I am so sorry for the long haitus. My computer died and I lost a lot of work, my muse went and hid under a rock and then I got sucked into another fandom... Excuses, I know. I am trying to be a better writer now and will try to make at least semi-regular updates once I've got my brain back into the story.

It's a short update, but better than nothing, no?

-.-.-.-

Hermione had attempted to protest. The idea of attending the Potter wedding – Harry's parents' wedding – made her feel sick. She wasn't sure she was mentally prepared to spend a day surrounded by her ghosts. She certainly didn't want to.

Unfortunately, Moody thought it something of a joke. He made a few inappropriate comments, declared that he couldn't wait to see their faces when he turned up with a date (he was certain they thought the plus one on his rsvp was in error), before dragging her back through the floo.

Despite all her objections when they got home, she found herself being bullied back through the floo into the Leaky Cauldron, forcefully guided down Diagon Alley and thrust through the doors of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, where the (much younger) Madam Malkin was given strict instructions to outfit her in dress robes 'suitable for a wedding'. Moody had then dropped a hefty bag of gold into Hermione's hand and stomped off back to the Ministry. The stern look that the seamstress levelled in her direction made the bushy haired witch abandon all thoughts of running back home.

-.-.-.-.-

There had been too few occasions so far in Hermione's life that required her to get properly dressed up. The Yule Ball in her fourth year, Bill and Fleur's wedding and the Anniversary Ball – celebrating a year since the final battle and Voldemort's defeat – were the only three that she had attended in the magical world (and she had been very reluctanty dragged along to the last of those). So, despite the fact she would rather be going anywhere but James and Lily's wedding, she found herself rather enjoying the process of putting on her beautiful new dress robes and the fancy hair and make-up that they demanded.

Unfortunately, with half an hour before their designated portkey would depart, Hermione was at the 'finishing touches' stage of getting ready – which really meant she had enough time to fret over the fact that she had never devoted any time to learning more than the very basics about wizarding hair and beauty charms and worry about what she had managed to do to her hair, without having the time to change anything and still be certain of being presentable when the portkey left.

She was rescued from a rather ridiculously in depth over-thinking of whether her choice in eye shadow truly matched the dress robes she was wearing, when Uncle Alastor called her down to wait with him in the parlour.

Sick with nerves, Hermione was unsure whether they were due to her own feelings of inadequacy or the fact that she would soon be faced with a room full of people her heart still believed to be dead. Slowly, she made her way down the stairs, her hands constantly attempting to brush non-existant wrinkles from the Tyrian purple silk of her robes.

"Hermione, Lass, you are a vision of beauty," greeted Moody gruffly.

She accepted the compliment with surprised grace, and almost managed to convince herself she caught a glint of wetness in the corner of his eye as he looked up at her with pride. She wasn't entirely sure she agreed with the 'vision of beauty' description, but now that she had stopped over thinking she was once more rather happy with the way she looked.

The riotous curls of her youth had tamed somewhat. It was no longer an uncontrollable frothing hoarde attacking her head; in fact her bushy locks now fell in a thick mass of loose ringlets with minimal effort and no need for pints of sleekeazy's. Unlike her preparations for the Yule Ball in fourth year, without the stress of fighing a losing battle for control (both against her hair and her dorm mates) the young animagus had affected a glamourous looking up-do with little more than a loose bun and a couple of crystal hair clips holding it in place with a temporary sticking charm.

Her dress robes had been a struggle to find. Madam Malkin had, at first, insisted she try a short sleeved number with a fairly low neckline that was 'just the style for a modern young lady'. She was completely unwilling to listen to Hermione's objections until the younger girl exited the changing room. Hermione thought the sweetheart shape of the neck cut too low regardless of the fact the it exposed the end of the curse scar that Dolohov gave her in the Department of Mysteries. It started between her breasts and bisected her ribs; a thick, dark purple line that lay like an unnatural rope against her alabaster skin.

Madam Malkin had barely noticed the scar peeking out from her clevage. Her focus was entirely consumed by the deep red carvings exposed on her right arm. The rest of the options were chosen with a pitying look as the seamstress resolved to cover the scars.

Funnily enough, the purple robes that the young animagus had fallen in love with were very much styled with a younger lady in mind. It had cap sleeves and a sweeping neckline that exposed only the barest hint of her chest. The bodice was decorated with an intricate design of dark violet crystals, her waist accentuated with a satin belt that tied in a decorative bow at the back. The skirt was long and floaty.

She hadn't understood why Madam Malkin insisted she try these robes – there was no way she was going to a wedding with bare arms – until the seamstress brought out the most gorgeous pair of fingerless gloves for her to try. If she was going to be pedantic, they probably weren't really gloves since they only covered the back of her hand. The pewter silk clung to her forearms perfectly, ending in a sequinned lace triangle that was held in place by a loop around her middle finger. They were perfect.

The outfit was finished off with a lovely pair of court shoes in a perfectly matching shade of pewter.

Turning her attention back to the man she was coming to love as if he really were her uncle, Hermione accepted the hand he offered to help her down the last couple of steps. A brief glance at the clock above the mantle told her they still had ten minutes before the invitation portkey would activate.

He hooked her hand into the crook of her elbow and guided her into the parlour. There, beside their invitation, was a long, narrow box which Moody presented to her with a gruff bow. "It belonged to your grandmother."

She carefully lifted the lid off the box and revealed a delicate choker seemed to be made of fine lace crafted in silver and diamonds. Reflexively, she tried to hand it back.

"Uncle Alastor, it is too much!"

"No, Lass. It is just enough. I've taken you for my family and by rights it belongs to you."

She couldn't bring herself to argue, too choked up with emotion, so she stood motionless as he fastened it around her neck. When he was done, she gave him a watery smile and a peck on the cheek.

On the coffee table, the invitation began to glow and the sweet moment was broken as they both took an end of the parchment and prepared themselves for portkey travel.