Chapter Text
The unfamiliar eagle owl arrives about an hour before the Ministry owl. She’s expecting a barn owl, not this first strange messenger.
Tearing open the envelope, Hermione finds a concise, if overly formal, apology letter from Draco Malfoy. She blinks down at the neat handwriting, confused and distracted.
Had this message arrived any other morning it would have consumed her entire day. As it happens, Hermione can only spare surface level intrigue. It’s a letter from a man she hasn’t seen in years—one she’s had no cause to interact with for any reason. She hasn’t the faintest clue about his life or whereabouts and cannot say that before this very moment she cared to know at all.
Yet he apparently felt compelled to detail all the ways he’s wronged her in the past (as if she didn’t already know) and express remorse for such despicable behavior.
On today of all days.
The timing makes more sense when the second letter arrives.
The Ministry owl also involves Malfoy, though in an entirely different manner. It carries the news of her Ministry-mandated marriage match: one Draco Malfoy.
Hermione sees the signs long before everyone else.
A new Ministerial candidate (pureblood, of course) beating the unification drum. Speeches and op-eds about “rebuilding wizarding society” and “restoring values important to a strong, magical race.”
Not in the He-Who-Must-Still-Not-Be-Named way, no. That particular wizard sought to exclude groups of magical folk. What their world needed now was a way to bring everyone—purebloods, half-bloods, Muggleborns—together as one, harmonious entity.
With the Kingsley Shacklebolt era of reconstruction coming to an end, Minister Ellard Lance’s regime spouted promises of building upon this foundation. Now that the healing had occurred, they could take stock of improvements to be made, gaps to fill.
Take for instance, the dwindling wizarding population. What could be done? After heavy casualties in a war, Muggleborns choosing career paths and lives in the Muggle world at an alarming rate, and none of the remaining young people seeming in a rush to start families, the Ministry is quite at a loss.
Hermione, for her part, has plenty of suggestions. Why not institute a pre-Hogwarts learning program for children? How about a cultural initiative to introduce Muggleborn children to the wizarding world at an earlier age? Muggle parent outreach program? Tax incentives for new parents of any blood status? Squib career advancement program?
Ah, but Hermione works in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She possesses neither the “expertise” nor the “qualifications” to propose any such measures.
Staying in her designated lane, Hermione next tries creature-specific proposed legislation. Making the magical world a more equitable place for all would make it stronger in the long-run, she implores. How about anti-discriminatory laws for werewolves seeking employment? House-elf freedom? Giving goblins the right to carry wands?
That first suggestion barely passes after an insulting amount of appeals, the second one is dismissed by her wide-eyed superiors, and the third one gets her laughed out of a department-wide meeting.
Hermione senses this new Lance-led Ministry has something overreaching and sinister up their robe sleeves. Some ridiculous culminating act after months and months of repetitive rhetoric.
Harry shares her fears at least, but being Head Auror keeps him far too busy to plan legislative solutions. Ron hears her out too, but he’s swamped as co-owner of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and enjoying newlywed life with Luna. Ginny lends a sympathetic ear in between bouts of exhaustion as a new mother.
“I told you so,” is a hollow verbal victory when the Daily Prophet hits her kitchen table with the news of the Ministry’s answer to the “crisis.”
The new Minister is proposing the ultimate reunification proposal: The Matched Matrimonial Measure.
“Match-rimony!” cries the headline of almost every press outlet. Hermione reads on in disgust as the media trips over itself to sell this law as something worth praising.
There are features on traditional family units, interviews with smiling old biddies who just want to see grandchildren in their lifetime, and quotes from young Ministry workers eager to do their part for their world.
Hermione tears every publication into tiny little pieces, gathers everything into a pile, and transfigures the scraps into a newsprint dragon that soars around her flat.
Then she destroys it with a precisely cast Incendio.
Her friends flock to her side immediately. While the support is appreciated, Hermione fights the bitter resentment rising beneath her skin. None of her friends will be affected by this ghastly law. Compliance would be forced unto those:
-Of magical blood
-Between the ages of 17–35
-Unmarried or with no pre-existing engagement/betrothal before the deadline.
This lucky group would have the honor of:
-Having a “magical match” determined by some mysterious Ministry algorithm.
-Being legally shackled to this person for five years with the goal of producing a child.
Citizens were of course welcome to opt out of this law. If they’d prefer to accept a five-year wand ban.
While her friends propose ridiculous solutions (“Just pick a random Muggle bloke to marry, then divorce and obliviate him,” suggests Ron), Hermione throws herself into research. She fought just as hard as her married friends for her place in the magical world and she won’t let the older generation wreck everything all over again.
Weeks of legal research for precedents and counterarguments help build a solid groundwork for her case. For a time, the frenzied reading and note-taking pushes the melancholic anxiety to the back of her mind. But once she has her case crafted, it’s harder to ignore all the ridiculousness clamoring for her attention.
The op-eds she pens for any publication that will print them only invite snide headlines and counterpoints from the older crowd, eager to label her a bitter spinster.
She’s 25 years-old. Twenty. Five.
Hermione nobly bears the mockery and lets nothing deter her mission to have this proposal killed on the court floor. Her friends rise to the occasion: writing their own letters to the press and court members alike, trying to sow discord amongst their generation.
As Hermione does not rank high enough in her department, she is not allowed to address the Wizengamot directly without an invitation. But Harry can. And bless him, her best friend pulls out all the “Boy-Who-Lived” stops. He executes Hermione’s arguments to the letter, tugs at heartstrings about what he, Hermione, and Ron did during the war, even draws parallels between this measure and some of Voldemort’s policies.
In the end, their efforts matter not.
The law passes with a few edits to the original version. This new government is reasonable, you see. They listened to the feedback and graciously compromised. The mandatory marriages will now last three years instead of five (the original timeframe still applies to the wand-ban punishment) and the consummation and conception clauses have been stricken out.
Hermione still has to marry a stranger chosen for her by the government by means of “magical compatibility.” She has to fill out a lengthy questionnaire, have her physical and mental health examined by a Healer, have her wand tested, and then perform a charm to record her magical signature with the Ministry.
She hates the part of her that is intrigued by the process. Hermione has to constantly remind herself that the end result of all this “testing” is to shackle her to a man as the general public and the government all clamor for her to produce children with said man.
The press only grows more excitable with each match announced. Some couples ride the publicity wave, turning the situation to their advantage and finding themselves media darlings. Indeed, the most covered event of the year is the nuptials between Daphne Greengrass and Cormac McLaggen.
Hermione uses her wand to burn a hole through Cormac's grinning face, smugly situated on the front page of the Daily Prophet.
As more matches are announced, she grows ever more restless. She mentally ticks off eligible wizards’ names each day, wondering which of those left will be her fate.
The anticipation forces her to consider wandless life. Could she withstand five whole years without her wand? How detrimental would it be for her career?
Disastrous, probably. Especially with the Wolfsbane measure she needs to get off the ground. People—children—are counting on her.
In the end, she decides that keeping her wand will at least afford her the option of transfiguring her new spouse into a toad if she wishes.
But looking down at the Ministry pronouncement in her hands, she pictures ferrets instead of toads.
She’s set to marry Draco Malfoy in three weeks.
“What about Australia?”
“America?”
“Still think ‘marry and memory-wipe a Muggle bloke’ is a good option.”
Hermione ignores her friends’ suggestions to flee once the news of her match breaks. A Muggle-born Registration Act didn’t deter her and she’ll certainly not let anyone or anything drive her off from her earned place.
Instead she sends off two letters: an appeal to the Office of Matrimonial Affairs contesting the match and a letter to Malfoy requesting to meet.
The appeal is denied. She drafts another and sends it along.
Malfoy accepts her meeting request.
Hermione arrives fifteen minutes early to the tea shop. She chose a cream-coloured silk blouse and grey slacks, aiming for a professionally casual look. Casually professional. It will keep her in character for this ridiculous meeting. She can pretend this is a business luncheon and not an absurd rendezvous regarding a violation of her autonomy.
A thick folder sits on the table beside her tea, helping her mind keep the ruse. She’s brought a copy of the entire law in full, as well as her personal research.
For the past few days, Hermione has researched the Malfoys so thoroughly she’s practically earned her NEWT on the family. She cares little for their genealogy and sordid history through two recent wars. She’s more interested in the Malfoys of today.
Lucius, she learns, avoided a prison sentence by selling out everyone and anyone associated with Voldemort. The terms of his probation are so strict however, that it appears he’s practically under house arrest in his ridiculous manor. Hermione revels in the magical limitations they’ve set on his own wand.
Narcissa has fared better post-war, with nary a crime to her name. Though rarely seen in public, she’s let the family gold do the redemption work on her behalf. Hermione notes every Galleon spent, every cause deemed worthy of her donation. All above-board, all causes Hermione herself approves of and several she’s also associated with.
And then there’s Draco. Her former schoolmate. Her…intended. Hermione banishes that last thought. He’s no more her “intended” than he is her friend. Becoming emotional over this horrific circumstance will make her lose focus and she needs to stay on track today.
Draco has been quietly busy. Hermione can’t quite grasp what it is he does for a living, but he’s certainly not been idle. There’s reports and more than a few photographs of him abroad at galas and auctions. From what she can piece together, he’s styled himself as a more reputable version of the seedy Mr. Borgin. He’s some sort of artefact expert, assisting wealthy people in their quest to become even wealthier via the acquisition or sale of priceless objects.
As scant as the details are about his professional life, his personal life makes him seem like a ghostly recluse.
Hermione is roused from her musings as the bell over the door chimes and a tall blond man enters.
The tea shop is in Muggle London; the location is the first test that Draco passes. His gaze sweeps around the shop before finding her. With a sharp nod, he approaches her table. Hermione tries to note the differences in him so she can pretend this is someone else, someone new.
He seems taller, but that’s perhaps due to her memory of his physicality having dulled over the years. He looks broader too, but that could be because she’s never seen him in a three-piece suit before, as opposed to wizard robes. The singular white-blond Malfoy hair is neatly styled—short on the sides, long on top. Casual elegance connoting someone who cares for their appearance and has both the time and money to do so.
He sits gracefully across from her and gives another nod.
“Miss Granger.”
“Hi, uh, Malfoy.”
It’s a less eloquent start than she hoped for, but Hermione did not expect this version of Draco Malfoy and it throws her for a loop. She half expected a different “M” word to fall from his lips in greeting.
They say nothing more until a server approaches and Draco orders his own tea and a sandwich. Hermione declines food, her stomach tied in so many different knots that eating is out of the question for a few hours yet.
“Thank you for coming,” she finally says when he has a drink.
“Of course,” he replies and sips his tea. He appears quite at his leisure, as if he has all the time in the world and nothing pressing as an arranged marriage with a former enemy weighing on his mind.
Hermione has no more patience for the polite facade.
“Did you support this law?”
“No.”
“But you didn’t fight it either.”
“No.”
His clipped answers betray nothing and Hermione bristles.
“I think you ought to know that I’ve filed an appeal with the Ministry contesting our match. It’s nothing personal.”
Her statement is both a truth and a lie. She opposes this law on its face, but can’t deny that who she’s being made to marry hasn’t come into play.
“Have they accepted any of your appeals thus far? I assume you’ve made multiple attempts by now.”
“They—I—no.” It unnerves her that he’s guessed correctly.
“Then might I suggest we discuss this marriage that will, in all likelihood, go forward? Unless you’re accepting the wand ban?”
“I—no. I’m not.”
He’s brought nothing with him to the table, and yet she feels like the unprepared party in this conversation. Her mind cannot reconcile the aloof, proper man across from her with the sneering bully at school, nor the snivelling coward during the war. None of her research prepared her for this man.
Hermione’s notes on the law and his family had served as her anchor. All week she’d envisioned meeting with a rude, entitled prick who would be just as furious about this match. Yet, she watches him take dainty bites of a sandwich handed to him by a Muggle and dab his lips with a napkin and now feels adrift at sea.
“You requested to meet,” he says. “Have you anything specific you’d like to say before I say my piece?”
“You truly don’t oppose our match?”
“I do not.”
“Then I suppose it’s only right of me to say that I do. Despite the Ministry’s current—hesitation—to hear me out, I won’t stop objecting. This law is an abomination and an alarming restriction of free will.”
He says nothing to her mission statement, just nods to show he’s listening.
“So, um, I just wanted that to be clear,” Hermione continues. “What did you want to say?”
Draco takes a swig of tea then leans back in his seat.
“Our wedding date is in two weeks.”
“Yes. Not much time for me to fight it, but I’m sure that was the Ministry’s idea.”
“Your efforts are thorough and admirable, I’m sure. However, I think a more productive use of our time is to presume it will occur and prepare for our new—ah—reality.”
She knows he’s right and it makes her want to throw scalding hot tea in his calm, impassive face.
“Fine,” she clips, already mentally drafting her next appeal. “What were you hoping to decide on? It’s just going to be a brief, civil bonding ceremony at the Ministry.”
“We won’t have a proper proposal, engagement, or wedding. Neither of us. But I’d like a proper marriage.”
“Meaning?”
“Fidelity.”
“I—all right.”
Her surprise at the request has her agreeing before she can think through her answer. Hermione thought he might have pitched a marriage of convenience type of arrangement, with discreet paramours on the side. Freedom within the relationship that they’ve been denied by their government.
Draco continues his odd list. “Mutual support and respect.”
“Of course.”
If his appearance and demeanor have upended her world-view, this discussion of relationship preferences threatens to implode her universe. He’s brought no notes, but seems to be running down a mental checklist for his future wife.
Hermione tosses out the next topic in an attempt to wrong-foot him.
“Do you want children?”
“Eventually. Do you?”
“Not—not right away.” She wonders if he knows her original answer had almost slipped out: Not with you.
“Then you’d have the three-year clause as an out. Should you wish to take it,” he says, seeming unbothered.
If no children or pregnancies resulted after three years, the marriage could be dissolved with no legal entanglements, no more government interference. Hermione fully plans on taking advantage of this clause and already has a copy of the marriage dissolution form at home.
Draco brings them back to the wedding.
“Regarding the ceremony, I’ll provide the rings.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
She has no idea why she’s thanked him and blames the societal conditioning placed on women to express gratitude at every little thing.
“Will your parents attend?”
“No. They live in Australia.”
“They wouldn’t return for your wedding?”
“I think they’d drag me back with them if they knew about this law. I’ll tell them after we’ve eloped.”
“Why not tell them everything?”
His blunt question, one he has no right to ask, succeeds in raising her ire.
“And your parents?” Hermione shoots back.
“What of them?”
“Are they going to be brandishing wands in my direction during the ceremony where I’m defiling their precious son?”
“My parents will attend and will behave civilly.”
Hermione settles back in her chair, wondering if that’s really a promise he can make. His firm tone brooks no argument and she decides she wants some real answers from him.
“Why go through with this? You could have your pick of any pureblood heiress, I’m sure.”
“You mean, did I want to marry a complete stranger my father picked out for me? No. I’d much rather put faith in my magic.”
Hermione scoffs. “You really believe that rot? That it was all based on magical core compatibility?”
“Yes. Do you not?”
“I think the government is trying to sell this law by concocting a fairytale.”
Draco merely shrugs and it leaves Hermione at a loss. He just willingly believes their magic is compatible? Despite her many queries to the Department of Mysteries and trips to the Ministry resource library, she’s discovered no insights into this so called “core compatibility” spellwork.
“Should we move on to living arrangements?” he asks. “I have a flat here in London, if you’re amenable.”
“You want me to move in with you?”
“We are meant to live together once we’re married,” he counters with a raised eyebrow.
“Or I could keep my flat.”
Draco smirks. She hates it.
“What’s the fastest way to kill a witch’s career?”
“Sexism.”
“Close. Disparage her reputation.”
“How does me keeping my flat hurt my reputation?”
“People talk, Granger. And they like talking about you. How do you think it will look for you if you’re living apart from your husband? People will assume you’re shirking the law or that you’re bringing dates round. You’d be branded a harlot.”
Hermione feels a flush bloom on her cheeks. “I don’t care what people think of me. I know my own character.”
“You don’t care if that limits your advancement opportunities? You're already insultingly overqualified for your current position.”
“You’ve tracked my career?”
“As if you didn’t research me before today,” he retorts and flicks his gaze at her brimming folder. Hermione slides it into her lap and glares at him.
“Whether or not I’ve been unfairly passed over for leadership positions is none of your business.”
“What do you think is holding you back?” he asks with all the impertinence of an entitled male.
“My blood status,” she says flatly.
Finally he looks uncomfortable. Good.
He clears his throat and adjusts the tie knotted at his neck.
“Parentage notwithstanding, the Ministry is essentially a self-serving patriarchy and you’re too much of an outsider. More than that, you take pride in it.”
“Some of us find conformity to be dangerous and narrow-minded.”
His lips purse as he takes another sip of tea. Hermione hopes it tastes bitter in his mouth.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he says.
“Regarding?”
“Mutual support and respect. I was only hoping to offer some career advice, however I think it’s too early for such confidences. Have you anything scheduled for the remainder of the afternoon?”
“No.”
“Then would you like to see the flat?”
The server approaches to ask after them and Draco says, “Just the bill,” before immediately accepting the check.
“I can pay for my tea,” she insists but he shrugs again.
“What’s mine is yours in two weeks anyway,” he says and she cannot for the life of her tell if he’s joking.
“So, the flat. Are you free now or do you need to fetch one of your oafish bodyguards first?”
Hermione sets her mouth in a thin line at the jab, yet part of her relishes in some of the old Malfoy seeping through. It justifies her mental image of throttling him.
“Lead the way.”
“Flat” is a generous undersell of Draco’s home.
After darting down a discreet alley, he offers his arm for apparition and the next moment Hermione finds herself outside his front door.
She drops her touch immediately.
“I’d have apparated us inside, but you’re not allowed through the wards yet. I’ll add you now.”
He holds out an expectant hand and she allows him to grip her wrist and put his wand to her palm. Hermione stares at the floor while he murmurs an incantation for several excruciating minutes.
When he quietly declares, “Done,” she rips her hand back and waits for him to open the door.
Hermione retreats into a fantasy world again to avoid breaking down. She imagines he’s a realtor showing her a luxurious new place miraculously in her budget. Judging by the view out of the impressive sitting room windows, it appears they are on the top floor of a swanky building. Coupled with the length and size of the flat, it seems Draco owns the entire floor.
He leads her down a long foyer to a gorgeous open kitchen with an attached, full dining room. Further down the hall she discovers two studies opposite each other. One is already stocked with floor to ceiling bookshelves, a few cabinets and a handsome desk. The other study is empty and Hermione’s mind begins planning how to fill it before she can stop it. Bare shelves always hold such promise for reorganization and adding of new texts.
The final room is the bedroom. She takes his word for it that it has a large walk-in closet and attached bathroom. She has no desire to see where he sleeps, showers, keeps his possessions or clothes. It’s far too personal.
He follows her back out to the sparsely decorated sitting room, hands stuffed in his pockets. Her eyes take in the few abstract paintings on the walls, the pristine furniture, the bare hall table. He’s only placed two framed pictures on the fireplace mantel.
“Did you have any questions?” he asks.
“Regarding?”
“My letter.”
Hermione stares at him, wondering how brutal she should be in this moment. She’s had dozens of thoughts, dozens of questions, about this man and his motivations in writing such a letter to her. She wants to ask if he meant it and an even more vindictive part of her wants to ask if he really wrote it himself.
But one thought has bothered her more the last few days.
“How did you know before I did?”
A smug smile twists his mouth.
“Wizards were notified first in case we wanted to make a proper proposal of it. Still don’t think the Ministry operates as a patriarchy?”
Hermione scowls and turns to face the window.
“The flat is suitable,” she says. “Thank you for the tour.”
She doesn’t wait for his reply and instead apparates straight home. Though it’s still early afternoon, Hermione pours herself a generous glass of wine.
An hour later, she blames the wine and the lack of food in her system for the tears that fall as she rereads Draco’s apology letter.
Why isn’t he angry? Why isn’t he fighting tooth and nail to avoid their joined fate? Where was the snotty, petulant Malfoy who resented anything and everything to do with her?
Because she could have used his anger. They could have teamed up in their shared distaste for one another, banded together to truly fight this law.
Now he just feels like one more person complicit in her demise.
She stops mid-pour of another glass when she remembers he used Muggle money earlier.
A now familiar owl arrives the next morning with some interesting information from Draco.
“I will be out of the country on business this weekend,” reads his letter, “should you wish to move your things in.”
She wonders if he travels often. Perhaps this won’t be so bad after all, with a husband off in other countries most of the time, that huge space all to herself.
Hermione takes him up on the offer to move in and further inspect her new living situation without him breathing down her neck.
A few surprises await her when she has the last of her boxes stacked in the front hall. There’s another wardrobe in the master bedroom and a new nightstand. Peeking into the bathroom, an area she neglected to inspect the first time, she discovers a large shower stall with bench seat, a marble tub in the corner, and a dual vanity. He’s left a few toiletries on the counter, but only on one side.
Trying not to jump to preposterous conclusions, she heads to the massive walk-in closet. Draco apparently owns a vast collection of Muggle designer suits and other bespoke wear in addition to his robes. But what causes her pulse to race is the fact that he left one side of the closet completely empty.
He intends for them to share this bedroom. Because it is the only bedroom.
She flees the room and darts down the hall to her designated study. Sinking into a chair, she quickly calculates the space in here and realizes it cannot double as both a bedroom and living quarters for her.
More than a few heavy sighs and many flourishes of her wand later, and Hermione has moved all her belongings into the master suite.
She could pretend she’s the heroine at the beginning of a Regency novel, thrown into a relationship with a mysterious stranger she doesn’t know. Except Hermione does know her future husband. She knows Draco Malfoy. He is no dashing, reclusive nobleman. He’s the bigoted git who made a lot of poor choices. And she is no helpless, penniless damsel in need of an advantageous match.
Hermione sits at the writing desk in her new private study and drafts her fifth appeal to the Ministry.
Then she apparates to Harry and Ginny’s home. She has no intention of staying here any sooner than forced.