Five years after the second wizarding war came to a resounding close, the ministry narrowly pushes through legislation to enforce new couplings in the wake of a potentially reduced magical population. Meanwhile disgraced war hero Severus Snape is fa...
"All right, now that's all ironed out. Are you two ready?" Kingsley asked the pair with a relatively patient smile.
Minerva's pupils traveled between the inconceivable 'couple' with uneasy anticipation, though did her best to present a relaxed visage. Surely someone had to, and despite Kingsley's practiced tone, she could see even he felt somewhat trepidatious, amongst a barrage of other sentiments too no doubt. Bindings could, on occasion, be tricky to say the least. Throw in his own, private, moral compass over the entire exploit -- not to mention everyone else's, favourable or not -- the poor man was certainly beholden to inner upset. Bless him.
Bless them all.
"All right, let's get this over with before it's tea time. I have a roast in the oven that I very much look forward to devouring once this is all over with," the older witch piped up, as casually as she would any other deviancy to her schedule.
"About as ready as I'll ever be," the bride-to-be agreed, taking a deep breath and standing to her feet, her hands antsily smoothing her dress, which she realised somewhere in the more muggle half of her mind, was quite black.
It was a perfectly nice dress, all things considered, flattering even, but she had prepped herself for business when she'd chosen it. An argument in the guise of a negotiation, at best. She hadn't exactly dressed for a wedding of any kind, much less her own. Did wizards adhere to that whole 'no black for weddings' nonsense? Surely not. No, that seemed very pedestrian and superstitious.
"Don't exactly look very 'bridal', but at least we'll match."
Severus stood as well, pushing back his chair before stepping back himself to allow her to move past him to get situated in front of Kingsley proper. He snickered in appreciative sentiment at her comment, which was incontrovertibly plaited with cynicism to its first half and, dare he conclude, gratefulness to its second? Well, it certainly seemed so.
"I never did understand that Noachian tradition. 'Purity' is so very fancified, if you ask me," he reflected quietly to himself, and for her benefit as well.
He felt a precipitous urge to compliment the colour on her, how it made her rather pale, but ever luminescent skin pinker in comparison; the flush of blood underneath brighter and more present on its surface. He suddenly apprehended his sable pupils, however, trailing from the claret hue of her cheeks down the side of her neck and to her clavicle, realising their likely indecorous intentions should they be allowed to continue to stray and speedily put a stern arrest on their liberty.
