ministry man bangs on the door again, pushing it slightly ajar, his impatience clear. Hermione wants to yell or scream or fight but this man is just a cog. She walks towards him on shaking feet, expecting Harry to be just behind her, but he's still holding Ginny, her grip so tight it’s as though she can stop this happening. Harry closes his eyes, leaning into her body, and Hermione thinks he’s living out the fantasy of escaping with her and heading somewhere so far away that the ministry will never catch him. If he gives her the signal, she’ll knock this ministry man on his ass and give him a chance to make a run for it… but then he’s pulling away and stepping up beside her.
“I’m ready,” he says, his shoulders hunched. Ginny is still sobbing behind them, she doesn’t follow, the door closing behind them and cutting her off. Their ministry escort leads them downstairs, towards the large church that Hermione is sure will be even larger inside. There’s a stream of people pouring into it - ministry escorts at their back, not quite holding them at wand point but close enough. A lone figure dawdles outside, fidgeting with his tie and it takes her a moment to place him.
“Arthur?” she calls out.
He looks up at her voice and stands to his full height, hurrying towards them and causing a couple of the escorts to point their wands at him.
“I’m -” he freezes, glancing around at the raised wands, “I just - I know I’m not their - your - father but I just thought… it’s your wedding day. Someone should walk you down the aisle. I mean you can completely say no, I’m not trying to - I don’t mean to replace anyone, I just -”
Hermione’s caught off-guard by her own reaction, but she can’t help wrapping her arms around him and hugging him with all the unspoken affection she’s ever felt for him. There’s an oof as the air escapes his lungs, and Hermione registers Harry is also hugging him. She feels tears flooding out of her, and she can’t help it, there’s just something so genuinely sweet about Arthur that it breaks her.
Behind them, the ministry man gives an impatient cough, and Hermione feels a violent urge rising in her. She wants to punch him. Not throw a spell, punch him, smash her fist into his face over and over until someone yanks her back. She wants to leave his eyes purple, his face bloodied. She wants to catch his stupid nose under her fists and feel it shatter into a million pieces. She doesn’t, of course, but she wants to. Let the papers talk about that tomorrow. Azkaban is gone, what is she really afraid of?
“We need to begin,” the ministry man says as though those four simple words have the right to rip away the last of her comfort. She looks at him, tries to remind herself he’s just a cog. That’s all she is too. Just another cog in the machine, swallowed up and lost in the never ending need to keep turning.
Arthur extends an arm to both of them, and Hermione takes it, wishing she had the balls to turn tail and run or the power to walk away from what she was promised. Arthur walking besides her is the only thing that keeps her moving, his arm gently tugging her down the aisle, the wedding march already playing. There’s so many people everywhere, so many chairs and then a long stage-like area where officials in bright pink robes are waiting and behind them Kingsley in bright purple robes proudly holding his wand.
Harry is separated from her, pushed to be at the very top with Kingsley, his soon to be husband joining him. A hush goes over the crowd as the doors close, the final people trailing in. There’s a breakout of whispers and Hermione glances around to see that not everyone has been joined by a partner, two people are stood alone, partnerless. There’s a hushed whisper going through the crowd before the two on their own are yanked off stage and the soon to be wed are told to huddle closer together and fill up the gaps. There’s a flash of bright light from several photographers, but only once Kingsley gives his approval.
Hermione wonders if the missing marriages will even be commented on. She wants to run. She wants to scream. She wants to fight. She doesn’t move an inch until Kingsley tells them all to take their partners hands. She takes a deep breath, praying this will all have been a horrible dream and she’ll wake up soon.
Two pale hands dispel her fantasy. They feel alien, too soft, too smooth in a way Hermione’s hands could never be - will never be. Another camera flash. She should do something. Someone needs to do something. Kingsley starts to speak, the official in pink robes starts casting a spell that curls around her hands. She finds she can’t pull away anymore. She can’t move an inch. Kingsley’s voice echoes.
I’ll say I don’t. Hermione tells herself, I’ll say I don’t. Not I do. I’ll be free.
“Today is a joyous occasion though I’m sure it must feel daunting for some. You are doing something incredible for the good of the nation and the good of us all, the only way for our country to continue is if we are united. Some sacrifices must be made if we want to live in peace, I thank you all for this sacrifice," Kingsley’s voice echoes, so different from the usual speech given at weddings, “and by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you married.”
The spell stops.
Hermione opens her mouth, her throat dry, then closes it again. Kingsley didn’t leave room for vows, for objections, for I do and I don’ts. The ceremony is over. She is married to Narcissa Malfoy and there is nothing she can do about it. The ministry has won.