It was three o' clock in the morning, and the church was deadly quiet. Hermione Jean Granger sat in one of the eight wooden pews, looking up the aisle at the cross behind the pulpit. Draped over the arms was a purple sash, and it hung motionless, undisturbed by even the air conditioner. It was as if this very moment—this witching hour—was frozen in time and space. Hermione thought that she would like that very much indeed.

With a sigh, she rose and padded down toward the preacher's podium. Her bare feet slapped against the stone floor like gunshots in the stillness of the night. She almost jumped, but forced herself to remain calm, the very picture of serenity. She only had a few more hours to practice and get this whole routine down; she couldn't underscore a single step or breath, or the entire congregation would know that she was having second thoughts about marrying Ronald Weasley.

She paused in front of the cross and turned about-face, resuming her silent pacing. Each step was precise, purposeful, and with each footfall she repeated the words "I do" in her head. I do. I do. I do. She couldn't forget those two little words. Step. I do. Step. I do. Step. I do. She would repeat this mantra, this processional, until she had convinced herself that this was the right thing to do. Ron had proven himself a hundred times over, hadn't he? She had put this off long enough, hadn't she? It was worthless to keep holding out hope that Draco would change his mind and forgive her, wasn't it?

She stopped.

Draco. She hasn't allowed herself to speak—let alone think—his name in almost three years. That was the last time she'd written to him, practically begging him to meet her by the fountain in Trafalgar Square on New Year's Eve. It's the fifth anniversary of our first kiss, you know. I think about that night all the time; the fireworks overhead were nothing compared to the ones behind my eyelids. I don't think I've ever kept them shut so tightly. Looking back on it now, the whole scene feels like a dream. I just need to know that it was real.

Her knees were suddenly weak, and she lowered herself to floor as gracefully as she could. The stone was icy against her bare shins, and shocked her out of her reverie. There was no sense dwelling on the past now; the invitations were sent, the reservations made, the dress ready for the ceremony. She glanced back over her shoulder at the shawl on the cross—still immobile—and wished again that she could pause time.

AN: I apologize for the shortness of this chapter; I've been out of the writing game for a couple years and I was anxious to get this idea off the drawing board. Future chapters should be more substantial, although there won't be many of them—I'm just wrapping up loose ends and addressing the handful of issues I took with the canonical epilogue (I'm sure I'm not alone in this). Comments and feedback are always welcome. Happy reading!