Hello everyone, long time no see. This is the first of three opening chapters for three different stories I'll be posting here in the next few days (hopefully, but knowing me it might take a little longer than that to get around to it).

Basically, I took a break from writing for a while to get back to reading and in doing so have somehow managed to come up with three completely different ideas for long fics almost simultaneously. I love having new ideas and can't wait to put them on paper, but writing 100 000 word stories does take some doing and I'm trying to get into med school so I don't exactly have much time.

Ramble aside, I'll be posting the three opening chapters and only continuing with the one that gets the most/best reviews so that I know I'll be writing something that people enjoy. This may seem like a stupid idea, but it's the only solution I can find.

So bear that in mind when you come to that new little 'comments' box at the bottom of the screen. If you liked this story and want to read more, review lots and lots. If not, then thanks for helping me narrow it down (I'm terrible at making decisions).

Also, and this is important, I'm writing this on a thing that doesn't have spell-check so if you see any mistakes please let me know, or I'll be really embarrassed.

(Disclaimer: I own nothing but any OCs I manage to shove into the story - although all of this happens five years after the war is over, so I guess I can claim some of the ideas that I use here.)


DECREE No. 419876113

By order of the Minister for Magic, the honorable Kingsley Shacklebolt, this decree shall be effective from the sixth day of the seventh month of the year 2003.

The reign of blood-supremacists has been one of horror and death, culminating in the Final Battle on the second day of the fifth month of the year 1998. Thus, in an initiative to put an end to the false idea that one of purely wizarding ancestry is in any way superior to those born of two muggles, was born this decree.

Let it henceforth be understood that all of those descending from a 'pureblood' family must enter into marriage with a muggle-born witch or wizard. This binding contract must be entered into willingly and consummated on the wedding night so that grounds for annulment cannot be found. Divorce is indeed possible, if living together should prove detrimental to the health and well-being of either partner, but should a decision to divorce be undertaken both individuals will once again have to follow the rules and regulations stated in this decree.

Witches and wizards must make their proposals by the age of 21, and must be married within their 21st year.

Should this age have already been surpassed before the publication of this decree, the proposal must be made and accepted before the year 2003 has culminated. The period of engagement must not exceed six months from the date the proposal is signed if the two parties are older than 21, and all traditional routes of marriage must be followed so as not to give grounds for annulment.

A 'pureblood' shall be defined as an individual who can trace purely wizards as their ancestors for four or more generations, whereas a muggleborn witch or wizard is one descended from two non-magical parents.

Those who can only trace back two or three generations of solely wizarding blood shall be exempt from this decree on the grounds that they are 'half-bloods' and thus have the desired mixed lineage already.

Failure to comply with the regulations stated herein will result in a punishment tailored according to the status and gross yearly income of the non-compliant individual and is left to the discression of the Grand Overseer, through whom all marriage proposals pertaining to the union of 'pure' and 'muggle' bloods shall pass. Refusal to partake in this decree may lead to a trial and imprisonment, and will be treated as severely as any other legal transgression.

Should an individual be deemed unweddable by a court of law, with more than three character witnesses of the prosecution's own choosing, they will be exempt from this law.

A 'snap' brought Hermione back to reality, her hands balled into tight fists. Dangling from the end of her (rather expensive) phoenix feather quill was the nib which she had accidentally broken off in her anger, forgetting that she had been clutching it a little too tightly. It had been a week since the decree had been published, and she was still seething. All her petitioning against this new law had completely been ignored - she was going to murder Kinglsey when they had their next Order meeting. The Order of the Phoenix lived on, despite the fact that the war had been over for five years, but they only rarely met. It was now more a preventative measure than a defensive one, run solely to monitor extremist groups and drastically reduce the likelihood of another war.

The Order meetings were really the only time she ever saw people from her past. Occasionally, she was invited to dinner at Grimauld Place with Harry and Ginny (mercifully they'd redecorated so she wasn't verbally abused by Mrs Black every time she opened the door), but these invitations were few and far between. She understood, really. Harry had been a fully-fledged Auror for four years now, having taken the fast track qualification that had been opened to them all. She had taken it too, along with most of the group that once called themselves 'Dumbledore's Army', but had never intended to become an Auror. It had been more of a gap year for her, a year in which she could distract herself from the terrible past and daunting future. Harry had risen quickly among the Aurors, and was now being sent all over the world on the Ministry's most dangerous missions. And Ginny never left his side. She had proven herself equally (if not slightly better, due to her ability to rationalise and Harry's rash self-sacrificing instincts) as good an Auror as her fiancee, much to Hermione's delight. The world needed more strong women.

As for Ron, he had left the Auror training at the same time as Hermione after realising that his family would always come first in his heart. Slowly, he had pulled George back to the land of the living, both grieving together over the loss of their brother. To everybody's surprise, Percy abandoned his position at the Ministry and returned home to help. The three of them had restocked the twins' shop and since then had managed to open stores across the country. Hermione's relationship with Ron had suffered because of the devastating loss of the Weasley family, and they had parted amicably.

Despite promises to remain the best of friends forever, life soon took over for the Golden Trio. Hermione moved out of her parents' house and into a small studio in London so as to be closer to work. Her stellar examination results, coupled with a glowing reference from Headmistress McGonagall meant that she was able to climb up the rankings in the Ministry with relative ease. Of course, her fame and the large part she had played in the Final Battle had helped too, but she liked to think that it was her intelligence that people had hired her for. She knew she was at least partly lying to herself, but it eased her conscience.

Hermione pulled out her wand and murmured a quick reparo spell to fix her broken quill, then turned back to the parchment in front of her. She understood why they had felt the need to pass this law, but she still resented the imposition on her freedom. The largest flaw in their plan was that the purebloods were, with lamentably few exceptions, a terrible bunch of people. She need only think of Draco Malfoy to remember why she had opposed this new law so strongly. Arrogant, egocentric, spoilt... And those were only the most polite adjectives she could muster to describe them.

Her stomach gurgled loudly, interrupting her mental rant before she could work herself up into a fury and break something a little more valuble than her quill. She couldn't concentrate on her work any longer so decided to go out for lunch. Hermione left instructions with her young secretary to deliver the latest draft of the House Elves Rights Bill to Amanda Finch while she was out, and left the department as swiftly as possible to avoid stunned looks from her juniors. Alright, so she didn't go out much during the day - there was no need to stare at her as though she'd caught spattergoit. She turned once more out of habit to look at the shining golden letters on the arch above the entrance to her department. Department for Rights - the three little words that gave her world its meaning.

Hermione settled herself in the little cafe in the grand foyer of the Ministry of Magic, telling herself that the reason she couldn't bring herself to venture much further from her office was that it was raining outside. In reality, it was because even five years on from the Final Battle, she was constantly tailed by photographers hoping to catch her doing something scandalous. As it was, she could barely remember the last time she'd been outside on the streets. She flooed directly from the fireplace in her office to the fireplace in her flat every day, and ate all her meals in one of these two locations.

Tomorrow I'll go out, she told herself as she told herself every day, before attacking the bacon sandwich before her and demolishing it within minutes. She beckoned the waitress over to pay for her meal, hoping that she wouldn't be one of those. Younger people still came up to her to ask for autographs or photographs, and almost everyone stared at her with awe. Sometimes people would even thank her for what she'd done. Hermione knew that she should be flattered and that a normal person might even enjoy the attention, but she couldn't help but be utterly embarrassed.

Thankfully, the waitress gave her little more than a second glance and Hermione scurried back to her office. Later, she would wish that she had spent a little more time trying to enjoy that morning, because things were only about to get worse.

"Miss Granger? These came for you from Lavinia Jones' office," Hermione's secretary said, handing the bushy-haired young woman a bundle of letters in cream envelopes tied together with a red ribbon. Hermione's heart sank and bile rose in her throat. She knew full well what those letters were.

"Thank you, Lucy. Why don't you take your lunch break now?" she suggested, trying to keep a modicum of calm about her while her heart engaged in a boxing match with her stomach.

The young girl nodded and left Hermione to her own dark thoughts. The moment she was cocooned in her office, Hermione tore the ribbon from the pack of letters and began ripping them open.

Alfonso Pietro Alexus Manelli requests the hand in marriage of Hermione Jean Granger... Michael James Gordon III asks for the honour of a union with Hermione Jean Granger...

Thirteen letters dropped from her hands to the floor in quick succession. The fourteenth made her pause.

Draco Lucius Malfoy humbly requests the hand in marriage of Hermione Jean Granger.

Hermione couldn't help but snort at the wording of that proposal. As if Malfoy could ever be humble. She tossed it aside, dismissing it as some sort of twisted joke on his part. She wouldn't have put it past the pale boy she used to know to send her a false wedding proposal just to ridicule her.

The fifteenth and final letter would have made her sit down with a bump had she been standing. As it was, her comically wide eyes were the only physical indication of her surprise.

Ronald Billius Weasley.

Ron. Awkward, bumbling, familiar Ron was asking her to marry him. An impersonal note, almost a memo, an 'oh by the way, you're the person I've decided I want to spend the rest of my life with'. And no forewarning, nothing to spare her the shock of opening his letter. A part of her, a large part, was so angry at him for his thoughtless approach to their marriage that it drove all else from her brain. But there was a tiny, niggling voice in the back of her head that kept asking itself what it would be like to say yes.

As a little girl, Hermione had often wondered whether she and Ron would end up old and married. In her imagination, it was a comfortable view of the future. But comfortable was all it was - there was no love, no passion between them. There was no challenge or excitement. The only kiss they had shared had been strangely exhilarating, but only because her blood had coursed with adrenaline for the oncoming battle. Their one grand romantic gesture was tangled up forever, completely overshadowed by the war. It was difficult to imagine a life together now. In fact, Hermione realised with an unpleasant jolt that she could no longer picture his face clearly. Time had blurred the mental image she carried of him to nothing more than a mop of red hair and some freckles.

It had been over a year since they'd last seen each other. Hermione was still regularly invited to the Weasley's for the Christmas holidays at the Burrow, but last year Ron had been called away on urgent business in America over Christmas and Hermione had had a case in Australia over the New Year, so they'd missed each other entirely.

She had once loved him like a brother, but now it was so long since they had last spoken that she barely knew him.

With a sigh, she gathered the pieces of parchment scattered around her desk and floor and shut them away in a draw along with the detested decree itself. Out of sight, out of mind, she told herself, partly as comfort and partly to remind herself that she had better things to dedicate her intellect to. Like her study of Goblin Welfare in Germany, for example. That would surely be a perfect distraction from the distasteful topic of the marriage law, as it involved a lot of research and therefore a lot of reading.

It proved to be an ineffective solution - her mind simply danced across the page and straight back to the small mound of proposals she had locked away. She simply couldn't face getting married right now. She was still so young, and she still had so much she wanted to do. Besides, most of the purebloods who had made her an offer didn't seem the type to want a working wife. They all seemed to regard her as a prize trophy: the ultimate mudblood. She shivered and rubbed her right arm, where the faint white scars of that despicable word were hidden away from prying eyes under a long-sleeved blouse.

Call her an old-fashioned woman, blame it on the classic romantic epics she had read as a little girl, but she wanted to marry for love. She didn't want to have to spend the rest of her life with someone simply because the ministry had dictated that it must be so. Somehow, she had to think of a way out of this ridiculous mess.


Hermione glanced at the small golden clock on her desk, a congratulatory present from her parents, and was startled to see that it was already six o'clock. The enchanted window that made up a large part of the right-hand wall showed that the rain had cleared, and left in its place a blazing evening sun.

The long fingers of the golden sun seemed to reach into her office and beckon her outside and for once, Hermione graciously acquiesced. Closing the thick tome on Goblin history that she had been pretending to read for at least the past couple of hours, she resolved to visit her favourite antiquitarian wizarding bookstore in Diagon Alley, convincing herself that the ordeal with the marriage proposals had earned her the right to buy a new book or three.

She bustled around her office briefly, sorting away the various bits of parchment that littered her desk until she could actually see the mahogany wood again. Now that there was nothing else she could possibly think of that would keep her in the office a moment longer, she wriggled into her blazer and left.

"Lucy, I think you can call it a day now." The girl looked up from a pile of papers she had been filing, trying to hide the shock that flitted across her features. Honestly, Hermione thought, you'd think I never leave while the sun's still shining. Actually, now that she thought about it, it did seem rather out of character to leave before the stars where out. "I'm just about to leave myself, and there's nothing that needs doing that can't wait for tomorrow," she said to her young assistant, who leapt up with a grateful smile.

"I'll open the floo connection right away, Miss Granger," Lucy said, reaching for her wand.

"Actually, I think I'll walk home tonight." This time, Lucy could not prevent her jaw from dropping. "Goodnight," Hermione said with a smile. The girl's expression reminded her so much of Ron's. And just like that, the marriage contract was back in the forefront of her mind. She shook her head in annoyance, as though trying to dislodge the thoughts that were slowly consuming her waking hours.

She'd forgotten what it was like to take the telephone box out of the Ministry, and so was completely unprepared to leave her stomach behind as it shot up with a jolt. Once she felt as though all her body parts had been reunited, she stepped out onto the pavement only to tread in some chewing gum that had been spat out onto the street. Things were certainly a lot dirtier than she remembered. A quick vanishing charm took care of the chewing gum, and she was off.

Hermione wound her way through the narrow streets of Wizarding London, stopping every so often when a particularly colourful window display caught her eye. Everything seemed to radiate happiness in the warm golden sunshine, and she found herself smiling for no reason whatsoever.

She caught a glimpse of Dean Thomas behind the counter in Ollivander's, laughing as a young child shot red sparks out of the end of her wand and caused a shelf of boxes to collapse. Hermione wondered whether he and Luna were still together, realising for the second time that day that she knew very little about her friends' lives.

She hurried past Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, eyes averted from the purple storefront. She didn't want to think about Ron right now, and even the slightest flash of a head of ginger hair might bring back the marriage proposal and all her buried emotions. There was a loud bang, and the door to the shop opened to release a noxious yellow cloud of gas. People began flooding out, coughing and laughing.

"All damages must be paid for," she heard Percy call in his best authoritative voice. Hermione dashed away, rounding the next corner at a breakneck speed. Finally, she had reached her destination - a crooked old tudor house, several stories shorter than the surrounding buildings. Old leather-bound books were piled up haphazardly in the window front, as crooked as the building in which they resided.

Hermione pushed open the door and smiled at the familiar smell of yellowing pages that greeted her.

"Miss Granger, how lovely to see you!" A little old man, almost bent double with silver glasses forever slipping off the tip of his nose, rushed up to greet her and shook her hand vigorously.

"How've you been, Mr Jarlock?" she said, returning the grin he gave her.

"Not too bad, not too bad. I've got some lovely new muggle classics you'll enjoy - ordered them in especially for you, my dear," he said, tugging her towards a second room that branched off the main one. "They're at the back, just left of - but why am I telling you? You already know where to go!" He relinquished her hand and gave her a gentle nudge in the right direction. Hermione picked her way through the piles of books that littered the floor, careful not to knock any of the teetering towers that looked as though they were constantly on the verge of collapse, and settled herself in the corner.

She ran her index finger along the leather spines of the books on the shelf, marvelling at the feel of the gold embossed letters under her skin. She skimmed the titles until she found what she was looking for: the last Dickens she had yet to read. Tugging it out from among the other books, she turned to the first page carefully, fully aware of the delicate state the yellowed pages were in.

Time slowed and stopped altogether as the black characters danced before her eyes, swirling into words and sentences of beautifully crafted English. Soon she had completely forgotten everything else, all human concerns vanishing from her head.

"So, Granger, what did you think of my proposal? Must have come as a bit of a shock to you - did you ever think you'd see the day someone actually asked you to marry them?" And with those words, reality came rushing back in. Hermione slammed the book shut, looking up angrily into the face of the tall blond whose languid drawl had so easily shattered her snatched moment of peace.

"Malfoy." It was less of a greeting and more of an insult, the way his name was propelled from her lips, "Nice to see your sense of humour hasn't improved over the years. Why, I hardly recognised you as the boy who'd go out of his way to antagonise me," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Never lost that ferret look, though, did you? Guess Moody's charm was a little stronger than he thought."

The blond flushed and the sudden infusion of blood to his previously pale face made Hermione take a closer look. She had to admit, what she saw wasn't altogether unpleasant. Time had been kind to Draco Malfoy. He'd stopped slicking his hair back, and instead let it sit naturally. Rebel strands here and there would fall into his face, bringing his delicate features more definition. His skin had lost that unhealthy, pale sheen and was now slightly more sun-kissed.

He was taller too, and more muscular if his arms were any indication of the rest of his body. The blue t-shirt he wore was tight enough that she could see how well-defined his body was, and it effortlessly accentuated the blue undertone in his unreadable silver eyes. His eyes met and captured hers, and for a moment she struggled to remember to breathe. Then his characteristic smirk spread across his lips, and the spell shattered.

"Well, whenever you're ready to discuss preliminaries, you know where to find me," he said, turning to leave. She reached out and grabbed his wrist.

"First of all, I don't have a clue where to 'find' you and I'm not sure I care to find out. Second, what the hell makes you think I'd accept your ridiculous proposal?" she spat.

"It's the law, Granger. And here in the real world, you won't get rewarded for breaking the rules." He looked down at his wrist which was still encircled by her delicate fingers. She let go as if burned.

"Nowhere in the decree does it say that I have to marry you, Malfoy."

"No, but you do have to marry someone and it's not like anyone else will have offered." Hermione's eyes narrowed. The arrogant prick was starting to get on her last nerve.

"Actually, for your information, I've had fourteen propsals besides your one. Not that it's any of your business at all." She did try not to sound too smug, but she did so want to wipe that self-satisfied smirk from his face. She watched as his eyes widened and his grin dropped slightly. Advantage Hermione, she thought.

"Lovely catching up with you. Try not to take it too personally when I say that I hope it's a long time before we do this again," she said, leaving the room before Malfoy even had a chance to reply.

"Miss Granger, leaving so soon? I haven't even shown you the new Wizarding books you might like. We have an excellent one on the history of the Hogwarts founders that I thought might interest you," the little man said, popping out from behind a tower of books that bore an uncanny resemblance to the leaning tower of Pisa.

"I'm sorry, Mr Jarlock, but I really do have to go. Would you mind putting this on hold for me?" she said, handing him the Dickens that she hadn't had time to put back.

"Store policy, I'm afraid, dictates that I can't put anything on hold. However, you are one of the few who reads Muggle classics, so I'm sure it'll be here waiting when you come back," he replied apologetically. They said their goodbyes, and Hermione was ushered out of the store by the tinkling of the brass bell above the door. She inwardly cursed Malfoy for interrupting her favourite activity all the way back to her flat. He really did have the worst timing.


Hermione's fitful sleep was interrupted by a loud tapping noise. She threw herself out of bed to open the window for the brown owl, which she recognised as a Ministry delivery owl. In her bleary eyed state, she reached out to take the letter tied to its leg before paying, and she was nipped sharply on the finger as punishment for her absentmindedness.

"Alright, alright, calm down," she grumbled, dropping the correct change into the pouch of the owl and untying its load. It have a haughty hoot before flying out of her window with what she could have sworn was a reproachful backwards glance.

The letter turned out to be a late-notice summons to the law courts for that morning. The court number, and the ungodly hour at which she'd received the summons were all the clues Hermione needed to figure out that the trial would be one of a Death Eater. In the beginning, this sort of trial had taken up most of the Ministry's time but of late they'd grown few and far between as most had been caught and dealt with.

She wondered if it would be the Death Eater that Harry and Ginny had been off chasing across the globe. Mulciber was one of the few Death Eaters left outstanding, which had surprised Hermione. She'd met Mulciber once and he had struck her as a man with an intellect to rival Goyle's.

Hermione shook herself into action, grabbing the purple cloak and hat of the Wizengamot trials from her wardrobe, as well as her favourite phoenix quill and some sober black ink. She would no doubt be called upon in the decision-making process, as head of the Department for Rights, and wanted to make sure that she knew every single detail of the trial. If there was time, she'd ask Lucy to find some background information on the trial beforehand.

Hermione had forgotten that the floo network into the Ministry was bound to be completely crowded with people flooding in for the trial. It therefore took a long time for her to be able to appear in one of the generic fireplaces in the centre of the Ministry, and she was covered in soot by that time as she'd had to use one of the less frequented (and thus less frequently cleaned) fireplaces.

By the time she had cleaned herself up, she was already cutting it close. She'd have to forego her usual preparation for a trial and rely solely on her memory. She found her seat, three places to the right of Kingsley, and returned his questioning glance with a shrug and a half-smile as she straightened her hat.

Fewer members of the public had gathered to watch this trial than ever before, perhaps because it was still very early in the morning or because it had been less highly publicised than the others. Hermione suspected the true reason was closer to the fact that more and more people were just trying to put the war behind them and move on with their lives. Every trial reminded them that they'd lost someone.

As she had predicted, the harrowed, broken-looking man who was marched into the courtroom was Mulciber, and Harry followed behind him, wand trained at his back in case he was stupid enough to make a move to escape. Hermione tried surreptitiously to catch her friend's eye, but Harry's weary green eyes did not look up once from where they were burning a hole into the prisoner's back.

He looks so tired, she thought to herself with a sudden pang of concern. She looked around for Ginny, who would normally have been right beside Harry, but she could not spot the red-head anywhere in the crowd. Before Hermione could begin to draw conclusions from her absence, Mulciber was seated roughly and the trial began in earnest. Hermione simply did not have time to worry about her friends any longer, so furiously was her quill sprinting across the parchment.

"Miss Granger, if you please," Kingsley said, indicating that it was Hermione's turn to speak.

"Thank you, Minister." Hermione stood and turned to the jury. "The accused stands trial today for crimes of a heinous nature against humanity. He has taken the lives of many of our fellow human beings, for the simple reason that their blood is not as 'pure' as his own. He has blindly followed, and, dare I say, revelled in following the doctrines of Lord Voldemort. He has done nothing that would serve to redeem these acts of violent destruction of life. Quite the opposite in fact - he has run from the course of justice, fearing for his own life. This act of selfishness can do nothing but condemn him further in my eyes.

"As for his basic human rights, it is my belief that he forfeited these inalienable rights by the acts that he has committed. In killing, he has blackened his soul. I therefore see no lawful reason why he should not be condemned with the rest of his kind to the Dementor's Kiss."

Hermione sat down, her brief speech over. It was not the best speech she had ever given, nor the longest, but she felt that it would not do the labour the point too much. She sensed that everybody in the courtroom wished the trial was over so that they could return to their normal lives and banish the past once more from their minds.

The verdict was a unanimous 'guilty', as she had imagined it would be, and the shell of a man was dragged to await transportation to Azkaban. Gone was the sense of satisfaction that she had gained from the first trials of Death Eaters. Now, all she felt was empty as she watched the man meekly allowing himself to be dragged away.

A low buzz of chatter filled the courtroom as the witches and wizards filed out and back to their day-to-day lives. Hermione tried to edge past a chubby, middle-aged witch discreetly in order to make her way towards Harry, but the rotund witch let out a squeal and grasped Hermione's hand in her own pudgy moist one.

"Wonderful speech, Miss Granger. You have such a way with words," she said in a squeaky voice, her eyes shining and her cheeks flushed under a layer of powder.

"Er... Thanks," Hermione said, ironically inarticulate, and trying in vain to extract her hand from the warm grasp of the other witch.

"I mean, I know they don't call you the 'brains' of the Golden Trio for nothing, but I didn't know that you were so clever. That's the reason I came to this trial, you know. Of course, I do want justice to be served to those horrible, horrible men, but I had a feeling you would be here and look at that: I was right!" The woman continued to chatter on in the same manner, a cloyingly sweet and naive tone of voice that rang distinctly false with Hermione.

"Well, it was lovely talking to you, but I'm afraid -"

"Oh, don't say another word. I know you're very busy - you're just such a role model to us all, you see. The way you've risen to such a position of power in only four years is simply inspiring..." Again, Hermione's feeble excuses were lost under a deluge of words. Every time she tried to leave and head back to the safety of her office, the woman would simply start up againt.

"Listen, I'm sorry but I have to be somewhere," Hermione said, finally, wrenching her hand out of the sweaty paw of the round witch. She hurried away, conscious that she had interrupted the woman half-way through a sentence, but finding that she didn't actually care about being polite any longer.

She glanced around the nearly-empty courtroom, looking without hope for the shock of unruly black hair, but did not see Harry anywhere. Hermione sighed and sped off towards her office.

She could manage nothing more than a cursory nod at Lucy, feeling as though she had exceeded her capacity to speak or to listen for that day, and barricaded herself in her office. As she once more took out the regulations of the new marriage law from their hiding place in the forbidden drawer, she began to wonder whether she actually enjoyed tormenting herself by searching for any loophole. Flashes of her arguments with Kingsley came back to her as she skimmed the familiar words.

"IT'S AN IMPINGEMENT UPON BASIC HUMAN RIGHTS!" she yelled, red in the face. Kingsley look distinctly ill at ease, and glanced around to see if anyone was staring. Luckily, the few people around were too polite to gawp outright, choosing instead to glance more surreptitiously at the wildly gesticulating woman.

"Hermione, please calm down -" the Minister began.

"Calm down? CALM DOWN? I'll calm down when you and the bunch of idiots you call a cabinet retract this proposition and remove your heads from your backsides!"

The Minister's brow creased in confusion at the muggle terminology, but his countenance darkened considerably at her torrent of insults. She was overstepping her limit.

"Control yourself - don't make a scene. You're beginning to embarrass not only yourself but the Ministry too. I don't want to have to ask you again. Please remember that I am the Minister for Magic."

Hermione was not yet so consumed by rage that she didn't notice the dangerous tone his voice had taken on. She nodded, abashed.

"Thank you. Listen, Hermione, I could really use your support on this act," he said in a much more weary voice. Hermione's mouth opened to declare that she would never, ever support such a foul piece of legislation, but he held up a silencing hand. "Not support then,but at least not open condemnation. You know that I haven't had the easiest job since I was elected Minister, what with the Death Eater trials, the Dementor issue, the reparations, the collapse in muggle relations..." He suddenly looked much older. Hermione noticed lines on his face that she hadn't seen before, and guilt drowned her anger. "People love you - the brains of the Golden Trio, a strong role model for hundreds of women out there. It would mean a lot to me if you could just... not make a fuss."

The last four words of their conversation echoed in her head as she read the final paragraph of the decree. Deemed unweddable... exempt from this law... make a fuss. The dots slowly began to join in her head as she spotted the one loophole open to her. There was still a chance that she could regain control of her own future, if she could only be brave enough.