They are all here.

Everybody who is anybody – the cliché has more meaning at a Black event than at any other. But there is not one person here you truly care for. You walk down the carpet of deep red, and heads turn as you pass. You barely notice any of them – they are merely faces staring in at you from beyond a bubble of loneliness. Yet, at the same time, each set of eyes seems to drive an icicle into your heart. You lean more heavily on your father's arm, and his lack of reaction does not escape you. He keeps smiling around at the crowd: half Ministry officials, half Death Eaters, all pureblood. You know that the only thing keeping him from throwing off your arm is those distant yet penetrating stares. You know this, and yet you cling ever tighter to his arm – whether you are doing this to vex him further or because you desperately need somebody to lean on, hollow though the gesture may be, even you cannot guess.

Every sound seems amplified to you, and you hear, underneath the organ music, the faint slithering of the train attached to your elegant white dress. You remember seeing it for the first time – after your mother bought it, she insisted you try it on so the house-elf could fit it. She handed it to you, wrapped carefully on its hanger and, no doubt, protected with all manner of anti-wrinkling charms. You removed the outer wrappings, and there it hung. The creamy silk bodice had patterns of pearls sewn into it, and the sleeves were made of delicate white lace. You stared at the beautiful thing for a moment, and then tears started sliding down your face. You knew that you shouldn't be crying, but your emotions had been pent up for so long that the sight of the beautiful gown, which reminded you so forcefully of the wedding fantasies you used to have when you were younger, but which you saw as just another display of wealth, broke the dam that had been holding your tears back. Your mother took the dress from you, and admonished you about your shameful show of emotion. She made the point that she and your father didn't choose each other, either, and that with luck you will grow to love your husband. You wanted to scream that you will never be as unfeeling as she is, but you swallowed those words and wiped your tears. Her nose turned up, your mother gave back your wedding dress. Even in her haughtiness, your mother looked beautiful. Beautiful and cold and hard – like a diamond.

You and your father finally reach the end of the aisle, and he kisses your hand and sits down. Several people in the audience sigh at this, but only you notice the relief with which he pulls away. You turn away from him, and walk up the steps to the altar. As you step up from the last stair, you can't help but imagine that the man on the priest's other side is another man – a man divine in his plainness, a man who loves you more than life itself. A sharp pain lances through your chest, and you force yourself to think of other things. As the priest starts speaking, you shiver and rub your arms – you have been feeling cold ever since your parents forced you to accept your groom's proposal, and the sheer lace sleeves on your gown do nothing to help. You glance surreptitiously at your fiancé; he is staring straight ahead. He is handsome, you suppose, but you cannot feel anything for him. You and he have barely spoken to each other. Try as you might, you cannot imagine yourself living with him, having children with him, staying by his side for the rest of your life, though you know that's the path that will become inevitable in a few minutes' time, when this union is sealed with a warmthless kiss. Granted, it has always been inevitable – the ceremony is just a formality. Unable to quell a wave of nausea, you look away from him to where your sisters stand, side by side, holding bouquets. Both of them made "acceptable" marriages, and neither of them minded having such a narrow realm of options. You suppose that's because neither of them had been in true love – neither of them had felt the slightest inclination to marry outside the constraints their blood status and their parents had imposed upon them. And that is why neither of them had to suffer the injustice of having their husbands chosen for them.

The priest reaches the vows, and as he starts reading them your heart beats faster. Your cheeks flush, but you know that most of the people in the audience will take this as exhilaration.

The priest pauses for the groom to grunt his assent, and then starts to repeat the vows to you. Feverishly, you try to convince yourself that you will be happy with your new husband, that you two will grow to love each other, but instead it's his face that you cannot purge from your thoughts, his loving voice that you cannot keep from floating through your mind. The preacher stops speaking, and everybody waits for you, knowing exactly what it is you are going to say.

"No."

The word is stronger than anything you have spoken in a long time, and you have to refrain from speaking it again, because it feels so good tumbling from your lips. There is a shocked silence, and in it you turn around and run back down the altar steps. The moment you move, the spell is broken, and the audience starts clamoring. As you pass your mother in the front row, she reaches out and grabs one of your lace sleeves. She whips you around to face her, and you see the fury in her eyes in the moment before you wrench your arm free from her grasp. You hear a loud rip, but you are already running, and don't need to turn around again to see your mother's ire as she holds the scrap of lace. A few people rise from their seats to try and catch you, but you don't stop to see who they are. As you near the door more ripping sounds rend the air and you are nearly sent sprawling as people step on your train, but you manage to regain your balance. You make it out the door into the bright sunlight, and you turn on the spot, like a ballerina, leaving behind all the angry shouts coming from behind you.

The oppressive nothingness closes in on you, but after a few moments you emerge in front of a tall apartment building. Quickly, you run into the building and up several flights of stairs, emerging on a familiar landing and walking over to a door with a metal number on the front. You knock, and hear behind it someone starting, then shuffling footsteps, and finally the door opens a crack. The eye that appears is bloodshot, as if its owner has been sleeping, or drinking, or cryng, or perhaps all three. The eye widens, and with a shout the man opens the door, astonishment all over his beautiful, beautiful face. He wordlessly steps aside, and as you walk through the door he registers your torn white gown. You meet his eyes, and the compassion that fills them as he comprehends what has happened is so wonderful it almost hurts to watch. He holds out his arms, and you race into them, and as you sob onto his shoulder, with joy this time, you realize that right here, in the arms of your forbidden lover, is exactly where you belong.