Title: Five Times Ginny Asked Hermione To Marry Her and One Time Hermione Asked Ginny To Marry Her |
Summary: It takes Ginny a while to get Hermione to agree to marry her
Author’s Notes: This is my second Harry Potter femslash story. I have to say, I kind of like writing Hermione/Ginny. Currently, I’m conflicted one what to write next. I’ve got about 3 stories I want to do (2 for Harry Potter, 1 for something else), but I’m debating which to start first.
But, in the mean time, let me know what you think of this. Just keep in mind that this is AU, so while scenes are kind of the same, I did a lot of changing to make it fit Hermione and Ginny. Comments: My Anti-Drug.
Summer before Ginny’s first year and Hermione’s second year
You don’t know why, out of everyone in Flourish and Blotts, Lucius Malfoy chose you. Yeah, he’s standing here downing your family’s money…your family’s name…but he chose your cauldron to pull books out of (does it feel heavier since he replaced your book?), your clothes to speak badly of, and you to look up and down like you’re a piece of trash.
And right now, looking down at your tattered shoes, that’s exactly what you feel like – a piece of trash. Because you let him get into your head the way he did.
You’re thankful when he moves on to someone else, because quite frankly you hate confrontation; especially with adults (years of hearing your mom yelling had an impact on you).
You’ve never met anyone as nasty as the Malfoys. You’re not sure how your father puts up with the man, he’s so infuriating. You had heard Ron and Harry talking about how Draco thought he was superior to everyone and you suddenly realize that the trait runs in the family. Mr. Malfoy doesn’t seem to get that money isn’t everything.
“Fear of the name,” you suddenly hear. “Only increases fear of the thing itself.”
You’re in love with her before you even look up at her. She has the courage to stand up to someone with as much power as Lucius Malfoy (and his son has the power to make her life extra miserable) and you’re not sure you’d ever have to power to do that (all you said was “Leave him alone,” and that didn’t do much). Malfoy is staring the bushy haired girl down, but the great thing is that she doesn’t look like she has a drop of fear in her. “This must be…Miss Granger.” He looks to his son for confirmation. “Yes, Draco’s told me all about you. And your parents.”
You wish someone would grab your shoulders and hold you back because it seems like you’re having difficulties doing it yourself. She swallows and looks behind her to an older couple who are talking to your father. There’s so much despair in her gaze that it breaks your heart. She’s not ashamed, she just doesn’t understand why it’s such a problem (quite frankly, neither do you).
You’re thankful that your father comes over when he does. You retire your anger, tune Malfoy out, and stare at the girl whom you only know as Miss Granger. She still stands defiantly, even though she doesn’t have to. You know that she has a very strong sense of family, would do anything to keep her parents safe, and you love her even more for it.
You’re head over heels and the only thing you can say as everyone disperses is, “Marry me…”
But it’s a good thing you only whispered it to yourself. You know you would have been turned down.
You’re only eleven after all.
Summer before Ginny’s second year and Hermione’s third year
You see Miss Granger several times during your first year at Hogwarts, but you never get the chance (or the nerve) to speak to her and you never even learn her first name.
You spend your days writing ‘Miss Granger’ all over your books and scrap pieces of parchment in the nearly-invisible ink (it’s only visible to the writer) that Fred and George invented. You write in the little black diary-like book you found in your cauldron about your feelings, about how you think it might possibly be a little wrong, but Tom writes back that there is nothing wrong with being in love and you’ve never felt better about yourself.
She’s the one person you want to come rescue you when you’re forced to the Chamber of Secrets and the only person you want to be sitting beside you when you wake up in the hospital wing.
But she’s not there either time.
The next time you see her after the train ride home is right before it’s time to take the trip to Diagon Alley. She and Ron are standing at the foot of a flight of stairs arguing over a smoosh-faced cat and Ron’s greasy rat (the one that Fred and George had slipped into your bed when you were seven).
Miss Granger looks frazzled, angry, and it’s almost like what your brother has to say actually means something (c’mon, he’s stupid and rude and, well, he’s your brother). Her bushy hair seems to crackle with electricity, but Ron’s not backing down (you think he’s actually more afraid of the cat than anything else).
You’re only twelve and she’s mere weeks from fourteen (she’s practically a woman, after all), but you swear you want nothing more than to live out the rest of your life in her arms.
You approach them slowly (he yells that her cat is stupid, she murmurs that he is stupid) and reach them just as Harry comes down the stairs. Her eyes gain a new light as she catches sight of him and Ron whips around to see what’s made her happy suddenly. “Harry!”
The three of them chat eagerly about their summers (your name is mentioned a few times…you did, undeniably, find your dad’s muggle itching powder and divide it’s contents between Percy’s underwear and Ron’s bed), and you finally learn that Miss Granger’s name is actually Hermione.
You stand (practically unnoticed) between Ron and Harry, mouthing her name, mulling it over. You’ve never heard it before, but you don’t think it’s something that her parents just made up.
Regardless of its origin, it’s beautiful and fitting and you long to say her name aloud, just to see how it feels rolling off of your tongue.
You stare at her as they laugh and joke, lost in your thoughts, and before you realize what you’re doing, you blurt out, “Will you marry me?”
Hermione, Ron, and Harry become deathly quiet. Your face burns and, before all of them can look at you, you avert your eyes to Harry.
Harry’s cheeks seem a little rosier and Ron laughs rudely at you. “D’you hear that, mate? I told you she’s totally in love with you. Been moping around the house all summer, she has.”
Hermione scowls at Ron. “Stop it, Ronald.” She studies you as you study your shoes and you know that she’s not stupid. Something in her gaze tells you that she knows your question wasn’t really for Harry.
Summer before Ginny’s third year and Hermione’s fourth year
You see her in passing during your second year, but you’re so swamped with school work that you can’t even think about talking to her. You ache to be there for her in the hospital wing after the Sirius Black fiasco (you’re told that all she has are small abrasions and a sprained wrist, but, on the girl you love, those are serious), but you never can pluck up the courage.
A week after summer break begins, you awake in the middle of the night to a ruckus in the kitchen a floor below. Creeping down the hall, a light becomes visible and you distinctly hear Ron, Harry, and your mum welcoming someone into your home.
You drop to your hands and knees and crawl to the banister (its summer, but your mum would kill you if she caught you sneaking around the house at three in the morning), straining to hear who has just arrived. You’re in the middle of an internal debate (should you borrow an extendable ear from Fred and George?) when you hear her name.
“I’m glad your parents let you come, Hermione!” Harry says. You freeze, your eyes so wide you think they might pop out of your head. She’s in your house, the one waking place that you were free from her. Here, she only plagues your dreams and you’d wished to keep it that way.
“I can’t believe you wanted to come,” Ron adds gruffly, obviously irritable at having been woken up, and you’re pretty positive you could punch him in the nose for being so rude to her.
“Ronald Bilius Weasley!” Your mother scolds, and you hear Harry and Hermione giggling quietly at Ron’s protests. “You are never rude to company!”
“But mum!” Ron tries to explain. “She’s not company…she’s Hermione-”
“Oh, thank you Ronald.”
“-plus she doesn’t even like Quidditch. I was just making an observation!”
“Using big boy words now, huh mate?”
The rest of the conversation is drowned out as you sneak back to your room, thinking that this might actually be a good thing. Your trepidation now in the past, your smile only grows as you climb into bed. Hermione invading this space might not be such a bad thing…this will make it easier for you to get to know her.
Sitting up in bed, back against the headboard, you’re shaking with excitement. You hear the first footsteps on the stairs and you almost squeal with happiness. Your mum has probably known about Hermione coming for weeks, and has probably had the spare room ready before-
You feel like you can’t breathe. You vaguely remember your dad telling the entire family at breakfast the morning after arriving from Hogwarts that he had moved all of his muggle artifacts from the shed to the spare bedroom because they never really had visitors anyways. So, as it stands, Hermione has nowhere to sleep…but the extra bed beside your own.
The doorknob rattles and you throw yourself backwards, pulling the blanket hastily over your face. “Oh, dear,” Your mom says. “Don’t you worry yourself over that light. Ginny’s such a heavy sleeper.” Then the room was blindingly bright.
“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione says. The door clicks shut and you hear Hermione throw her bag onto the bed. “I’m not daft,” she says. “And you’re not asleep.”
You feel her take the blanket in her fist and gently pull it back. You blow the hair from your face. “Hullo.”
She smiles kindly at you. “It occurs to me,” she muses quietly as she begins to unpack her bag. “That we don’t really know each other. And it might get pretty awkward if we don’t at least exchange pleasantries.”
With your jaw nearly to the floor (she’s just bent over to pick up a couple of shirts that she’s dropped), you can’t bring yourself to care that you haven’t heard a word that this girl has uttered, and, therefore, don’t quite know how to answer. You settle for a simple, “Yeah,” and hope it suffices.
Hermione faces you and you snap your mouth closed. She cocks an eyebrow curiously, but decides to let your painfully obvious gawking go. “So, Ronald’s told me all about you.”
Your heart flutters, but you need to be subtle…you can’t have another gawking incident. “None of it’s true.”
She giggles. “He tells me you’re an excellent spell caster.”
You’re a tad suspicious, but your heart swells (and so does your ego, but whatever) nonetheless and you grin. “Really? Ron said that?”
“Well,” she says, making the most adorable face you’ve ever seen. “Not in so many words. But he’s told me all of the…wonderful spells you’ve cast on your brothers.”
“It’s nothing compared to what I bet you can do.”
She smiles at you. “I’d like to see your handiwork sometime.”
You think this is a fantastic start. You have a common ground (hexing the boys) to work with, and at least she’s smiling (damn she’s gorgeous) and doesn’t hate you. You finally yawn and stretch. “Maybe tomorrow.” You’re only half joking. “Goodnight, Hermione.”
You roll onto your side, facing away from her. As you drift to sleep, floating in the realm where dreams mix with reality, you hear yourself mutter, “Will you marry me, Hermione?” Hermione’s movements cease for a brief moment before you give into your exhaustion and cross the invisible realm.
You can’t face her for a week.
Ginny’s fourth year and Hermione’s fifth year
“Alright, guys,” Harry says with a large smile on his face. He’s so proud of all of you. You’ve all met incredible goals and have learned so much, but you can tell he’s not surprised. Even people like Neville and Cho (who, let’s face it, are rather slow learners) at least tried they’re best and improved at least a tiny bit and you honestly believe that Harry hasn’t been this happy in…well, Harry has never seemed this happy. “Um…you’ve all been amazing these past weeks!” He looks at you and his grin grows considerably. You can’t find it in you to return it quite as wide. “Continue practicing your techniques and we’ll meet back here after the holidays.”
Harry dismisses everyone (in groups of no more than five, but no less than three people) and wishes each individual a Merry Christmas. After the last group has left the room (Fred, George, Luna, and Neville), Harry approaches you with an odd smile and an even more odd gait (it’s a weird, nervous swagger that he only has when he comes up to you). “Hi, Ginny.”
You smile politely and continue to gather your things in the hopes that he’ll leave. Honestly, Harry is a great guy, an amazing person, and a wonderful friend…but he’s just not Hermione.
Harry senses that you’re not going to verbally return his greeting (or even acknowledge his presence), so he continues. “Er.” He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly and watches you pack your tattered brown school bag with steely eyes. “You were fantastic today.”
You shrug humbly. You don’t think that you shone particularly brighter than anyone else did (Neville was finally able to master the stunning spell. You merely worked on your patronus, the same thing you’ve been doing for several meetings now). “No, not really.” (Your happy thought was Hermione and while watching her otter float gracefully around her, you almost allowed your horse to make little horse-otter babies) You continue before Harry can argue the brilliance that he sees in you (he’s rather dense, almost as badly as Ron, and can not take the hint). “You’re a wonderful teacher.”
Harry blushes and scuffs the toe of his shoe on the ground. “Thanks. I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me to Hogsmeade this weekend, since it’s the last visit before break.”
“Oh,” you say. “Sorry, Harry, but I can’t go with you. I have some serious studying to do…grades falling and all. I wouldn’t want to get a howler from mum.” You commend your lying capabilities and change the subject. “Have you seen Hermione? I didn’t see her leave.”
Harry’s shoulders fall (he knows you’re so head-over-heels for the brunette), and point over your shoulder. “Hermione’s over there.” You turn and there she is. She’s on the floor between two deatheater statues, almost in complete darkness. Her tie is loosened, the top two buttons of her shirt are undone, and her legs are crossed and it looks like she’s reading a thin book. You smile (why does everyone assume you’ll end up with a Quidditch jock? The bookworms are so much more appealing) and murmur, “Merry Christmas, Harry,” before walking to see what Hermione’s doing.
“Hey, you.” You sit beside her and lean against her shoulder. She looks up from the thin book and smiles at you (that one special smile that you know is only for you). “Watcha doin’”?
“Reading,” she says matter-of-factly, rolling her eyes. “It is painfully obvious that you’re related to Ron.”
You feign a hurt look and cross your arms. “Ok, well, now I don’t think I want to talk to you.” That first summer that she spent at the Burrow, sharing your room, cemented your friendship. You know that you’re still far from knowing everything about the book worm, but you learn something new about her everyday, and every one of them makes you love her more.
Hermione shrugs and returns to her book. “Suit yourself, Ginerva,” she challenges, knowing you well enough to know that you won’t actually leave.
“Only to you.”
“I love you, too,” you say sarcastically, wishing you could say it the way that you mean it. “What are you reading?”
She chews her lip for a moment (no doubt trying to finish the paragraph that she’s on) before looking up again. Your faces are inches apart and you back away because, you’re not sure, but she seems a little uncomfortable. You see her swallow (you follow the curve of her neck to her lips) before she speaks. “I signed up for a Christmas play back home, before this year began,” Hermione explained. “Mum wanted me to be around muggles more, not forget where I came from. She convinced the coordinator to let me skimp on practices since I was going to be out of town for school. All I have to do is come in from the dress rehearsals before the play and I could be in.”
You look at her blankly for a few moments (none of what she’s said makes any sense to you). “Would you like some help with anything?”
She seems to weigh her options for a moment before smiling. “I’d love it if you’d read lines with me…”
And that’s how the two of you ended up in the middle of the Room of Requirement, reciting lines in an overly-dramatic manner (it’s hard to be serious when you’re cracking up after every other line).
“It is the yeast, and Juliet is the bun!”
The room becomes quiet. Then she’s laughing and you’re confused because, really, you’re trying your best and you always thought that a little improvisation was a good thing. The look on your face only causes her to laugh harder and it’s not long before you’re lost in the sound. It’s beautiful, it’s harmonious, and if you weren’t so confused it would be oh-so-contagious. “What’s so funny?”
Hermione wipes a tear from one of her brown orbs. “We’re not reciting Shakespeare, Ginny.”
You cock your head to the side. “Who?” Her jaw drops.
“You’ve never heard of William Shakespeare?” You shake your head. “Oh, well…I just thought…with your dad being a muggle enthusiast…Shakespeare is a very famous muggle poet and playwright. The line you recited…or tried to recite…is from one of his most famous works, Romeo and Juliet.”
“Huh.” You’re still honestly confused. You wrack your brain, because you swear you’ve heard this somewhere before. You vaguely remember your father parading around the kitchen in tights, trying to read poetry to your mum (“It’s Shakespeare, love!”) and shelving books that were “by far greater than any wizard book ever written.”
“But soft,” Hermione recites, stepping ever closer to you. “What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East,” she says. She’s so close to you that you can actually feel her heartbeat (it’s pounding just as hard as yours). “And Juliet is the sun. Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, who is already sick and pale with grief that thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. The brightness of her cheek-” She raises her hand and strokes your cheek with the back of her knuckles. “Would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp; her eye in Heaven would through the airy region stream so bright, that birds would sing…and think it were not right.”
You realize, to your horror, that you are swooning (Hermione is supposed to swoon damn it!). What disturbs you more is that you can’t seem to stop swooning, like you’re completely stuck, but you think you’ve won some sort of battle because Hermione can’t seem to stop staring at your lips.
She leans in so close that your breath mingles with hers and your eyes slip closed. Then, you make the biggest mistake of your life. “Will you marry me?”
Hermione pulls away (faster than you thought humanly possible) and your eyes fly open. She’s at a loss for words and you can’t really blame her (then again, this isn’t the first time you’ve proposed to her, so she should kind of be used to it by now). “Um…”
You begin to panic, but you realize that she had been reciting poetry…maybe you can convince her that you had wanted to join in (no one has to know). You reach forward and nudge her shoulder gently. “Psht, c’mon ‘Mione! It’s called improve!”
She contemplates you for a moment and you know she doesn’t believe you for one second. But she shrugs and turns from you, putting her script in her bag. You hand her your copy (made possible by the duplication charm that Hermione had cast) and stride across the room to collect your things. The faster you get out of here and into bed the better.
As you leave the Room of Requirement, you’re pretty damn sure that you’ve just ruined one of the best moments that could have ever happened to you.
Ginny’s fifth year and Hermione’s sixth year
They told you it was a bludger, hit by a Ravenclaw beater who had been promised (by a Slytherin) 15 galleons for every Gryffindor player he took out. You don’t really care what hit you. All you know is that you have a terrible headache and you’ve been asleep for a week and a half.
But, mostly importantly, there are three people with you when you awaken the first time…and none of them are Hermione. According to Madam Pomfrey, Harry, Fred, and George (they are allowed in only because you are hurt) haven’t left you side for anything less than bathroom visits and, in Harry’s case, classes.
“We’ve been hit with bludgers before,” George says cheerfully.
“We know how nasty they can be,” Fred adds.
You smile and laugh at all the right places (Fred and George are extra chatty, but you figure they’re just relieve that you’re ok), but your mind is occupied elsewhere.
You had cleared things up with Hermione and there had been no more suggested marriages, so you couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t been to see you. Surely word had gotten to her that you were finally awake, and you’d much rather her be here than Harry. Yeah, Harry’s a good friend and he’s in love with you, but you honestly didn’t think his attention span was long enough to sit here for has long as he did. And Harry’s not your best friend. You’d much rather hear the melodious sounds of Hermione when you awake.
So, the first chance you get, you ask Harry the question that won’t let you rest. “Where’s Hermione?”
Harry takes your hand in his (why does that feel so wrong?) and smiles (he obviously adores you and you wish you could return his affections). “I don’t know,” he says. You know you’ve just spoiled his good mood, even though he’s trying his hardest not to show it. “I think she and Ron are in the common room. Why?” It’s a challenge.
“Just asking.” You yawn (being asleep for almost two weeks is very tiring) and allow your eyes to slip closed.
When they reopen (had it been minutes? Hours? Days?), Harry and the twins are gone.
Instead, you are blessed by the company of Hermione, one hand holding a book, the other holding your hand. Your fingers twitch in hers, and she smiles. “Harry told me you were asking about me.”
You scoff and wince because your throat is parched. “Don’t be too smug,” you rasp. “It was only once.”
Hermione smirks and lays her book on her lap. Still reading, she pours you a goblet of water with her now free hand. You take the goblet from her and drink greedily. Once finished, you wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your gown and hand her the empty goblet. “Where were you when I woke up earlier?” You glance at her watch. Thankfully, this time you only slept a few hours.
Hermione finally manages to tear her eyes away from her book. Her eyes are shining with unshed tears and, for some reason, you feel guilty. “I was scared,” she admits, closing the book.
“I was there when it happened.” She swiped a finger under her eye. “I could hear the horrible sound the bludger made when it hit you…all the way from the stands. “And, when I finally got onto the pitch…” Hermione tried to contain her sob, but failed miserably. She cupped a hand over her mouth and took several deep breaths.
“I don’t remember,” you say. You squeeze her hand. “Help me…what happened?”
Hermione sniffs miserably and squeezes your hand, whether to draw strength or give it, you’re not sure, but you squeeze back with equal vigor. “Well, the bludger hit you about here,” she says, pointing to her own bellybutton. “You were a good ways up, and when you fell, you sort of landed on your head and upper back.”
You reflexively rub the top of your spine, imagining how badly it must have hurt. “Wow.” It’s all you can say because you think it might be a miracle that you survived and you can’t help the smug grin that graces your lips. “Cool!”
“Cool?” She asks incredulously and you wipe the smirk off of your face because she’s pissed. “Cool?!” Ginny, there was blood everywhere! You weren’t moving! You almost died…and all you can say is ‘cool’?”
She begins to cry and it makes you feel like a complete ass. Your own family didn’t care that much, and neither than the boy that was supposedly in love with you. You look around and note the three get well cards, one signed by your family, one signed by Neville, Luna, Dean, Lee, and the Patil twins, and another signed by every teacher but Snape. Other than Fred, George, and Harry, there had been no other visitors. No one had made such a fuss…and you feel wanted for the first time in your life. Suddenly, you don’t feel like beating around the bush with her anymore. You’re tired of pretending like you didn’t say what you’ve needed to say. You look her square in the eye. “Hermione, will you marry me?”
She’s quiet and you know that she’s aware that you’ve never been more serious about anything. Ever. Then she’s laughing…and it physically hurts you. Like every sound she makes is a bludger to the bellybutton. You don’t think you’ve ever felt a pain like this before. But you don’t blame her…you’re only 15, who would agree to marry you?
Hermione gets up, holding her book tightly. She leans over and places a sweet kiss on your forehead. “When you turn 18.” Then, she walks out.
You touch the still tingling place on your forehead. This is the best day of your life.
Ginny’s sixth year and Hermione’s seventh year
It turns out that three years is a long time to wait, especially since you’re only sixteen and could possibly die where you stand.
But, of course, it’s made better by the fact that Hermione is fighting right along side you.
Bellatrix throws a nasty curse Hermione’s way as she attempts to help Tonks to her feet (really, how much more dirty could one person get?). You block it and, in a fit of rage, manage to throw a curse back simultaneously. Bellatrix flies backwards and completely through a pillar. You wait for a moment to make sure that she’s not going to get up anytime soon. When there is no sign of movement, you rush to Hermione’s side.
She immediately grabs your hand. “Are you alright?” You look around you, surveying the bloody battlefield. George is missing an ear (the bandage on it is now soaked with blood), but he’s fighting faithfully beside your father. Your mother isn’t too far from you and Hermione. You can’t see Ron, but you know that he is ok (if he weren’t, your mum would have sensed it and finished this entire war by now). Harry is in the middle of it all, fighting the epitome of evil, Voldemort himself. There are red, blue, green, purple curses flying, lights flashing, fires burning, people screaming in agony and dying…and she’s only worried about you.
Death is maybe nano-seconds away and somehow that makes you a tiny bit braver (what could be worse than dying painfully?), so you answer in the most honest way you know how. “I’m perfect as long as you’re beside me.”
Through it all (the pain, the screams, the madness), she manages to smile…that smile. It’s all that you need to keep going.
Tonks is looking around wildly, trying to spot Lupin. You touch her shoulder. “Go. Find him. We can handle ourselves.” She nods and takes off running because 1) she knows you two can handle Bellatrix, and 2) she had just spotted Lupin lying, twisted oddly and unmoving, on the ground. You watch as she falls over his still body and over everything else you hear her scream…and you know. You hate this.
A hand on your shoulder pulls you back to right here, right now. Hermione’s crying because she had known the moment it had happened…she had watched him fall. You don’t want that to be the two of you, one lying motionless on the ground, the other sobbing over their twisted, broken body. You can’t let that happen. “Ginny!” She steps closer because she had to practically scream…she doesn’t want to do that. There’s enough screaming out here for seven of her. You step closer too and wrap your arms around her neck. “Ginerva Weasley will you marry me?”
You don’t want to refuse, but this a bit unorthodox. “Now?!” This is a battlefield and proposals are supposed to be romantic and…you really don’t care.
“In sickness and in health,” Hermione begins hurriedly. “For better or worse, as long as we both shall live.” She’s crying again, but this time you feel yourself join her because you could very well die. “We may now kiss the bride!”
Your lips meet hurriedly, messily, but you don’t mind because you’re kissing Hermione. You’ve dreamed of this moment since you were twelve and not even the fucking war will ruin this moment for you. “I love you so fucking much,” you whisper against your lips.
“You and I,” she promises, holding you closely. She lets out a shaky breath. “Forever. I love you so much.”
You know that this is how you want to go out. You want to die in her arms and you’re pretty sure that not even the cruciatus curse could hurt you right now.
“No my daughters, you bitch!” You look up just in time to see a jet of green light fly towards the Medusa-like woman before she fell and breathed no more. “Well, go on,” you mum says, making a shooing motion with her hands, the tip of her wand smoking. “Stop dilly dallying! We’ve got a war to win!”
Later, walking the grounds hand-in-hand with Hermione, you recount on how lucky you are. The Great Hall is filled with the injured, the dying, and the dead (which now unfortunately included Tonks as well) and you and Hermione escaped with nothing more than cuts and bruises.
Plus you finally got the girl.
You pull her closer and slip an arm around her waist. “I want to be married here,” you whisper.
She looks around. “In the ruins?”
“In Hogwarts,” you correct. “Be it the ruins or after it’s been rebuilt. I just want you and Hogwarts.”
Hermione looks to McGonagall. The older woman is covered in dirt and debris, her robes are torn, and she’s in the middle of helping Professor Sprout clear out the entrances. The woman looks up and meets Hermione’s eyes and it’s the first time you’ve seen her smile since Dumbledore was killed and you just know that it’s her approval. “She’s just as wise as Dumbledore.”
“Of course,” you answer.
“I think a Hogwarts wedding can be arranged."