Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The atrium of the Ministry of Magic had never felt so cold.
Hermione sat stiff-backed on one of the benches lined along the edge of the chamber, quill poised over parchment though she had no real interest in taking notes. The Wizengamot buzzed like a swarm of restless bees, their voices blending into a constant drone until the Minister’s wand struck the floor.
“The Marriage Law,” Kingsley Shacklebolt announced, his deep voice carrying through the cavernous hall. “In light of the war’s devastation, and to preserve the strength of our community, it has been decreed that all witches and wizards of marriageable age shall be paired according to magical compatibility and bloodline considerations. Compliance is mandatory. Refusal will result in forfeiture of wand rights and, in extreme cases, imprisonment.”
Hermione’s quill snapped in her hand. Ink bled across her palm, hot as her temper.
“This is barbaric,” she muttered, though not quietly enough. Heads turned, but she didn’t care. “After everything we fought for—after Voldemort—we’re just letting the Ministry decide who we marry? As if we’re—breeding stock?”
Harry shifted beside her, his jaw tight. He placed a steadying hand on her wrist, a silent wait.
But Ron leaned forward, and his grin was almost smug. “Well, at least this makes things simple, eh? No more wasting time dancing around what was obvious. You and me, Hermione. Finally.”
Hermione whipped her head toward him so fast her hair lashed her cheek. “Excuse me?”
Ron looked genuinely baffled. “What do you mean, ‘excuse me’? Everyone knows we were supposed to end up together. We already tried it, yeah, but that was bad timing. Now we don’t have to—”
“Don’t have to what, Ron?” Hermione’s voice was sharp enough to cut marble. “Pretend? Pretend I don’t remember exactly why we broke up? Pretend you didn’t sulk for months after?”
His ears went red. “That was different! You’ll see. The Ministry will see it too. They’ll pair us, and you’ll—”
“Enough,” Harry snapped, surprising both of them. His green eyes were hard as glass. “It’s not your choice, Ron. It’s not hers, either. That’s the point. It’s the bloody law.”
Ron’s mouth opened, but the Minister’s wand struck again, silencing the room.
“The first pairings will be announced in one week’s time,” Kingsley intoned. “You will receive official notice by owl. Prepare yourselves.”
Hermione sat frozen, heart hammering. Her future—the futures of every witch and wizard her age—had just been signed away. And Ron’s self-satisfied smirk told her he had no doubt where fate would fall.
She wanted to scream. Instead, she pressed her ink-stained hand flat against her parchment, leaving a dark smear across the page. A mark of protest. A promise.
I will not let them take my choices. Not again.
Later that evening, the Ministry corridors rang with footsteps as witches and wizards spilled out into the lamplit streets. Hermione walked quickly, her robes brushing the floor, her mind whirling with a thousand furious thoughts. Harry fell into step beside her, silent at first, his presence grounding.
“You can’t let Ron get in your head,” Harry said finally. “He doesn’t get it. He thinks this law is some kind of gift.”
“He thinks I’m some kind of gift,” Hermione corrected sharply, then exhaled. Her chest felt tight, as though the decree itself had wrapped chains around her ribs. “Harry, this isn’t just about me. They’re going to strip us of choice. People we care about—people who survived everything—will be punished because they won’t marry the Ministry’s pick.”
Harry’s expression was grim. “Then we’ll fight it. Same as before.”
She nodded, grateful for his certainty, though the fear still knotted her stomach. Fighting the Ministry wasn’t the same as fighting Voldemort. Voldemort had been a tyrant in the shadows; the Ministry cloaked its tyranny in law.
Ron joined them outside, hands shoved into his pockets, a cocky grin plastered across his face. “Well, I suppose this makes things easier for everyone. Don’t worry, Hermione, I’ll take good care of you. Mum will be thrilled.”
Hermione stopped in her tracks. “Ron, for the last time—this isn’t about you. And it will never be you. Do you understand me?”
His grin faltered, but only for a moment. “We’ll see what the owls say.”
She clenched her jaw, biting back every insult she wanted to hurl. Harry tugged her arm gently, pulling her away before she could ignite another shouting match.
When they finally reached her flat, Hermione closed the door behind her and pressed her back against it, trembling. The quill mark on her hand had dried to a dark stain, and she lifted it to her chest like a battle scar.
I will fight this.
I will not be owned by a decree.
And though she didn’t know it yet, far across London, Sirius Black was swearing something very similar.