Lex Puritas (Law of Purity)

by incarcerous_reads

Summary:

A new Ministry program rises in the post-war calm, promising protection, purity, and progress. Hermione Granger knows something about it is wrong—deeply wrong—but she doesn’t realize how close she is to the center of it until it’s too late.

Dragged into a web of old magic, political lies, and an alliance she never would have chosen, Hermione is forced into a marriage that blurs the line between survival and sacrifice. As the Ministry tightens its grip, she finds herself navigating cold mornings, clipped conversations, and a slowburn tension with the one person she should never have to rely on.

Notes:

Hi! Welcome to the very first fic I’ve decided to publish after many years of writing countless drafts.

Please enjoy this Dramione fic I’ve had in mind for quite a while.

Disclaimer: All works are purely fictional and diverge from JKR’s Harry Potter. I do not take ownership of these characters, they belong to their rightful owners.

I will try my best to have updates as regular as I can! First part of this fic has been pre-written, so beginning chapters would most probably have more regular updates. This fic will have about three parts - so, stay tuned!

Chapter 1: A Peace Built on Ash

Hermione Granger adjusted her robes as she stepped into the cavernous halls of the Department of Magical Legislation. The air smelled of parchment dust and old ink—decades of unreviewed bills resting like tombstones in their shelves.

For a decade the post-war Ministry had moved like a reanimated corpse—functional, yes, but hollow, animated only by inertia and memory. Hermione had insisted on joining the department after returning for her eighth year, convinced that miswritten laws were every bit as dangerous as dark curses—and she’d seen both destroy lives.

“Good morning, Janice,” Hermione smiled at her assistant, who seemed too preoccupied with stacks of drafts and documents that needed to be sent out for readings and approvals.

“Oh, Ms. Granger! I didn’t quite see you there, my apologies,” Janice hurriedly said, fixing her glasses. “Your coffee is on your desk already and I added a blueberry scone, my treat. The Elvish Right to Employment and Benefits Act was such a success! I couldn’t believe we got nine out of ten Wizengamot seats for that—“, Janice rambled on, causing a chuckle from her superior.

“That’s so sweet of you, Janice. You didn’t have to, really. I certainly wouldn’t have done it without you!” Hermione gave her assistant a soft pat on the shoulder just before entering her quaint office. Her chest warmed. Janice’s small kindnesses had become a quiet anchor in a Ministry that felt increasingly cold.

And yet even through Janice’s cheerful rambling, Hermione could hear it again—the soft susurrus of gossip threading through the corridor. Something had shifted. Something political.

Ever since becoming Department Head, Hermione kept her office door open—always accessible, always visible. Transparency over fear. From inside, she could hear the quiet hum of activity— small clusters of bureaucrats bent over parchments and quills, oblivious to the chaos that is her desk and several legislations, each sheet detailing revisions to post-war law which had been delayed or ignored. Today, though, the monotony had cracked under a single name whispered through the halls: Octavia Rosier.

Hermione had seen that surname once before—buried in sealed trial records, whispered by old Aurors who still flinched at certain memories. But now it was everywhere, on every tongue: young, charismatic, progressive, the “new face of Wizarding Britain.” She shivered despite herself; Rosier blood had always meant trouble long before Voldemort ever rose.

She knew the history behind that name—Rookwoods and Rosiers had always been among the most insidious of the pure-blood lines, and Octavia’s mother had been a radical even by their standards.

She set her satchel down and glanced at today’s copy of The Daily Prophet, and there the same name echoing the Ministry walls was printed in actual bold letters replayed like a broken record.

“Rebuild. Renew. Reform.” Hermione read the slogan aloud, the words tasting like ash. Propaganda always sounded prettiest before it devoured something.

Thoughts ran through Hermione’s head. As if there’s anything broken that needs fixing— oh, that needs rebuilding, renewing, and reforming.

Her eyes flicked to the corner note scribbled beside the article: anonymous testimony from an Auror citing “irregularities during the election tally.” Harry’s handwriting. And beneath it—another initial. A sharp, slanted D.M.

Hermione frowned. Draco Malfoy didn’t attach his name to anything unless the matter was serious.

From across the hallway came the faint sound of heels clicking against the marbled floor. Hermione’s train of thought is halted by a few soft knocks on her office door, and there was Pansy Parkinson with a suit carrier in hand. Leaning against the doorway, she stood clad in her all-white ensemble with striking red heels; still wearing her sharp black bob, winged eyeliner, and a red lip that could cut glass—and spot danger faster than most Aurors.

Pansy, after getting married to Longbottom, had become tied to the band of Gryffindors. Even more becoming Hermione’s personal stylist and a third to her and Ginny Weasley.

“Morning, Granger,” she said. “You’ve seen the paper?”

“Yep,” Hermione nodded and answered with a pop to her ‘p’. “And honestly, I don’t have a good feeling about this,” she added.

“Well, can’t blame ya, Granger,” Pansy strode forward, entering the office and slumping on the chair right in front of Hermione’s desk. “If you ask me, I think it’s more than just politics– something more… insidious.”

Hermione raised a brow at the comment before sighing deflatedly, “That’s quite an allegation, Pans,” and the other just shrugged, acknowledging that they probably held the same sentiments.

“Okay, get with it,” Hermione pushed and Pansy rolled her eyes. “Granger, look— ‘rebuild, renew, reform’? If that doesn’t sound like propaganda, I don’t know what does. I grew up in a house full of it, I know what it smells like,” Pansy muttered.

“Well, here’s your new suit. My husband sends his regards and will most likely just owl another one of those mallowsweet plants you asked for,” Pansy carefully set down the suit on the opposite chair before standing up, and heading for the doorway. “Leaky later?” Pansy asked, already halfway out the door.

“Of course, my treat! And thanks for the suit.”

Pansy gave a lazy salute, “Try not to overthrow the Ministry before drinks!”

Hermione waved as her friend slipped out with a finger salute before completely disappearing into the halls.

She did her best to rid of any suspicious thoughts and feelings that she had briefly discussed with Pansy. She busied herself the entire day— going through legislation after legislation on her desk until it was back to its original and organized glory, about two more mugs of coffee, and signing off on administrative forms that needed her approvals.

The way she breezed through the day had felt like she had used a time turner to play her day in fast forward, that the moment she glanced up from her desk it was already magically past six o’clock in the evening.

“Bollocks!”

She was running late for her usual after hours with Pansy and Ginny. Hurriedly, she gathered all her things, grabbed her satchel, and sprinted out the door; a flick of her wrist that locked her office with a wandless spell.

Just when Hermione thought she couldn’t get any more late than she already is, what with her rushing through empty Ministry halls, she collided with a broad chest which was (thankfully) strong enough to catch her.

“Easy, Golden Girl,” drawled a familiar voice—though Theo sounded slightly out of breath, which instantly put Hermione on edge.

“What’s keeping you in a rush, Granger?”

“Oh, Merlin! I’m so sorry, Theo!” Granger steadied herself with his help, brushing off invisible dust on Theo’s jacket, “I was supposed to meet Pans and Ginny at the Leaky about,” she looked at her wristwatch, “thirty minutes ago. I didn’t notice the time!”

“Let’s apparate there together, shall we?” Theo offered.

“Oh, got a hot date tonight?” Hermione managed to jokingly inquire, the other rolling his eyes as they began to talk to the nearest apparition point.

Theo snorted. “Not tonight. Malfoy’s been pacing the Auror office like a caged dragon all day. Thought he was going to hex a wall.”

Hermione blinked. “Malfoy? Why?”

Theo gave her a tight, pointed look. “Because something’s very wrong, Granger.”

Hermione tried to ask more questions but they instantly disappeared into a swirl of color with a loud CRACK!

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The Leaky Cauldron was filled with wizards and witches after a long day of work, some new and familiar faces popping in and out of the local brewery.

It was a Friday, so obviously the place was more jam packed than usual. Along with the loud chatters of conversation and laughter was music, and it filled the all-familiar space. Quite a lot has changed since the war and this was one of them— restaurants and pubs had surprisingly adapted some of Muggle culture— background house music was one of them.

Regulars usually had their own assigned booths. It wasn’t entirely under their names but more of an open and respected assignment that people sat at the same tables and booths whenever they went to the Leaky.

Surrounded by a silencing charm to block out all the unnecessary noise, Pansy and Ginny were at their table waiting for tonight’s host of their Friday ritual.

“Where the hell is Granger?” Pansy clicked her nails on the tabletop as she kept her gaze at the door.

“Don’t worry, she’ll be here. Probably forgot about the time again,” Ginny chuckled as she took a swig of her butterbeer.

“You’re really not going to get anything? It’s on Hermione’s tab anyway.” The redhead offered as she looked at the glass and pitcher of water by the black haired witch.

“About goddamn time,” Pansy muttered to herself as she spotted the familiar brown nest of curls enter the establishment, a tall Theodore Nott following after. As soon as Hermione stepped in, several patrons glanced her way before quickly looking elsewhere. Strange. Suspicious.

Pansy added a charm on both Hermione and Theo as they neared their designated table, to be part of her silent circle.

“I’m really sorry! Forgot the time again,” Hermione hastily apologized, dropping her satchel on the floor and sitting to the next available space beside Ginny.

“And you brought Nott with you? I thought this was a girl’s night,” Pansy sneered, something Granger has gotten used to over the years.

“So, are you going to tell us what brings you here, Nott?” Pansy interjected, her patience slightly running thin at the intrusion of the additional party.

“I’ve got intel and it validates whatever your intuitions have been telling you about,” Theo softly answered before mouthing, “Octavia Rosier.”

Hermione and Pansy exchanged looks that screamed ‘shit’, while Ginny made a face with furrowed brows - her anger definitely not discreet.

“There’s a list,” Theo added vaguely, before pulling out a small piece of charmed parchment that only allowed those the bearer trusted to read. Theo’s fingers shook as he slid the charmed parchment toward them.

“Granger,” he began, “you’re at the top of the list.”

The women furrowed their brows, confusion drawing in at the sudden revelation thrown at them. Hermione’s eyes went wide; her name, in bold, black ink, staring back at her like a death sentence, said enough.

“What do you mean, Theodore?” Hermione’s voice shook as she clarified, dreading whatever it is that could associate her to be part of some list.

She took the parchment in her hands, going through the names that followed hers. Cattermole, Warren, Burbage, Abbott…

Wait, this is a list of—

“It’s a list of muggle-born women. All of us—“ Hermione broke the silence, looking intently at Theo. Her gaze bubbling with rage.

“They’re… targeting unmarried muggle-born women over thirty, Granger.”

The mood immediately shifted. The pub, the lights, the laughter — all of it narrowed into a single black line of ink: her name.

”Apparently, it’s part of a reform movement,” Theo continued, “It’s dressed up as voluntary sterilization, supposedly for ‘the safety of future magical generations.’ But it’s coercion disguised as a choice.” Theo worriedly looked at Hermione who was still staringly blankly at the piece of parchment.

Everything. Everything that she, Harry, and Ron had fought for. Everything who had lost and sacrificed their lives for. She saw Fred’s smile. Tonks’ laugh. Lupin’s tired eyes. Lavender’s trembling hand.

All of them are ghosts now.

And for what?

For this?

All of that going into shams and getting thrown out of the window because of a movement that was supposedly to rebuild, renew, and reform the so-called future of wizards and witches.

Without her knowing, tears were brimming in her eyes at the memory of everything she had lost during the war. Yes, it had been ten years since, but the grief has never really disappeared. It had always been there, just in a safe space within her heart.

“Hermione?” Pansy reached for her hand, the usual snark in her voice had softened. Ginny also held her best friend’s hand, squeezing it briefly as a sign of comfort.

Hermione cleared her throat, abruptly wiping away the bitter tears that she had unknowingly shed at the thought of those she had lost and a looming danger of the unknown. She knew she had to be more logical about what this entails, especially now that the new Minister-elect had eyes on her.

After the brief silence, Hermioned managed to find her voice, “But… Why me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Ginny raised her voice with a tone so sharp, “It’s because Hermione is the obvious choice. She’s the most visible and vocal witch of our age! The Golden Girl, Brightest Witch of Her Age. Of course that bint needs someone to be the image of why this thing isn’t ridiculous. Hermione Granger cannot be ignored.”

And Hermione knew Ginny was right. Of course, she’ll be used as some kind of pawn to this alleged propaganda. She’s part of the Golden Trio and she’s head of her own department at the Ministry.

Her hand clenched the little parchment with her name in it, along with those who shared her heritage. She just wasn’t going to let this woman take away hers and all other women’s choice because of lineage.

She was going to fight it, head on.

Chapter 2: Contamination Study

Notes:

Feeling quite generous and excited, so here’s Chapter 2!

”Progress is merely cruelty with better manners.”

 

The Ministry atrium gleamed far too brightly for a Monday morning—polished, expectant, as if it had been holding its breath overnight. Normally, the day began with the usual shuffle of parchment-laden clerks and the muted swirl of arrivals through the Floo. But today—today, the Ministry pulsed like a living thing. Gold banners hung from the ceiling, enchanted to ripple softly even without wind. Reporters swarmed the steps beneath the grand podium. Aurors lined the perimeter—stern, impassive, watchful—and among them Hermione noticed the familiar pale profile of Draco Malfoy. He didn’t look at her. Or at anyone, really. Good. Indifferent was easier.

The Wizengamot robes were a sea of deep plum and navy. And above it all, projected in shimmering silver letters across the atrium dome:

 

THE INAUGURAL ADDRESS OF NEWLY ELECTED OCTAVIA ROSIER

REBUILD. RENEW. REFORM

 

Hermione had arrived early. A bit too early, judging by the tight buzzing beneath her ribs. Janice had met her halfway through the corridor, flustered and red-cheecked.

”They’re saying this Minister plans to reorganize half the Ministry, Ms. Granger,” Janice whispered as they walked. “She’s so young! Isn’t that wonderful? It’s definitely a fresh start!”

Hermione didn’t know what to feel. She managed a thin, polite smile, doing her best to cage the thoughts clawing under her ribs. Fresh starts were often just history repeating itself, just with better tailoring.

By the time she reached the atrium, the crowd was already dense. Ministry employees and department heads had filled up the area— a rare sight for any other kind of Ministry gathering. Harry, as Head Auror, was stationed with the rest of the Aurors beside the stage. He caught her eye and gave the barest nod of warning. And just a few steps behind Harry, was Draco Malfoy. 

Malfoy stood just behind Harry, dark Auror robes severe against the gold banners. His posture was rigid, professional—unreadable. Hermione hadn’t expected him to look so composed these days. Or…different. She pushed the thought aside.

Hermione’s thoughts were cut as she felt Malfoy’s gaze flicker toward her briefly—measuring, distant. She blinked, unsure why he’d bothered to look at her at all.

She immediately tore her eyes away as the Sonorous charm filled the air. Then, the new Minister walked onto the stage. And there she was in her newly elected glory— Octavia Rosier— in the flesh and looked nothing like her lineage.

No serpentine dress, no sharp edges of fanaticism. She wore rose-colored robes, her blonde hair swept into a low, immaculate bun. She radiated gentleness—softer, kinder than her lineage had any right to be.

The applause that greeted her was thunderous and it only made the anger in Hermione’s heart grow even bigger. She hated herself for carrying this loathing, but hated the subject even more as it planted a different kind of hatred she had never before harbored.

”Witches and wizards of Britain,” Rosier began, her voice melodic, “our world stands at the crossroads of legacy and possibility.”

A cold prickle crawled down Hermione’s spine as Rosier spoke. Malfoy’s eyes landed on her, a bare tilt of the head when she caught his eyes—Listen. Carefully. 

Octavia continued.

”For too long we have mended our world with quick fixes and half-measures. The war fractured us. It left wounds we pretend no longer bleed. I stand before you not to reopen scars,” she paused as she slowly gazed at every present witch and wizard, “but to heal them properly this time.”

Soft murmurs of approval spread through the crowd and filled the atrium. 

“Our future depends not only on justice,” Rosier went on, “but on understanding. On scientific clarity. On protecting our magical birthright by ensuring every witch and wizard can thrive.”

And through these words, Hermione stiffened. Behind her, several Ministry employees nodded earnestly. It was music to everyone’s ears and Hermione felt sick to core at what was happening.

A swirl of silver magic illuminated the air behind her as a grand parchment unfurled. Its heading is ornate, official.

 

MAGICAL CONTAMINATION:

A LONGITUDINAL STUDY ON MUGGLE-BORN REPRODUCTIVE STABILITY AND MAGICAL LINEAGE PRESERVATION

 

The atrium muffled into a distant hum. All Hermione could hear was the roar of her pulse.

No. No, no, no— 

Rosier’s voice continued and it brought Hermione back to where she was.

“This is not a judgment. Merely a concern that has gone unaddressed for decades. Our research indicates that witches born to non-magical families show higher instances of magical degradation when reproductive age progresses beyond thirty. This can impact spell stability, lineage strength, and the magical ecosystem we all rely on.”

Hermione’s curled fists tightened, her nails now digging into the skin of her palms. 

This was pseudoscience dressed up in Ministry polish. A lie wearing silk.

But Rosier spoke as though she was unveiling charity and doing Wizarding Britain a huge favor. 

“As such,” she said, “I am proposing a voluntary reproductive health initiative. One that prioritizes well-being over politics. This is not regulation. Not a ban. Simply, health vigilance. A choice.” She placed a hand over her heart, “A choice I hope every witch will feel empowered to make.”

The crowd murmured, uncertainty in the air. Thoughtful. Troubled. Some nodded sympathetically.

While most wizards and witches were busy with their own thoughts, Hermione’s vision blurred at the edges with anger.

Choice? What choice? She almost laughed aloud. This woman was performing benevolence while sharpening a knife behind her back. How could they not see through it? It was the very thing the Second Wizarding War had fought to destroy.

The applause when Rosier finished was polite but strong. Enough to matter. Enough to frighten.

As Rosier exited the stage, the crowd had begun to dissipate and this put Hermione right in the middle of the atrium unguarded. Reporters immediately spotted her and rushed to take her comments.

”What are your thoughts about Minister Rosier as a muggle-born?”

”How do you feel about the health initiative as a muggle-born?”

”Will you be in full support of Minister Rosier’s health initiative for muggle-borns?”

”How does the Brightest Witch of Our Age feel about being the only muggle-born of the Golden Trio?”

Hermione forced herself to breathe as the reporters took up space, shoving her with questions she couldn’t even think to answer without lashing out. It felt like she was frozen in place all of a sudden, her feet not coordinating as she did her best to try and escape the crazed reporters.

A hand closed firmly around her. Hermione was startled. No one touched her without warning. 

”Granger,” Malfoy said under his breath, tone flat, “don’t give them anything.”

It seemed to have brought her right back into the present when she felt the grip on her arm pulling her from the sea of reporters. Her eyes followed the source— Draco Malfoy.

”Don’t tell me what to—“ she began to tell him off.

”Rosier wants you to make a scene, lash out,” he cut it, voice calm yet authoritative. “She’s building a narrative. Don’t feed it.”

He released her as abruptly as he’d grabbed her, already turning away. His expression was unreadable as he slipped back into Auror formation—as if nothing had happened.

 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

 

The after-statement reception was worse. Champagne floated on silver trays, Ministry banners glittered overhead, and department heads mingled with laughter far too light for a morning like this. Hermione stood tight-lipped by the far wall, ignoring the curious glances and whispering personnel. Some reporters had tried to approach her but decided otherwise after what happened at the atrium.

Finally, Harry found her.

”Hermione,” Harry whispered sharply, “are you alright?”

”No,” Hermione said simply.

”Thought so.”

Before Hermione could reply, Minister Rosier herself drifted toward them— gentle, approachable, smile perfectly measured. She moved like someone who had studied Hermione’s entire life and practiced her lines the night before. Harry took this as his cue to leave, wanting to avoid any suspicious eyes.

”Ms. Granger,” Rosier said warmly as she extended a hand, “I’ve been wanting to meet you. Your post-war legislative efforts are truly remarkable. Brilliant, indeed.”

Hermione forced herself to take the offered handshake, “Minister.”

Rosier’s touch was soft, warm— motherly, even. It only made Hermione’s skin crawl.

”I want you involved,” Rosier said earnestly, “You understand the muggle-born perspective better than anyone here. It’s important, you know? That someone like you helps this initiative become a compassionate, informed process.”

Hermione felt like she was swallowing shards of broken glass.

”You’re targeting muggle-born women,” she said quietly.

Rosier blinked— slow but patiently. “No, dear. We are protecting them. Protecting all of us.”

”I read the study,” Hermione said. “It’s fabricated.”

The smile on Minister Rosier’s smile only deepened but didn’t crack. 

“Misinformation is a dangerous word, Ms. Granger. Especially from someone of your influence.” Her voice remained gentle, but the warning beneath it slid cold as a blade. “Tread carefully, if I were you. People listen when you speak.”

Hermione stayed still. Cold. Burning.

Rosier reached for Hermione’s hand, squeezing it once more. A bit too tight this time.

”Remember, we are all on the same side,” she murmured. “Always remember that.”

And then she drifted away, leaving Hermione rooted in place, trembling with rage that had nowhere else to go.

 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

 

That afternoon, the Ministry felt poisoned. Back in her office, Hermione slammed the door shut. She threw the study onto her desk— chart after chart, falsified numbers, twisted biological claims. How was she able to pull all this off? It was a masterpiece of manipulation that she had never thought anyone could ever do.

Impossible, that’s what it was. There were so many names of muggle-born women who had signed off on the papers and that meant they were indeed muggle-borns who have been studied and are proven cases of the magical contamination Rosier was exactly talking about.

A nauseating thought surfaced. One she despised herself for even entertaining. What if the numbers weren’t lies? What if the rot wasn’t in Rosier’s study, but in her?

Hermione’s train of thought paused with a knock on her door. Realizing that she had locked it, she flicked her wrist with a wandless Alohomora and to her surprise, it was Malfoy.

“Granger,” Malfoy leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. He was looking more exhausted than she’d ever seen him. He was good at hiding it, she concluded. The sight of him here, uninvited and unannounced, threw more than she could care to admit. 

“You need to keep your head down,” he said, with hate in his voice having to say it.

Hermione snapped at the unsolicited advice she received from someone she had barely talked to in years but a couple of nods across the Ministry halls. “What I need,” she breathed, her tone sharp, “is for someone to stop her!”

There was nothing but frustration and fury in Hermione’s voice, the shakiness of it said it all.

”She’s already five steps ahead,” Malfoy stepped inside, letting himself in and roughly slamming the door shut. “And you know it.”

Hermione hated—hated—that he was right. Rosier was playing her cards right and she’s only going to get better and better at this game she’s trying to play.

”She’s using you,” he added, “Or, she’ll use you if she isn’t yet. You’re the perfect martyr. Thirty. Muggle-born. Unmarried. Prominent. If you do anything in the slightest as to protest, she’ll paint you hysterical and would let you live the rest of your days in Azakaban. If you stay silent, she uses your name.”

Hermione stiffened. “I won’t be controlled or threatened.”

Malfoy strode through the room, for the first time ever in their tenure at the Ministry, sat down at the chair just in front of her desk. His eyes were set on her, “You already are. The only choice you have left is how quietly you move.”

Hermione met his gaze—and froze. There, buried beneath the sharpness.

Fear.

Not for himself.

For her.

“Rosier is worse than her mother ever was. Hell, even worse than her mother’s predecessors. And they were all fanatics,” Malfoy spoke, breaking the quiet doom that was looming in Hermione’s office, “You need all the help you can get.”

Hermione’s breath hitched at the realization of the bomb that Malfoy had dropped. She swallowed hard. For the first time in years, she had no idea what her next move should be.

Chapter 3: Rosier’s List

Hermione had always believed the Ministry held a particular kind of cold—one that crept through polished floors and bureaucratic silence. But that afternoon, walking back toward the atrium, she realized she had underestimated it.

This cold had teeth—and they were already sinking in.

Rumors slithered through the corridors like icy drafts. Clerks whispered with rigid posture, and department heads hurried by, their eyes sliding over her with an unreadable mixture she refused to interpret.

Was it sympathy? Curiosity? Disgust? She couldn’t tell, and didn’t care to.

Hermione ignored them all and pushed forward, until she reached the notice board just outside the Department of Records. A crowd was clustered there, tight and buzzing as flies were drawn to something rotting.

She saw it coming. She knew what she was up against, yet she still felt the sudden and sick drop in her stomach as the air grew silent and thick. The hush rolled through the gathered employees as she squeezed herself through the crowd. Someone moved aside, and her heart stuttered once more, this time, violently.

There it was.

A parchment the size of a tapestry dominated the board, sealed at each edge with the Rosier crest—silver thorns curling into a rose. Hermione’s stomach twisted at the sight; even the ink seemed to be sneering at her.

At the top, in a deceptively soft, maternal script, were the words:

 

MUGGLE-BORN HEALTH & PROTECTION LIST (AGES 30+)

A preliminary compilation of witches at risk of reproductive instability.

 

Hermione’s stomach knotted. Her breath thinned.

Names were listed on the tapestry-sized parchment. Name after name, dozens and dozens of them. Column after column of muggle-born witches. Age. Wand history. Fertility status. “Compliance” scores. It wasn’t merely invasive; it was total.

It was more than just a list. It was a goddamned catalogue.

A shiver worked up her arms, and then she saw it:

 

#1 HERMIONE JEAN GRANGER

AGE: 30

STATUS: UNMARRIED

AT-RISK LEVEL: CRITICAL

 

A soft gasping sound rippled through the corridor while someone clapped a hand over their mouth. Someone else muttered, “Merlin,” under their breath.

Hermione just stood still. Rooted. How is this even legal? It was like they were all being paraded to be mocked at or pitied for the very cause of being muggle-born. They were on display and Hermione felt the brunt of it. The Golden Girl saved the entire Wizarding Britain with The Chosen One, but apparently it still isn’t enough because of her lineage.

A joke, that was what it felt like. It was public humiliation. 

Hermione felt like if she moved, the floor beneath her might crack open and swallow her whole. The air was suddenly starting to become too thin for her to breathe properly, what with all the anger in her. Until a pulse of magic flared to her right. 

Hermione was unfazed. She didn’t need to turn to know who had just stepped in; the temperature of the air shifted in a way she’d come to recognize after years of sharing the same school and same workplace. 

“Move.” Malfoy’s voice cut through the crowd—calm, cold, effortlessly authoritative.

He stepped forward, black Auror robes unfastened at the collar, wand at his hip. His expression was carved from ice, and people parted without being asked twice. His gaze flicked up to the parchment that filled the entire announcement board, jaw tightening almost invisibly at the sight. Almost.

“Your office. Now,” Malfoy said, already steering her away from the murmuring crowd. 

The walk back to Hermione’s office was excruciatingly quiet. It was the kind of quiet where their footsteps had sounded intrusive.

“You saw it.” Malfoy broke the silence as he held the door open for her. She could only nod as they stepped inside the space. She let Malfoy close the door for her and cast a silencing charm for added measure.

Malfoy remained standing, unlike the last time he was in her office. While Hermione caught herself quick enough to land on her seat, all the color from her face drained. 

“I can’t believe this, Malfoy—“ Hermione’s voice was shaking, her hands trembled as she spoke, “I can’t believe her!”

“It’s incomplete,” he muttered, Hermione’s eyes shooting up directly at him in complete disbelief. “That one was just the public draft. For everyone to see that she’s serious.”

“What do you mean just the public draft?” Hermione snapped sharply.

Malfoy didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Silence pressed heavier than words.

Hermione inhaled through her nose, steadying the fury clawing up her throat. What did Malfoy know that she didn’t? What in goddamn’s name is going on? Even more so, what is Rosier planning to achieve?

Malfoy let her simmer in her own thoughts, keeping quiet as he observed how she quickly shifted from being in a panic attack just at the atrium to a woman filled with so much rage she didn’t know where to put it.

Hermione was just about to throw more hysterical questions at Malfoy when loud chattering echoed from just outside her office. 

“She’s first?”

“Of course, she is! She’s muggle-born, unmarried, and in her thirties. It was bound to be her.”

“I thought she was with one of those Weasleys?”

“Does that mean they’ll make her—?”

Hermione felt something inside her twist. A furious, helpless twist Thoughts of her and Ron’s failed engagement intruded her mind. Should she have just said ‘yes’ five years ago? She definitely wouldn’t be in this position if she had. 

“This is only her opening move.” Malfoy’s voice cut low and brought her back.

She slumped back onto her chair, her gaze fixed on the floor. “She can’t do this. Publishing reproductive data—private data—without consent—“

“She can, Granger,” he interjected, “and she just did.”

Hermione didn’t say anything because she knew he was right. Rosier was still well-within her right as Minister. The silence was deafening. What was Malfoy even doing here in the middle of her dilemma? Was Harry aware of this? Did he send Malfoy to look after her?

“I’ll leave you to it, Granger.” Malfoy then left her office, her door sounding with a click as he closed it.

 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

 

Hermione couldn’t focus on anything. She tried and tried to go through all her due legislations for review, but her mind just kept replaying the same thing plastered on the Ministry’s announcement board. Her name, number one the list, and her reproductive instability. There was absolutely nothing, at the very moment, that could bring back her focus. 

As she continued to battle with her thoughts and focus, a silver-misted memo swooped right into her office. The voice was loud and clear, and she knew who it belonged to.

“Ms. Granger, please make yourself available at your earliest convenience. I would like for you to make yourself available here in my office. Please do not delay.”

Her heart sank. Of course. 

Of course, Rosier would summon her. Malfoy was right, yet again. She was being called in for the whole purpose of being used for both ways that are victories for Rosier. Where was Malfoy or Harry when she needed them? Now, she had to enter into the dragon’s den alone. It will just be her and Rosier.

Hermione breathed in and out as she did her best to relax herself. Although the Minister’s floor was just a floor up from her department, it felt like the longest elevator ride she had ever been in. She steadied her breath, gathering the shards of her composure.

She knew she had to be smart about entering Rosier’s office. So, she took a mental note—agree to nothing. Remain on neutral grounds. She could do this. She has faced dark wizards when she was sixteen, she could face them again now that she’s thirty. This should be easier. They were within Ministry walls, what’s the worst that could happen?

Finally gathering up her courage (and which seemed to have been five minutes outside Rosier’s office), Hermione knocked three times on the wooden door before she was let in. 

There, Octavia Rosier was seated on the chaise lounge with a cup of tea in her hand. She greeted Hermione with a warmth so polished it gleamed like freshly waxed marble.

“Hermione, welcome,” Rosier said, rising from her seat, “do come in.” She motioned for Hermione to enter and sit with her at her own little receiving area.

“You look tired, my dear. Today must have been overwhelming for you, hm?” Rosier added, a seemingly worried smile plastered across her face.

Hermione kept her back straight. “I saw the list.”

“Ah, yes,” Rosier’s smile widened, almost sickeningly cherubic. “The Health & Protection Initiative is finally taking shape. A proud day for magical Britain.”

“It’s coercion,” Hermione said, bravery in her words, “dressed up as compassion.”

Rosier was taken aback by the sudden venom in Hermione’s words before emitting a chuckle. It sounded nearly as conniving as Umbridge when she held Hogwarts captive. She sighed, a look of false pity on her face. 

“Progress is often misunderstood. You, of all witches, should know that.”

Hermione’s voice sharpened, “Progress is merely cruelty with better manners.”

The Minister stilled. Then, the corners of her lips formed into a menacing smile. Slow. Precise.

“You always did have a way with words,” Rosier murmured. “This is exactly why I need you.”

Hermione did not expect that. She was as stiff as someone petrified. How could Rosier need her if she’s the very thing and person that wants this rubbish movement demolished? She just couldn’t figure out Rosier’s game.

Rosier stepped closer, her hands clasped with gentle gravity.

“I want you to be the face of modern protection,” she said warmly. “A symbol of hope. A reminder that choosing sterilization—should you decide to—is an act of empowerment, not shame.”

Hermione’s blood iced. She was a pawn in Rosier’s game. As to how long this game is, she hadn’t the slightest idea.

“You want me to endorse forced sterilization.”

Rosier clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “Ah-ah, Ms. Granger. You mistake me, it’s not forced,” she corrected, “Encouraged. Guided. Supported.”

Delusion at best. Hermione had concluded that it was nothing but a dead end from here, especially when Rosier had tightened all possible loopholes that Hermione could have thought of. The records, the data, the way the movement was presented—it reeked of classic Granger. Of how she saw through things. 

Hermione felt bile rise. Her fists trembled. Her vision pulsed. 

“You published my name first,” Hermione whispered, “to put pressure on me.”

“No, I did it to inspire you,” Rosier said tenderly. 

Hermione couldn’t breathe. Not here. Absolutely not with this woman’s false kindness pressing like a thumb on her throat. 

Rosier’s smile softened further. “Oh, Ms. Granger,” a hint of mocking gentleness resided in her voice, “think about it, okay? Shape history and leave a legacy! Or…”

Something flickered in Rosier’s eyes so quickly that Hermione didn’t even know if what she was real, but she’s betting on her gut feel on it. 

“You could resist. And resistance, as you know, comes at a cost,” Rosier’s tone sharpened unlike before.

“Is that a threat?” Hermione challenged in full disbelief but Rosier only shrugged innocently. 

“A prediction.” Rosier finally said before opening the door of her office with a flick of her wrist as she cast a wandless spell. “Good bye, Ms. Granger!”

Hermione immediately turned and walked out before she said—or did—something that would ultimately destroy her. 

As Hermione stepped out, she saw Harry waiting for her. Oh, how happy she was to see her best friend again. Did he know? Did he have the slightest bit of an idea? 

“Thank Merlin you’re here, Harry!” Hermione burst into tears as she went straight to hug The Chosen One. 

“I’ll bring you to your office, yeah? Then let’s talk. Malfoy filled me in.” Harry threw his arm over Hermione’s shoulder and gave her a pat before returning to his Auror stance. He was escorting a Ministry official, he still had to honor his code as Auror. 

As they reached Hermione’s office, her eyes widened to see Malfoy already seated on one of her guest chairs. They both know what’s up. 

“Malfoy,” Hermione acknowledged his presence with a nod before proceeding to sit by her desk. 

Harry closed the door, locked it with his Auror clearance, and sat parallel to Malfoy. “So, what did she offer you?” It was Harry who broke the silence, Malfoy just moving his gaze from Potter to Granger—as if anticipating something worthy of intel. 

“She—she asked me to be the face of the health and reproduction program,” Hermione’s voice trembled. 

Malfoy’s jaw clenched and Harry swore under his breath. She could be dreaming but she could swear she heard Harry and Malfoy mutter a short string of curses to themselves. They know. 

“She’s going to make you her puppet, Hermione.” Harry pointed out. It was a statement and he’s sure of it. This offended Hermione to great lengths. What did Harry expect her to do?

“And you think I don’t know that? Damned if I do, damned if I don’t! She knows how to play her game and she’s fucking good at it.” Hermione was livid. Malfoy was amused that he had heard the Golden Girl lose her cool and actually swore. 

“I don’t have any other choice, do I?” Hermione asked rhetorically, her voice full of exasperation as she brought her arms up out of frustration.

“You’re thinking too small,” Malfoy said at last, “she’s making you think that you don’t. She obviously wants you cornered, Granger. I may have a way out but you won’t like it.” 

Hermione had had enough for the day, she couldn’t even respond to Malfoy’s cryptic remark. Instead, she rolled her eyes. 

“Let’s give it a shot, Malfoy,” Harry spoke, giving his Auror the ‘go’ signal. And just before Hermione could protest against anything, Harry added, “We protect Hermione at all costs. That’s an order. We do everything to keep her protected until we figure out this whole ordeal.”

Malfoy nodded as he acknowledged Harry’s orders. “I’ll put in more research tonight and come up with something for tomorrow.” With that, he disappeared out the hall, leaving Harry and Hermione alone. 

“Hermione, I know this is difficult. Malfoy and I are figuring out a way to help you be in the clear for now. I know you’re coming up with something for every muggle-born witch of this, so we’ll be doing everything we can to make sure you find what you need.”

Now she understood the vagueness. Malfoy’s sudden and more frequent appearances around her. The tension. Something was moving beneath the Ministry’s floorboards, and Rosier was only the surface. 

Chapter 4: The Ultimatum

Hermione’s flat met her with a silence that felt deliberate, as if the rooms had been braced in expectation; she paused in the doorway for a heartbeat, taking it in before closing the door behind her. It clicked shut with a soft, familiar thud, and the echo of her own footsteps—usually a small comfort—sounded oddly intrusive, as if she were the odd noise in a place that had been holding its breath.

Everything looked as she’d left it: neat stacks of drafts and annotated bills on the kitchen counter, her abandoned mug congealed into a cold ring on the saucer, and the Floo’s distant hum stitched the corners of the room with a soft mechanical lull. 

And yet the quiet pressed in on her chest like a physical weight, a slow tightening that made the air in the flat taste small and thin.

She let her satchel slump to the floor with a dull thunk, then sank into the couch and covered her face with both hands, as if she could hold the rush of thoughts at bay with the curve of her palms.

Intrusive questions she’d pushed aside all week surged forward now—sharp, impatient: Should she have married Ron? Would she be in this position if she had just said ‘yes’ five years ago? The thought arrived uninvited, gnawing at the corners of her resolve with rude, relentless persistence.

Hermione breathed out slowly as memories bubbled up, a scatter of warm and sharp images that blurred the edges of the present. Red hair, pleasant freckles, that easy laugh—Ron’s face appeared in fragments: a gentleness she had once needed, perhaps even craved. For an instant she imagined a different life and felt its seductive comfort, but another part of her, cold and sure, returned. With him she would have settled, and settling would have cost her something she’d never be allowed to reclaim. 

They were at The Burrow, five years earlier, when Ron had handed her a small, nervous bouquet of sunflowers.“You’d be perfect for me, you know,” he’d fumbled, words tripping over hope and expectation. Hermione had smiled politely, nodding, but inside she had felt a disconnect. The mismatch of hearts, the subtle irritation that he never really heard her. She remembered that her favorite flowers were gentle roses, those which were named after her. Sunflowers were the least of her favorites.

There was also a time when she and Ron were strolling along Diagon Alley and he had complained about her spending too much time at Flourish & Blotts, failing to understand (despite having been in the same house in Hogwarts) her love for books and her passion for reading. Hermione had argued, and Ron had stormed off, muttering, “Why must you have the need to be clever for everyone?” 

And finally, that one time during a snowy Christmas in Muggle London, when she’d reached for his hand and he had flinched and shrugged off her hand, “Not now, ‘Mione, he’s about to win!”. He’d been more invested in the drunken contest across the street than in the small, urgent invitation in her hand; her palm, left empty, a tiny emblem of the years of small dismissals.

It should have been a night for them to be themselves, to breathe outside the sacred, welded role they’d assumed in the Trio; instead it had made the distance between them undeniable. That was when she understood: choosing herself was not cruelty, but clarity; it meant refusing to be half-held by someone who could not or would not meet her halfway.

The memories of Ron didn’t soften her; they sharpened her resolve. She had chosen then—and she would choose now, again and again, for herself.

The Floo erupted with a roar, spilling green flame into the flat and scattering the hush; the sudden ceremonial light broke the thread of her private thoughts like a hand slapping a curtain aside. Before she could steady herself, Ginny hammered through the hearth, cheeks flushed and a baby bundled to her chest; Pansy and Neville followed in a tumbled chorus, apologies spilling out as they clambered into the living room—near misses, laughter and care colliding like good intentions.

Ginny set baby James down with a practiced gentleness and slid into the empty space beside Hermione; Pansy, exuberant and slightly breathless, settled herself forward, hand automatically finding Hermione’s knee.

“Oh, Hermione,” Ginny said, voice threaded with worry. She set James on the rug, the baby crawling happily toward his godmother, as Ginny’s eyes flicked to Hermione with a sort of protective impatience. “Harry told me everything.”

Hermione forced a tight smile, one that didn’t quite curve. And she felt the language of the day fall away; she couldn’t find words that would hold what she felt without unraveling into anger or tears.

“We heard,” Neville said softly, lowering himself onto the rug beside James and being careful not to tip the small boy over. “About the list,” he added, voice full of that earnest steadiness that steadied others.

“I vote we topple the bloody Ministry before my child enters this bloody world,” Pansy quipped, elbowing Hermione in a friendly tease. “You’ve got roughly thirty weeks, give or take—to make it happen. No pressure.”

Their intrusion was exactly what she needed: warm chaos to blunt the sharp edges of the morning. For a startling moment she felt held, anchored. Oh, what would she do without them? The thought was an ache and a relief in one. 

She blinked, and a brittle laugh escaped like a small admission of weakness. She lifted James into her lap; his weight steadied her in a way nothing else could. “I’ll do my best,” she promised, voice soft but firm. “For James, for Pansy’s baby, for every witch and wizard who deserves more than this. We can’t regress like this, especially after everything since the war.”

All three reached for her hands, fingers closing in a warm fist around hers; in their faces there was something fierce and quiet. Hope. There was hope in her in their eyes and that was more than enough. It was the strength she needed to remind herself that she could conquer this, and she would win. One way or another.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Monday morning arrived with the same heavy air that hung over the Ministry corridors the previous week as Hermione approached the atrium. The bubble of solitude she’d cultivated over the weekend could not exist here; the Ministry’s corridors swallowed privacy whole. Inside these walls the world had a legal grammar that could be wielded as a weapon. 

Even her office, once a place of controlled comfort and order, felt like a small fortress shelled in by expectation; for the first time since she’d started working at the Ministry, she felt a viscous dread curling in her stomach at the thought of crossing the next threshold.

Her hot coffee that Janice usually prepared sat waiting, suspended in a tiny stasis charm like a relic, its steam arrested in mid-curl; a reminder that time itself had been paused for the moment of decision, and that a summons might arrive at any second.

Hermione tried to work as if things were status quo, but as her clock ticked at every second, she knew that she was closer to meeting the inevitable. And she was right. Just before her day ended, a confidential Ministry memo flew inside her office carrying the familiar crest of silver thorns cutting through a rose.

It was time.

With a wave of her wand, the memo opened and the Minister’s voice echoed inside her office walls.

“Please proceed to my office, Ms. Granger,” the voice said with crystalline politeness. “There are urgent matters we must address.”

The note carried no faux maternal warmth this time; Rosier’s calmness had been stripped of affectation and left sharp, its polished tone like a sheet of ice coming down the throat.

Hermione’s steps to Rosier’s office were deliberate and taut; she had rehearsed what she would say a thousand times, and yet her mind supplied only a hollow press of dread. She knew—one way or another—an ultimatum awaited, stipulating the terms for her body and her future. 

She knocked three controlled times and entered, shoulders squared, posture deliberate. For all the fear, she carried herself like someone prepared to negotiate with the devil on strictly legal terms.

Rosier’s smile was the exact sort of thing a portrait practiced in private: calm, open, perfectly timed. “Come in, Ms. Granger. Do sit,” she said, gesturing toward the chair as though they were merely discussing tea.

Hermione sat, spine straight, eyes level, fingers folded in her lap.

“I shall be explicit,” Rosier intoned, folding her hands around a cup. “But first—tea? Two sugars?” Her politeness was coldly calibrated; Hermione let the offer hang, then declined with a measured refusal.

“I would prefer you make a plain statement,” Hermione answered, voice steady though the anger in it hummed just under the surface. She had no patience for the performance.

“My, my,” Rosier replied with the faintest arch of an eyebrow, amusement pitched at a level meant to unsettle. “You are—how can I say—direct.” Rosier set her cup down with delicate care and continued in a voice as smooth as polished stone: “Very well. You have two choices, Ms. Granger.”

“Option A,” Rosier said, each syllable measured as if speaking from a script, “is voluntary treatment through the Health & Protection Initiative. It is, frankly, your easiest path. You would become the public symbol of a necessary reform; the person who ushers in a safer future. Imagine the legislation, the recognition. Your work will be amplified into legacy.” Her cadence was practiced to soothe; the logic was dressed in charity.

Then her tone narrowed like a lens. “Option B is straightforward: we will snap your wand, and you will leave Wizarding Britain permanently. All legal claims to property, titles, and privileges as a witch will be revoked. Any attempt to return will be treated as a criminal offense.” 

Hermione’s stomach dropped into her shoes. To leave was to efface everything she’d fought for; to submit was to give up the agency she had defended with her life. Her knuckles flared white as she squeezed her hands into fists on her knees.

No. She would not be swayed. She would not be coerced. She would not flee her home in cowardice. She would not be broken by politics dressed as mercy.

Rosier’s gaze sharpened: “You have a decision to make, Ms. Granger.” The words carried a quiet menace like cold iron.

Hermione drew in a long, steadying breath, letting the image of her friends—Ginny’s twitch of worry, Neville’s steady presence, Pansy’s brash loyalty—anchor her. The ultimatum dangled in the air like a guillotine, but she felt the scaffold of allies and argument beneath her feet.

Hermione’s silence seemed to amuse Rosier more than frustrate her; she smiled a fraction too widely. “Very well. You have until the end of the day to make your choice. Time is generous, Ms. Granger, but generous in the wrong hands, becomes leverage. The first option is, for clarity, the sounder one.”

Hermione’s thoughts shifted from visceral shock to arithmetic. This was not a moment for tears; it was a problem to be solved. She would map Rosier’s strengths and weakness, locate the administrative seam where the Minister’s fabric frayed, and press. She had an hour, not days; every minute now was precious.

Harry. Malfoy. She needed to see them, now.

“Thank you, Minister,” Hermione said with formal politeness that barely contained the steel in her voice. “I will respond by the end of the day.” She rose and inclined her head once, a small, quiet acknowledgment of the trap she’d just been given.

The moment she walked out of the Minister’s office, she made a sprint to the Auror Department,the speed of her feet reflecting the new timetable she’d been given. She didn’t have any more time to lose and she needed answers fast.

Left. Right. Left. Right. Right. 

The Auror bullpen was scarce of people. Fuck. Were they all on field duty today? Her mind ticked through possibilities as she scanned the room and the adjacent briefing rooms for any sign of Harry or Malfoy.

At the end of the hall a single briefing room had its blinds drawn; the quiet behind that door felt like the promise of collusion. She caught her breath and tried the handle, finding it warded. For the first time that morning she felt the old exhilaration: either utter failure or the right people within.

The wards hummed back at her, but not in friendliness; she had to break this barrier if she wanted immediate counsel. Lucky, in the most ragged sense of the word, she thought wryly.

“Bombarda!”

The door burst inward. Malfoy sat at the table, expression impassive; two junior Aurors were mid-briefing while Harry was just finishing a clipped demonstration—turning, he instantly sized the situation and dismissed the recruits to other duties with a sharp gesture.

Hermione’s terse look was all it took; Harry sniffed, the hint of apology for the interruption, and dismissed the junior Aurors with brisk efficiency—this was not a training day any longer.

“Excuse the interruption,” Harry said to the juniors, voice clipped. “Find Auror Robards; he’ll show you in. The rest can wait.” He closed the door behind them with a soft click that felt like the literal drawing of a line in the sand.

Once the juniors had gone, Draco’s hand moved with practiced efficiency; a flick, and the door sealed with tighter wards, the room becoming a closed crucible for urgent strategy. Harry gingerly indicated a chair, but Hermione shook her head minutely; this conversation required motion, movement; she did not want to sit into the feeling of inevitability.

”Right,” Hermione spoke, glaring around the room, “let’s dismantle that sanctimonious harpy. And I’ve got before the day ends to do that.”

“Tough deadline, Granger,” Malfoy commented as he raised an eyebrow at Hermione, acknowledging the pressure without pretending to sympathize. Hermione’s glare cut across the room; he simply shrugged, unaffected.

“Some of us prefer to remain intact, thanks very much,” Hermione snapped, heat in her voice. “Not everyone has the luxury of being callous, Malfoy.”

Draco’s mouth twitched in something like amusement; he leaned back just enough to look indulgently bored, the expression of someone who dealt with theatrics daily and preferred them kept to a minimum.

”Malfoy, be nice,” Harry admonished gently, fingers pressed once into Hermione’s shoulder to remind her he was present. “Did you get to the research you mentioned?”

Malfoy barely stirred; with a small, efficient motion he produced an ancient, heavily warded volume—an object whose presence seemed to change the temperature in the room. 

“Here’s my answer to Granger’s problems,” he said flatly, setting the book down with a soft thud that seemed to insist on attention.

The cover’s gilt title gleamed faintly in the impartial light: “Sanctimonia Vincet Semper.” Below, in a hand older than legislation, the Malfoy name was embossed. The book felt like history made physical. A ledger of lineage and protections.

“And how, exactly, is a book about purity supposed to save me? Someone it would historically reject?” Hermione demanded, hands rising in exasperated incredulity.

”You don’t even know what’s in the book, Granger,” Malfoy countered, voice clinical. “You can’t know until someone versed in the old rites reads it. The protections it references—family wards and codicils—are real. If you want to resist Rosier’s old magic, there’s an archaic remedy here that might, in practice, shield what she aims to undo.”

Hermione’s mind flared with disbelief. “You’re suggesting what, exactly?” she asked incredulously. Charity from a Malfoy, or some contract that would trade one set of constraints for another?

Before she could press for clarity, a new Ministry memo unfurled into the center of the table with a noiseless breath: official lettering, rosette seal, and two glowing checkboxes hovering midair next to a line for her magical signature.

The three of them watched the hovering tickboxes like a judge watching a gavel; the room tightened around the instant of decision.

“Tick the first option,” Malfoy said, tone stripped of play, and stood as if making the command irreversible. He wasn’t mocking; there was a flat, professional urgency in him now. An analyst issuing a needed direction. Hermione glanced at Harry; he gave a quiet, reluctant nod. 

“Trust me,” he added, the words not offered as comfort but as the instruction they were; Hermione, adrenaline sharpening her compliance and her fear, signed the box without a flourish.

Rosier’s voice chimed from the memo in the same syruped tone she favored: “Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Granger. Your Healer will contact you shortly to arrange an appointment. Your participation will be heralded as a milestone for future generations.” The final pleasantry landed like a ceremonial dismissal.

The directive collapsed into a puff of official dust and vanished, as if a stage curtain had snapped shut.

Hermione’s face flamed with anger—part betrayed, part incredulous. Why had Malfoy pushed so bluntly? What had she been pressed into? The true Malfoy line felt like a barter in which she’d been pawned off to preserve power she neither earned nor trusted.

“It’s the Pureblood Lineage Mantle, Granger,” Malfoy said precisely. “Some families have rites recorded only in private codices. Wards that bind one person’s protections to another by marriage or oath. The old laws grant certain immunities that can be invoked. I’m offering you access to that mechanism.”

“And you guarantee any of that would withstand Rosier’s authority?” Hermione snapped, anger hardening into a legal cynicism. “Do you even know if a family ward can supersede ministerial statute?”

”It’s your best shot, believe it or not,” Malfoy answered flatly. 

Hermione felt something like nausea: the sense that she’d been pushed toward a fragile hypothesis. An old ritual whose cost she could not yet weigh because the alternative was exile and erasure. 

“Hermione, you know that Malfoy has got a point,” Harry gently coaxed, his eyes trying to find hers. A steady plea.

She couldn’t meet her best friend’s gaze; the pressure of being asked to trust a Malfoy made something hot and wary slide up in her chest. It wasn’t strategy so much as desperation dressed as an option. Thin hope worn like an uneasy truce.

And then, she realized that she wasn’t the same hopeful Gryffindor she once was. With a glance that was equal parts disgust and reluctant calculation, she rose and left the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Chapter 5: The Warning

A week before Hermione’s scheduled sterilization.

Draco found the corridor colder than usual that morning, a chill that seemed to seep not just from the stone walls but from the lingering frost of the Ministry itself, curling into the marrow of his bones. Every step Draco took was honed by years of habit—economical, measured, a choreography of necessity. No wasted gestures. No pause for thought. Even his breath traveled in silent efficiency. The Auror bullpen carried a collage of smells: the deep, worn tang of old leather, the lingering smoke of a spent brazier, the faint trace of citrus from hand salves clinging stubbornly to talismans and desks alike. These were all ordinary things to mask the fact that everything now was anything but ordinary.

As Draco approached his desk, he caught sight of Theo—and for a flicker of a heartbeat, surprise prickled through him, a rare unprepared moment in the rhythm of his mornings. Theo was a supervisor at the Department of Records, so finding him at the Auror bullpen was an unusual sight. Theo straightened, the faint stiffening of shoulders betraying that Draco’s presence was unexpected, as though the universe itself had misplaced him in this moment. The motion alone might lend gravity to the conversation. For once both men looked younger than the problem that occupied them; urgency had a way of chiseling away at a practiced veneer.

”You found something,” Draco said without preamble. There was no softness in Draco’s words; it was as though the world had long ceased requesting gentleness, and he had obeyed that quiet, unforgiving rule.

Theo’s answering smile was thin. He produced a small folder from beneath his arm, it and its contents securely warded only for him and Draco to see, its corners rubbed. “Nott library. Two nights of cross-referencing ledgers, marginalia, private wills—things that don’t appear on official indexes. The sterilization program isn’t merely medical. It’s ritual-adjacent. It borrows language from old blood law.”

Draco took the folder, immediately flipping through the pages and pages of summaries and reports that Theo had prepared. He read without the pretense of curiosity; his face revealed nothing. The faint tang of dust and iron clung to the air, the scent of old parchment rising with each page he turned, a reminder of histories that preferred silence to inquiry.

Theo watched him, then added, quiet and practical as a ledger entry, “There were several cases, although not many. Dispersed and misfiled. Women who were said to have been ‘rendered barren’ after certain ministrations then exhibited what some Elders described as ‘duller’ magic. It included unstable charms, spells snapping, and a thinning of control. The language they used was gruesome: ‘the core is leached’. And based on all available accounts, these women have that one thing in common with Granger—their lineage were all muggle-borns.”

Draco’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “They never proved causality,” he said, each word measured like the edge of a blade.

”They never tried,” Theo said. “They assumed. They wanted it to be true.”

Silence stretched between them, dense and patient, only punctuated by the distant, hollow echo of senior Aurors’ laughter and the clipped chatter of rookies still learning the cadence of urgency. Draco closed the folder and slid it back into Theo’s arms.

”This proves everything,” he said, flat. “It makes the program less medical and more—“ He stopped; finding a single noun felt pointless. “It makes it a weapon.”

”Exactly.” Theo’s voice was a thread of anger woven through his breath. “Which is why they hide behind ‘choice’. They weaponize consent. If you can get the most visible, most sympathetic, most vocal muggle-born to volunteer, you make the violence palatable.”

Draco’s words came blunt and cold, a stark incision in the quiet: “She’s worse than Voldemort.” The syllables landed without flourish, absolute in their measured horror.

Theo’s eyes widened. He had expected a jagged barb, a baroque comparison. Not the plain, absolute weight of that statement.

Draco didn’t elaborate. He rarely gave people a map to what he felt. Instead, he added, tone clipped and very deliberately controlled, “Voldemort at least feared anyone that challenged him. He had measurable contempt and tactical prudence. This woman… she has a different calculus. She despises blood that ‘taints’ her. There is no wary respect there; there is an ideological pruning.

Theo exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the declaration settle between them like dust upon old stone.

”This is personal,” he said finally. “She’s not repairing a nation; she’s pruning one.”

Draco nodded once, “Which means statutes alone may fail to bind her. The Pureblood Lineage Mantle… that is the hedge we can lean on, the fastest route through the labyrinth of this threat. Did you get to see if it worked with non-pureblood witches?”

Theo’s hands curled on the folder. “Well, the old family codicils, legacy wards have been there since the beginning of time. The Malfoys kept a codex with rites that bind protective line wards to marriage or household. If, and only if, implemented correctly, those wards can be stubborn against political currents. It, apparently, also protects anyone within the family line from any kind of harm.”

Draco’s expression, by protocol chosen, betrayed nothing. But his shoulders went slightly tighter. “Are there any accounts of a non-pureblood witch being able to be blanketed by the Malfoy code? You know I loathe trading in ancestral myth.”

Theo could only roll his eyes, “You also know we’re out of options for Hermione, here,” his voice sharpened, “Pushing Hermione too much now might fracture her. You and Potter already rushed her decision with the belief that you’re steering her to safety. That you’d have a loophole for this.”

That admission—that he’d nudged her, influenced her—hung between them like the trace of a hex.

Draco’s mouth tightened into something that almost passed for a smile. “Would you rather we have pushed her to get her wand snapped? Have her completely and permanently exiled from Wizarding Britain? I pushed because those choices were scaffolding she could barely stand on. I simply misjudged where it would land.”

”You misjudged the cost, Malfoy,” Theo’s eyes were blunt. “She’s not some evidence in your field work that you can simply move around, fit into your narrative of what a solution is.”

Draco turned, his back facing Theo. For a second, only for a second, the armor of indifference slipped. He let himself weigh the possibility Theo had just outlined—what if Hermione couldn’t be persuaded? And in that admitted weight lay the quietly maddening fact that he had no sure thing to offer Hermione other than hope packaged as tradition.

”Get her to the muggle coffee shop I told you about,” Draco instructed, “I’ll talk to her. You’ll have the documents. We’ll present it as ‘research-related’. She’ll assume safety; she’ll not know we’re testing trust now.”

Theo was hesitant, but eventually agreed. “You do understand the risk, right? If she knows the full extent—we’ve pushed her into something that has zero proof, that she really may have to undergo the sterilization process, and that sterilization may strip her magical core—she may recoil,” he lowers his voice into a whisper, “If she recoils, Rosier can call it irrational hysteria, press harder, or even put her in Azkaban. If she doesn’t, she may consent without real consent.”

Draco’s answer was a tight, pragmatic, emotionless calculation. “Then we remove all possibilities of her recoiling and make the proof convincing."

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Theo and Draco moved then, not a run but with a steady, professional glide of men who had agreed on a plan and its price. They apparated in a thin silver pain and reappeared two breaths later in a different city entirely. The drizzle-sweetened, brick-scented pockets of Muggle London. Draco always chose this coffee shop when he needed invisibility: a corner shop with a tentative hand-painted sign, its windows fogged with warmth, and blueberry scones laid out as if the baker still believed that small pleasures could resist the cruelty of the world.

Draco sat himself by the window, spine straight, hands folded as if that posture could iron his thoughts. Theo, braver in his necessary kindness, arranged the documents between them so Hermione would be unable to ignore the physical weight of what she’d be asked to accept. Draco bought the coffee; when the server set down a paper-wrapped scone, Draco’s movement betrayed the barest sign of private comfort. A mechanical, nearly guilty indulgence. The scone was, he would admit only later and to no one, exceptional.

Hermione arrived as punctual as laws; she’d been on the frantic and anxious side as she awaited her schedule. She had immediately received her schedule the day after she had chosen Option A—to be scheduled for a sterilization process. Hermione understood the scantness of her time to uncover loopholes, yet this—this fragile, improbable strategy—was the only avenue between her wand being broken and the permanent erasure of her place in Wizarding Britain.

When she received Theo’s patronus and told her to come, she had been worried. It’s not everyday that Theo gets to have his corporeal patronus successfully send messages. She’s just glad that he was able to and understood that it was one pressing matter.

Hermione stepped into the small shop with an expression that read prepared for diplomacy, armed for a storm. A feeling of relief washed over her as she saw Theo but it immediately disappeared at the sight of the person who accompanied him—Malfoy. 

Both Theo and Malfoy stood as she sat opposite them in their occupied booth. Malfoy nodded, the briefest inclination of acknowledgment, and that was the only civility she received until the words were necessary and asked.

”You said you had proper documents to help,” Hermione said, voice steady. She seated herself, opened her hands like she would open a file, like she would accept facts and not platitudes.

Malfoy didn’t soften. He told her, without preface, “Theo’s found references in the Nott library manor. Not conclusively linked to modern practice—yet—but strongly suggestive. Treatment in practice has ritual aspects. It’s possible the ‘intervention’ isn’t neutral magically. It could assault the magical core. The language in some archives describes outcomes that read the same as what the afflicted do now: spells bending, failures in wand-work, a thinning.”

Hermione’s eyes sharpened to slits. “You’re suggesting… the sterilization could sever my magical core?” Her voice carried the weight of incredulity tempered by rising fear.

”We don’t have empirical, we only have patterns. And these patterns suggest the same—muggle-borns and sterilization,” Theo added quickly, holding out a sheaf of notes, transcriptions of marginalia, quotes from medicine charters. “It’s not a modern clinical trial, Hermione. But the analogues are there. Procedures once recorded as necessary for lineage maintenance appear to match the outcomes we fear.”

When Hermione laughed, it came thin, brittle, and echoing in the coffee-scented air. “Guilt by historical precedent,” she said, voice sharp with irony. “Charming.”

Theo flinched as if it were Hermione’s hand actually slapping him straight in the face, “It’s not charm, Hermione. You know I wouldn’t do that. It’s earnest. We’re showing you the probable mechanism.”

”You pushed me,” Hermione said, her eyes narrowed and set on the blond man across her. The wound in her voice was newly raw, “You told me to sign because—because it was my best shot. You told me to trust you.”

Malfoy’s face did not change expression; his voice stayed controlled, clipped. “I said it was your best shot. It was your best shot against being permanently exiled from Wizarding Britain. I did not pretend it was riskless.”

”You didn’t tell me what the risk was.” Her fingers clenched into fists, pressing against the table as though its solidity could tether her fraying resolve against the rising tide of betrayal. “You could have told me the history. You could have told me this library had documents implying that the procedure—“

”You left before I could even tell you any of that,” Malfoy interjected. 

Hermione’s shoulders jerked with a small, incredulous laugh. “So, what now? You want me to believe that this Malfoy family codex will save me? That marrying into a pureblood and invoking an ancient ward will supersede my rights signed by the Minister?”

Theo’s placards, his marginalia, the dry footnotes—they sat between them as if they were talismans. He met her quietly. “There are precedents of wards tied to kin that outlived statutes for centuries. They were local protections, buried in private wills. They were patched, re-inked, reinforced. Not always perfect. Not absolute. But the nature of some wards is that they’re older than the law.”

Hermione’s reply was both a legalist’s impatience and a woman’s wounded skepticism. “And you can prove this will work on me? On a muggle-born woman marrying into a family with—what—‘pure’ blood?”

Theo’s eyes were steady, “We can’t prove it until we try, and trying will cost you something. I won’t pretend otherwise.”

Malfoy had watched, quiet as carved stone. He folded his hands, “If you reject this, the alternative is exile or treatment. If you refuse the shield and resist publicly, Rosier will escalate and probably send you to Azkaban. She will use your resistance as pretext to make an example.”

Hermione’s face went grey, not from fear but from the arithmancy of cruelty. She thought of Ron—of what would have been and what was now—and of the friends leaning like columns behind her. She thought of Pansy’s laugh and wondered if her baby would laugh like her, of Ginny’s hands that held baby James securely in her arms, of Harry’s steady eyes that had always looked after her like a real brother. She thought of the Ministry’s parchment that had been stitched to her like a noose.

”What exactly do you need me to do?” Hermione asked finally, a voice small but not broken.

Malfoy answered with the succinctness of someone placing a chess piece. “Consent to the ritual of warding by alliance. Move forward with the ceremony. Accept that living with the shield is the trade I’m offering. You will have to remain married; the shield must be invoked through an Unbreakable Vow. We’ll document, enact, and bind.”

Hermione’s throat worked, “A sacred marriage.”

Malfoy’s glance did not soften, “Yes.”

There it was, in stark, brutal arithmetic: her agency and her body offered as collateral for the legal fiction of protection, for an invocation of ancestral lines she had never sought to touch. Theo’s research promised a plausible diversion from the worst of Rosier’s reach. It did not guarantee absolution. It offered a complicated—and morally dubious—chance.

Hermione looked at them both—at the man who had nudged her into the murk and the scholar who had dredged the possible lifeline. She had signed for Option A because there had been no other visible avenue that day; now she measured the cost.

”No evidence,” she said slowly. “No guarantee. An experimental protective measure based on family rites that were never designed for someone like me.”

Theo said nothing for a long beat. Malfoy said nothing at all.

”This is not a solution,” Hermione added. “It’s another set of unknowns! Another petition to older myths. What, then, makes you different from Rosier?”

This made Malfoy’s jaw clench. His tone was stark, business-only, “It is the best shot we have before the procedure.”

Hermione folded her hands in her lap and stared through the shop window at the anonymous alley beyond. Rain freckled the glass. The city continued to fold itself into small lives—people who did not know they were being used as margin notes in someone else’s war.

She could decline. She could go home and refuse the shield, comply with the sterilization, and make herself into the martyr Rosier would love to condemn. She could sign papers that would make her invisible and safe in a way that would cost the thing that made her herself.

The choices were narrow. The stakes were private and sweeping. In the end, the decision felt less like a single moment than like a ledger—columns of debts she had no desire to accrue, matched against the tally of those she could still protect.

Theo slid the folder to the edge of the table. Malfoy reached for the paper-wrapped scone and tore a corner with the same practised, impassive hand.

Hermione did not speak for a long time. She was not yet resigned. She was not yet convinced. She was only—as she had been since the list had first appeared—thinking, mapping, arranging the moves she could make from within the cage.

When she finally spoke, it was quiet but not small. “Give me the documents. All of them. Everything you’ve found.”

Theo’s mouth softened, the faintest movement almost imperceptible. Malfoy’s jaw remained set; his nod was curt.

“Tonight,” Malfoy said, “I’ll have them owled to you tonight. Read them and come to a decision. Before they schedule you.”

Before Hermione could even say anything further, Malfoy and Theo had stood and offered a curt nod. “Remember, Granger, time is the only leverage you’ve got.” 

She watched the steam hanging ghostlike above the coffee, and for a moment she let the shape of all her options arrange themselves into a ledger only she could balance. She finally reached for the cup, lifting it slowly. The warmth did nothing to sweeten the bitterness on her tongue—the flavor as sharp and real as the ledger of choices she now held in her hands.

Chapter 6: Violent Sparks / Forced Hand

Three days before Hermione’s scheduled sterilization.

Hermione had been folded over Theo’s research for so long her spine throbbed and her fingers tingled from turning the same pages over and over. Every line, every note, every smudged signature spoke of danger in a language older than any statute she had studied. 

“Hearken, ye who stand upon the Threshold of Ancient Blood. Let it be known unto all Houses, both noble and enduring, that the Mantle of Pure Lineage is not lightly claimed, nor bestowed without solemn rite…”

“…At the uttering of this Oath, the Mantle awaketh and setteth its protection about the Claimed. Those who hear and know the ancient customs shall yield their quarrel at once, lest they be forsworn before Magic itself…”

“…Let none defy it who hold lineage dear. For the blood remembers, and the Mantle answereth.”

She had poured over the marginalia again and again, trying to anticipate the sterilization process, trying to calculate every potential loophole, every historical anomaly, every shard of precedent. 

“The First Written Mantle Invocation Over a Malfoy Bride… between Lord Edvard Malfoy and Lady Aceline in 1032… when Lady Aceline was beset by a Norman war-lord seeking to force her into remarriage… and the Mantle was cast argent fire, and no man dared lay hand upon her.”

“…between Lord Renaud Malfoy and Dame Ysoria in 1157… seeing his Lady pressed under sovereign demand… the guards’ spears fell from numb hands, for the Mantle doth forbid seizure of the Malfoy Matriarch by any crown or court.”

“…between Lord Alaric Malfoy and Lady Diantha in 1348… during The Great Pestilence, when witch-hunters sought to drag Lady Diantha into questioning…”

“…between Lord Percival and Lady Celestine in 1562… known to history as The Most Famous Invocation, when Lord Tristan Burke attempted to seize Celestine under a fabricated charge… the Mantle smote the false charge, unmasking deceit, and Burke was undone.” 

But the longer she read, the more every line felt like a countdown, carving the truth into her ribs. Hermione paled as she saw a footnote under all accounts of the Mantle, written in bolder letters and red ink.

“The Mantle endureth only where the marriage is witnessed, sanctified, and consummated; for Magic acknowledgeth not the hollow vow…” 

“Should the union remain unconsummated, the Mantle faileth at sunrise of the seventh day; and upon the Patriarch descendeth the Kiss of Death, for Magic claimeth the life of he who binds a Matriarch without sealing the vow.”

Hermione’s pulse slammed against her throat so hard she thought she might choke on it. 

Consummation. Seven days. Kiss of death.

Malfoy’s death. In place of her protection.

Her mouth went dry. Her chest burned.

How could he suggest—no. How could he expect her to make that choice as if it were clinical? As if dying for her would be… acceptable?

Is he insane? Or—does he think I am?

Her thoughts rushed at her, jagged and too fast to grasp. She resented the Mantle for existing, resented Rosier for the goddamned reform movement, resented the universe for dangling an impossible choice in front of her. As though her autonomy wasn’t already a battlefield. But most of all, she resented him for treating his own life so menial. 

Heat flooded her face, half fury and half terror.

What kind of choice was this? What kind of solution? She was supposed to choose between mutilating her magic through forced sterilization… or tethering herself to Draco Malfoy in a way that stripped her agency down to nothing? And if she hesitated—faltered in the slightest sense of the word—if the union failed to consummate in time, he would die. 

He would die because of me.

Because. Of. Me.

Hermione immediately went for the nearest bin in her study, her stomach lurching violently. She couldn’t stomach the mere thought of someone—yet, another one—to sacrifice their life for her. She had lost so many in the war a decade ago, she absolutely cannot live that through.

And the worst part of it all, was that she couldn’t even tell if Malfoy understood the enormity of what he wanted her to do. Or if he did understand and simply didn’t care because this was his chance. His grand gesture. His redemption arc served on a silver platter, a narrative the world would swallow whole. A Malfoy dying for a muggle-born. The muggle-born—Brightest Witch of Her Age, The Golden Girl.

Her hands shook with anger. The thought made her furious.

What was she supposed to feel? Grateful? Honored? Manipulated?

She wanted to scream until her voice tore. She wanted to shake him, to demand if he had thought any of this through, or if he simply assumed she would fold under the weight of guilt.

Because she could feel the guilt rising already, choking her—thick and unbearable.

Her mind spiraled, collapsing inward. Every possibility felt like a cruel riddle with no correct answer, only varying degrees of tragedy. She couldn’t breathe past the pressure rising in her chest, couldn’t find a single coherent thought that didn’t contradict the one before it.

She was terrified—because every choice was wrong. Because of this damned impossible situation, there was no choice she could make that didn’t feel like a betrayal of someone.

Including herself.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

A day past Hermione’s scheduled sterilization.

Hermione hadn’t shown her face at the Ministry for two days—and the shadows had grown teeth. The shadow that moved just beyond the edges of her vision, the faint rustle in hallways, the lingering heat of broomstick exhaust in alleyways, the subtle sniff of magic in the air. Aurors present—those who believed in Rosier’s vision—had been trailing her, invisible but tangible, always just a heartbeat behind. They weren’t hiding. They were circling. Waiting for the moment she stepped wrong. Hermione had changed routes and varied her Muggle routines, but the pattern was too precise: these were professionals, and they were patient. 

And patient as they may be, they also operated on efficiency. They were going to bring her in no matter what. An agreement is an agreement, Hermione knew that. But she just couldn’t bring herself to her appointment. 

Panic curled around her chest as she realized the ledger of her options had narrowed to a knife’s edge. If she delayed this any longer, Aurors under Rosier’s command would act on their own initiative. If she waited until morning, or even later that evening, they could appear in force any time. 

Clad in her disillusioned charm, just as Hermione turned the block from her quick grocery run, flash issues of The Daily Prophet swooped everywhere. One slapped against her shoulder like an omen, and she snatched it mid-air.

GOLDEN GIRL: MISSING?

SUPPOSED FACE OF ROSIER’S HEALTH INITIATIVE, HERMIONE GRANGER, IS NOWHERE TO BE SEEN.

IS THIS A PLOT TO DISMANTLE THE MINISTRY?

Article by Rita Skeeter

It seems the Ministry’s darling poster-child for reform has gone missing… again. Hermione Granger, once hailed as the Golden Girl of Rosier’s much-vaunted Health Initiative, is now nowhere to be found. Sources close to the matter whisper that she has evaded her obligations, leaving both the Ministry and eager onlookers high and dry.

Could it be mere negligence? Or is there a more sinister motive behind this conspicuous disappearance? Those with an eye for scandal suggest that Granger’s sudden vanishing act from the Ministry might be a carefully orchestrated ploy to destabilize Wizarding Britain from within. After all, she has a track record of—shall we say—innovative problem-solving and unorthodox alliances.

Insiders report that meetings have been repeatedly rescheduled, cancelled, or abandoned, prompting whispered speculation in the corridors of power: is Granger quietly undermining the Ministry she once claimed to serve? Or is she being used by her shadowy benefactors to pull strings only they understand?

While the Rosier Health Initiative publicly touts progress and goodwill, the absence of its most visible champion raises uncomfortable questions. Is Hermione Granger a committed reformer or a golden figurehead masking darker designs?

Only time, and perhaps an exclusive exposé, will reveal the truth. But one thing is certain: when the Golden Girl disappears, the world takes notice… and scandal is never far behind.

The Potters, Weasleys, and Longbottoms—Granger’s usual possey—have refused to make any statements at the moment.

Hermione’s fury detonated so violently she nearly scorched the paper with her wandless magic. It was true, she had hidden away most of her recent days in Muggle London, with her obligation to Rosier hanging in the air. It wasn’t the most professional, yes. But it was the only way she could be in a proper headspace to think. What’s a day late to her appointment? Apparently, it was everything and Rita Skeeter was still dedicated to tarnishing her image every chance she could get.

From the nearest apparition point she could walk to, Hermione apparated into her flat. Her blood was cold. After that article, she was a hundred percent certain Rosier’s Aurors would storm in and look for her. She began warding her door when Harry’s voice suddenly came in the form of a floating white stag.

”Hermione,” Harry’s voice was breathless, “did you eat the oats?”

“Wh-what?” Hermione stammered, pulse spiking.

“I said,” his voice stern and careful, “did you eat the oats?” 

Then, she remembered their safewords. They first used this during the war, when they hunted for all the Horcruxes. It was a routine check that didn’t feel too obvious. Yes, she did eat the oats—if there was no harm or threat to her. No, I didn’t eat the oats—if there were.

Hermione cleared her throat, doing her best to sound calm as she could. “No,” she whispered, “I… I didn’t eat the oats, Harry.”

A silent pause. 

“Alright, Hermione. I’ll just have Malfoy check again,” Harry told her and the stag had disappeared into white mist.

Moments after, several loud cracks of apparition could be heard from just outside her flat’s door. The faint clatter of boots padding made her body freeze. She had absolutely nowhere else to go. Her pulse hammered.

Was it too late to make a choice now? 

Should she have immediately taken up Malfoy on his offer? 

Her panicked train of thought was broken when a sudden green-gold flash filled the room, and Malfoy appeared, emerging from her fireplace as precise and cold as any Auror entering a scene of crisis. Hermione couldn’t read his expression, his grey eyes displaying a sense of professionalism and detachment. But she noticed a faint crease between his brows, a subtle tightening of the jaw—a tell of frustration directed as much at her obstinacy as at the urgency of the situation.

”Follow my lead,” Malfoy simply said, low and tight, like a man holding a collapsing roof with his bare hands.

”Malfoy!” Hermione tried to stop him, grabbing him by the arm on instinct. A direct objection to what he was about to do. It would compromise her. They would take her.

If frustration and anger could be a person, it was Malfoy in the flesh.

”Trust me,” he said—then, through clenched teeth, “Please.”

His desperation for her to listen was what made Hermione loosen her grip. Malfoy gave her a curt nod before fully opening the door and facing the Aurors that awaited the Golden Girl.

”Auror Malfoy,” Auror Thornbridge greeted the Senior Auror with surprise in his eyes, “We didn’t know you were to take Ms. Granger into custody. She was supposed to be scheduled yesterday—“

“No, you are not to take her nor do anything with her,” Malfoy’s voice snapped through the corridor; cold, lethal, absolute. Hermione felt absurd—Hermione Granger, war hero, hiding behind Draco bloody Malfoy—but she didn’t dare move.

”But, sir,” Auror Thornbridge tried to argue, “Under Minister Rosier’s directive, we were to escort her to St. Mungo’s immediately. She was supposed to—“

”Do not make me repeat myself, Auror Thornbridge.” Malfoy’s voice was colder than ice. He flicked his wand once, an age-old parchment shimmered in the air, the scroll unfolding in between the two Aurors. There, in Old English and runes, was written: Pureblood Lineage Mantle. Underneath the very title was Malfoy and Hermione’s names—Lord Draco Malfoy and Miss Hermione Granger.

The Auror blanked at the unfolded magical script right before his eyes, a nervous nod showed his understanding. “My apologies, Senior Auror Malfoy. We shall inform Minister Rosier. Again, we do apologize for the grave mistake,” he said as he and the rest of the Aurors present disapparated with a loud CRACK!

“Expecto patronum!”

As soon as the Aurors had fled the scene, Malfoy conjured a corporeal patronus of a white ferret. “Potter, she’s safe and with me. Let’s debrief tomorrow morning. I’ll have Nott do the paperwork. We have everything under control for now.”

Hermione watched the ferret skitter away, half in awe that Malfoy even had a corporeal patronus. But when she turned to Malfoy, she could definitely see that he was on the last and thinnest stretch of his patience. She waited a few beats before starting, “Malfoy—“

But she was immediately cut off as Malfoy interjected, “You had an entire week, Granger—seven days—and you did nothing.” His voice echoed within the walls of Hermione’s flat, full of frustration and disappointment, “And yet, you chose—no, you simply let Skeeter, the Ministry, Rosier—everyone—rip you apart while you hid.” 

Hermione stilled, at a loss for words because he was right. She looked at his eyes as if trying to find answers in them, but there was nothing. Tears were brimming in her eyes at the slap of reality Malfoy had brought up. 

“You’ve run out of time, Granger. There is no other option left. You marry me, or you lose everything—those are the only two paths.” Malfoy’s cold, clipped voice broke through her haze of panic. 

Her pulse spiked. She straightened, stubbornness flaring despite the terror that pressed in on all sides, “And what then, Malfoy?! Marry you and then what—watch you die?!” Her voice came louder than she had expected, her emotions exploding all at once. 

Malfoy’s jaw clenched, “I have many things to atone for in this life, Granger. It’s nothing.”

“I will not allow you to make that decision for me, Malfoy!” 

“What then?! How will you save generations of muggle-born witches without your magic?” 

The tension in the air was tight, every word uttered tasted like venom. 

“Th-then…” Hermione sighed, her reluctance masked by professionalism, “then, we do as necessary. We complete the vow.”

Malfoy’s gaze on Hermione softened. Hermione couldn’t believe what she had just said, but somehow it felt right. She needed to do this so that no one else—no other muggle-born witch—would have to succumb to this. 

“I’ll apparate us to Nott Manor,” Malfoy’s voice was quiet, “can you side-along?” 

Hermione nodded and Malfoy offered his arm. In a silent swirl of black smoke and purple glows, they apparated to Nott Manor. 

 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

 

They landed right in the middle of Nott Manor, the estate quiet and dim. The manor felt hollowed out, like something ancient had died inside it but the walls hadn’t noticed yet. Hermione felt the cold and eerie atmosphere as she followed behind Malfoy who seemed to know exactly where he was headed. 

As they walked, Hermione couldn’t help but think of how they apparated. More so, how Malfoy specifically apparated in silence and in a gust of black smoke. Was that how Death Eaters apparated, still—silent, smokelike?

They paced through the wide corridor and made an abrupt left to a room that had its door left ajar. Soft ripples of the fireplace could be heard, what of the still quiet of the estate. 

“Nott,” Malfoy called as he barged through the door, Hermione following suit, “I’ve got Granger.”

Theo’s eyes went wide, genuinely surprised that Malfoy had managed to bring Hermione. “Are you sure about this, Granger?” He had asked, still in disbelief.

“Y-yes, I am,” Hermioned replied, although hesitation was in her eyes.

“I already told the Aurors about the Mantle,” Malfoy began, “They’re sure as hell to inform Rosier about it first thing. Without it, she’ll be placed in Azkaban or have her wand snapped,” he continued coolly with the slightest hint of urgency. 

Theo nodded, acknowledging the chain of events. “Let’s go, I already uncovered the ritual chamber,” he started and Hermione gave him a disbelieving look. Theo shrugged, “I had to be prepared, you know.”

Nott Manor’s ritual chamber thrummed with ancient warmth now, not cold severity. The runes pulsed faintly along the walls, constellations humming with age, as if waiting for her. The air shimmered faintly, as if remembering hundreds of unions sealed here long before war, politics, and fear twisted the ritual into something else.

Hermione stood in the center, breath unsteady, heart smoldering with every emotion she had no time to sort. The sigils beneath her glowed gently, a false sense of comfort with every beat of light.

Malfoy stood opposite her, still rigid, still controlled; yet softened by the candlelight set in the middle of the chamber. Something flickered in his eyes, gone before she could even name it.

“Ready?” Theo looked at them both, to which they replied with a curt nod. He stepped between them and conjured a piece of parchment which was charmed, quill hovering. “Please join hands.”

And so, they did. “State your vows,” Theo instructed quietly.

The chamber immediately fell into sacred silence, the reverberating hum of the glowing runes seemed to be louder than their breaths.

Malfoy’s jaw tightened, and for a breath he looked as though the past—generations of Malfoys who invoked this rite for love, for devotion, for choosing someone so wholly the world fell away—pressed against him. But reality is cruel and he had to do this without any of those reasons Malfoys practiced this invocation in the first place.

Then he spoke.

“By blood and breath, by heart and name,

I, Draco Lucius Malfoy,”

Malfoy drew a breath; steadying, resigned, and spoke.

“Call the Mantle to bear witness.

I taketh thee into my keeping, not as burden but as bond,

And place my life beside thine, freely and wholly.”

The magic answered immediately. Warm, almost tender; rising around him like soft white fire. 

Hermione’s throat tightened. This vow was different. This vow was… not a weapon. Not a trap. It was beautiful, painfully so. Her chest burned at the thought that this was supposed to be exchanged by persons in love; those who were completely and utterly devoted to one another that they’d tied themselves to each in this life and all the rest of their next lives.

Theo turned to her, his tone gentled. “Your acceptance.”

Hermione felt Malfoy’s vow settle around her like a soft net; beautiful, suffocating, wrong, right, impossible all at once. She had not prepared for that. And she had also not prepared for the burst of emotions that dealt with this ritual.

Theo cleared his throat, awaiting Hermione. Then, she spoke.

”By will and wisdom, by courage and truth,

I, Hermione Jean Granger, receive the Mantle’s offering.

Thy shield I accept, and thy bond I acknowledge,

Not in surrender but in shared fate.”

The bond snapped into place with a gentle kind of firmness that traversed through their joined hands. Hermione felt like it was two hands clasping across centuries. Then, a warm light had appeared and threaded through Malfoy’s chest to hers, weaving through her ribs and settling in her bones. For a moment, Hermione felt something that made her dizzy.

It didn’t feel cruel. It didn’t feel like torture. It felt ancient. Beautiful. Chosen.

Then, Theo raised his wand, and the warmth cracked into ice. Hermione had feared that the ritual might make her feel like she was under a Crucio but it was far from that. It felt like a second magical core pulsed beneath her sternum—his, braided with hers.

”Let it be known:” Theo’s voice thundered as he began with the consummation decree.

”Unconsummated, the union holdeth ‘til the seventh dawn.

At sunrise, the Mantle breaketh, and

Death’s Kiss seeketh the unfulfilled patriarch.”

The candles immediately guttered. Hermione felt her breath leave her entirely, while Malfoy closed his eyes for a heartbeat—they could both feel each other by merely standing together within the chamber.

Theo lowered his wand. “Seal the union.”

Malfoy approached her slowly, almost reverently, as if she might shatter in his hold. The magic tugged them together with each step glowing gold around their feet.

He extended his hand, a gesture older than any law. Older than any spell. It was a gesture only meant for lovers.

Hermione hesitated only a second before moving in closer, occupying the little space that’s left of where Malfoy stood. She closed the gap, on her toes, as her lips pressed against his. She hadn’t expected the kiss to be soft, gentle. Like something stolen from a life that wasn’t hers.

Magic rose around them in a warm, spiraling glow, curling like a vow remembered through generations. 

When she finally drew back, her breath shook. And Malfoy’s vow brushed against her skin like a ghost.

”What I bind, I cherish.

What I shield, I honor.

What I vow, I keep.”

The light flared gently, sinking beneath her skin. Hermione didn’t know how and why she knew the next words to say, but she whispered the echo, with breath trembling.

”So witnessed. So woven. So done.”

Hermione felt like she and Malfoy were in a bubble of their own, until Theo’s quill began scratching and writing through the conjured parchment. With a small grin on his face, a sign of relief, Theo gave both of his friends a pat on each shoulder, “The binding is complete.”

Reality immediately sank in for Hermione. It was like being snapped out of a trance—she noticed the way Malfoy held both her hands, the way she could feel his magic in her very core, and the way his grey eyes looked more meaningful—it was all too much for her right now.

Suddenly, the chamber contracted around her. The air too thick, too hot; too full of Malfoy’s magic braided with hers.

Her chest tightened. Her vision blurred.

Before Malfoy could form a single word, Hermione tore herself free and bolted. She needed to be out of there. Anywhere but the ritual chamber. 

The oak door slammed behind her like the crack of a wand; final, echoing, irreversible.