In Want of a Wife

Through a few forced breaths, Hermione manages to settle her nausea well enough to slide out of bed, squinting at the bright morning light. The braid of ribbons follows her left hand as she pulls the curtains closed, a giant knot of silver and gold that won’t shake free. While she works on unwinding them from her hand and arm, she checks the papers, finding the signatures she hoped they would be too drunk to remember to complete.

Unfortunately not. There they sit, sloppy and side by side.

Her’s a little cramped and rushed, his a little too large and loopy.

Her lungs squeeze tight. They actually did it. At some point between the first glass of nettle wine and the last bottle of Dragon Barrel brandy, it must have stopped being a joke.

She’s still wearing her dress from the night before, which fits the messy carnage that surrounds her. It’s wrinkled and a bit twisted around her waist, but at least it’s not tossed on the floor with the rest of her marriage licence.

The only thing missing is her apparent husband.