A/N: I'd like to take this opportunity to thank everyone who has contacted me via PM or through a review about my recent decision to step away from the fanfic community. After a lot of thinking (and more than a little soul-searching), I've decided to respond to all my haters with this short HG/RW.

I'm not entirely sure whether I'll still be doing new stuff, or concentrating on my WIPs & The Golden Duo 22, but either way, thank you to everyone. You've all been incredibly supportive.

As it is early-morning Christmas Day, I'd be hard-pressed to find a beta at this time of night. I know it'll be too much to ask you nit-picky people to lay off in the spirit of the holidays, but if you could try not to be a brat about it, I'd appreciate it.

Thanks, & Happy Christmas!

What Harm Would It Do?

Hermione Weasley stood in front of the mirror, pondering the ever-shifting nature of her own identity.

It had been mere hours since her identity had changed from Miss Hermione Granger to Mrs. Hermione Weasley. She had worn all-white, as a woman is supposed to do when she is pure of both body and spirit. She wondered who had inevitably made that decision. Surely not she, as she knew in her heart that even though she was pure of both body and spirit, she didn't truly agree with the arcane expectation of feminine purity when the smell of drink and sweat are the proud badges of honour carried by a man to the altar. Surely she, the brilliant, independent, loyal and kind Hermione would have questioned whether it was truly necessary to make such expectations of women as they go to the altar.

She should have said something. Then again, the thought of Mrs. Weasley's face in response to such a modern diatribe on traditional values was enough to make her reconsider her own stance on the matter. After all, what was wrong with a little bit of tradition? And considering she wasn't exactly lying about her own purity, inward or outward, what harm would it do?

What harm would it do...such deceptive words.

Smoothing out the skirt of her dress, she remembered thinking those words when she had accepted Ron's shaky – and if she were honest, slightly insulting – proposal of "Well, we're bound to do it anyway, so why don't we just do it, y'know?" She remembered feeling so angry at his lack of consideration; at his laissez faire attitude of a moment that she had always respected; at his absolute ignorance to the fact that it was supposed to be one of most romantic moments of her life.

She had thought about saying 'no'. She really had. But then she thought about how he would react in such a situation. Being Ron, he definitely would not take it calmly. She could imagine how red his face would get, and all the old wounds he would re-open and pour salt on just because she had hurt his sense of pride. So she had swallowed her indignation and said yes, shifting her identity officially from 'single' to 'engaged', all the time thinking that he couldn't possibly be like this all the time.

Hermione turned from the mirror to look at the large bed that sat in the large suite within a large hotel in Paris. Ron had been so proud as he had swept her across the threshold and she had debated on whether telling him that a large bed in a large suite in a large hotel in Paris was quite possibly the most clichéd thing she had ever heard of, and didn't he know her at all? Especially when she had been hinting for months about a beautiful little mountain chalet in the Swiss Alps? Shouldn't there be a little bit of an expectation of effort put in?

But it was their honeymoon. And he looked so happy. So she smiled and 'ohh-ed' and 'ahh-ed' at such wonderful amenities as a mini-bar and complimentary his and her dressing gowns. She had blushed accordingly at the rose petal-strewn bed and smilingly-accepted a glass of lukewarm champagne. She didn't have the heart to be anything but completely supportive. After all, it was just for a few nights.

What harm would it do?

She heard a snore issue from the figure curled up in the bed, red hair sticking at odd angles as her husband slept. He had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, which was to be expected, considering how exhausting the wedding had been. He had fought with his mother about the food. He had fought with his twin brothers about the drinks. He had fought with his sister about her behaviour towards him when she suggested he spend a little more time dancing with his wife and less time moaning about how his feet hurt in dress shoes.

In fact, the only person he hadn't fought with was her. They hadn't fought at all, nor had they fought for a very long time. She just didn't have the energy for it anymore. She remembered the loud, red-faced shouting matches they used to have during their days at Hogwarts. She remembered being near tears every time he made a callous remark that hit a nerve during an argument – a remark he flung desperately because she was usually right and he couldn't deal with it. But they hadn't had an argument like that since the War.

She supposed it was probably for the best. After all, what good would constantly fighting do? It seemed so futile. The only thing she could ever see coming out of it was further proof of her own intellectual superiority over Ron, and his inability to handle it. And who would that help? So she kept silent, or she placated him, because deep down, she knew that fighting would only make it harder for them to be together. So what harm would it do to just stay quiet a few times?

She looked in the mirror again, taking in her full reflection coupled with the reflection of her husband's body in the glass. There she was. Mrs. Hermione Weasley. The woman who had just vowed to love, honour and obey a man who simply did not know her.

Or was it she who did not know herself anymore?

The reflection in the mirror was not the independent, loyal, brilliant young woman she once remembered herself to be. The reflection in the mirror did not voice her opinion on the news of the day, or spoke of the ridiculous expectations of women despite the new millennia. The reflection in the mirror was not the fearless young leader who had single-handedly duelled some of the most dangerous villains of her time.

The reflection in the mirror showed none of the vim and vigour of a woman who had traipsed around the English countryside with two men, planning the emancipation of the wizarding world from the iron-clad grip of an evil megalomaniac.

The reflection in the mirror was not the tear-stained woman who had left the last shred of her innocence on the floor of Malfoy Manor as she twisted under the torture of Bellatrix Lestrange.

Perhaps it was her eagerness to forget the darker points in her past that pushed her toward that dress, that hotel suite, that man. Perhaps it was her hope that if she just did what was expected of her – to find the love of a man, settle down, have children – that she would be able to push away the tiny voice in her brain that told her the reason why she was so eager to forget the dark adventures of her childhood was because somewhere deep inside her, she enjoyed them.

But there she stood. In the dress. In the suite. In front of the man who was stirring and peeking over the sheets at her with a lopsided smile that she had always found somewhat charming. So she pushed away the thoughts of her past, of her reflection, of herself. She smiled at her husband, and walked towards his open arms.

After all, what harm would it do?

Thanks for reading.