Chapter Text
Hermione stood in the cavernous atrium of the Ministry, marble floors gleaming under the enchanted light as Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep voice echoed through the hall. His tone was heavy, reluctant, as he read the decree that will consumed every headline for weeks:
“By order of the Wizengamot and under the authority of the Ministry of Magic, effective immediately, all witches and wizards between the ages of seventeen (17) and thirty (30) are required to enter into lawful marriage..”
Gasps rippled through the gathered crowd, followed swiftly by the cacophony of quills scratching parchment, reporters shouting over one another, and angry whispers swelling into arguments. To everyone else, this was a bombshell. To Hermione Granger, it was an inevitability.
She had fought tooth and nail against it—standing in heated chambers with Harry at her side, pleading with Kingsley, demanding reform, drafting counter-proposals until her quills bled dry. But the war was barely a year behind them, and the Wizengamot was still governed by the same clutch of wizened men, greedy for legacy and control. They had won. The law had passed.
Hermione did not flinch.
The law was meant to shackle her kind, to make her a pawn in yet another political game. But pawns, she thought, could become queens. And if they thought they’d cornered her, they were sorely mistaken.
They thought they’d forced my hand. They were wrong—I’d just found my opening.
She did not linger to hear Kingsley finish his announcement. As the crowd surged with outrage and despair, Hermione slipped away, her heels striking sharp and purposeful against the polished floors. Back in her office, she cleared her desk with one sweep of her wand, pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward her, and dipped her quill in ink.
If she could not fight the system, she would bend it to her will. And there was only one family in Britain powerful enough, influential enough, and disgraced enough to accept her proposition.
The Malfoys.
Her quill scratched decisively across the page as she began the letter—an offer that would scandalize the entire Wizarding World. An offer that would change everything.
To Lord Lucius and Lady Narcissa Malfoy,
I write to you under circumstances that demand discretion, urgency, and strategic foresight. Recent legislation, passed by the Wizengamot, has imposed strict requirements upon the unions of witches and wizards—particularly those of Muggle-born and half-blood descent. While many regard this law as an unfortunate constraint, I see it as an opportunity for those capable of navigating the currents of power.
I propose a meeting to discuss a potential alliance—an arrangement that would secure mutual benefit for our families. It is my intention to offer my hand in marriage to Draco Malfoy. This union, I believe, can restore and enhance the influence and reputation of the Malfoy name while providing me with the necessary support to implement meaningful reform and rise to a position of power within the Ministry.
The details of this arrangement would, naturally, be discussed in confidence. I request the pleasure of your company for a formal meeting at a location of your choosing, at your earliest convenience. I assure you that I come prepared with a plan that is as pragmatic as it is ambitious.
The Wizarding World is shifting, and those unwilling to act decisively will be left behind. I hope that the Malfoys will recognize the advantage of joining forces at a moment when fortune favors those with the courage to claim it.
Respectfully,
Hermione Granger
Lucius Malfoy leaned back in his high-backed chair, long fingers steepled beneath his chin as the letter unfolded across the polished mahogany desk. He read Hermione Granger’s neat handwriting twice, each word sparking a flicker of curiosity behind his cold, pale eyes.
Amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. The girl has audacity, he thought. She comes to us with a proposal rather than a plea, offering what others would never dare—our son’s hand.
Narcissa, standing behind him, arched a finely shaped brow, her lips pursed in measured disapproval—or perhaps admiration. “Lucius,” she said softly, “she is bold… perhaps too bold.”
Lucius waved a dismissive hand, though his expression betrayed a spark of intrigue. “Boldness, my dear, is often mistaken for foolishness. Yet this… this is clever. She does not beg; she does not appeal to sentiment. She frames it as an alliance, as though she is extending power rather than taking it.”
He tapped the letter against the desk thoughtfully. “And she seeks Draco’s hand. Our Draco… she dares to place him at the center of her ambitions. It is audacious, but not without merit. There is power to be gained here, influence to be restored. The girl understands leverage.”
Narcissa folded her hands elegantly, her sharp gaze never leaving him. “And yet… she is a Granger. Muggle-born. The world has not been kind to those who cross the bloodlines. Are we certain we wish to entertain such a union?”
Lucius’s eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and calculation. “Certainly, caution is warranted. But watch closely, Narcissa. Hermione Granger is not the naïve girl who stormed through the Department of Mysteries years ago. This is no impulsive act—this is strategy. And strategy, when executed well, can be… profitable.”
He leaned back, a thin smile curling. “We shall see, of course. Invite her. Let us hear the plan in full. Draco will listen, and we shall judge whether this Granger has overestimated her reach—or whether she has, in fact, underestimated ours.”
Narcissa’s lips curved slightly, just enough to hint at intrigue. “Very well. But let us proceed carefully. The girl is ambitious… and ambition can be dangerous.”
Lucius tapped the letter again, savoring the tension. “Indeed. But ambition, when guided wisely, can be most… enlightening.”