Author's Note: Gosh, it's been a while! There have been a lot of changes in my life over the last year and a half, but I've kept working on this story. Albeit, slowly… but surely! And now, I'm finally back!
I have edited the original three chapters to fix plot holes and keep it more in line with where the story will be headed. In editing, chapter one grew to colossal proportions (over 10,000 words), and—alas!—I had to split it in two, so here is the first part.
The revised chapters two and three will be following along shortly, followed by entirely new chapters soon.
For those of you who have been here before, I have made a fair number of changes, so I do recommend re-reading. For newcomers, welcome!
Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, your lovely comments have kept me motivated and writing.
Disclaimer: I am merely exploring the wonderful world J. K. Rowling has created.
Now, please enjoy!
Chapter One: The New Minister for Magic
Tuesday, 18 June 2002
He slumped in the high-backed leather chair, legs extending, parallel, and let his heels rest on the mahogany desk's edge. This meeting had no point. Last week's meeting had had no point. The week-before-that's meeting had had no point, and Michael was pretty damn well sure that next week's meeting wouldn't have a point either.
For centuries it had all worked fine. Ministries, countries, they had all gotten along perfectly well without this bloody machine going about and deciding to suddenly make it ridiculously—and horribly—convenient to contact anyone and everyone. Ministers had waited days for owls to return or else used the Floo network for conferences and messengers had travelled half a continent Portkey by Portkey and apparition by apparition for state business. Back then propriety had dictated appropriately that meetings and summits and the like should be kept brief. A wizard could only be expected to kneel on hard flagstone with his head in the Floo for so long. Owl post could, and would simply have to, suffice on most matters.
And that was how Michael liked things. None of this rubbish about weekly updates and conferences. Did they suppose Ulick Gamp or Hesphaestus Gore or Josephina Flint or—Merlin forbid—Lorcan McLaird would have stood for such nuisances? No, the ruddy thing was just too convenient and too efficient. Suddenly, everything had to happen at once and no one had a speck of patience left anymore.
But when it was as easy as dialling a two-way telephone, there was no excuse why the Minister for Magic couldn't spare an hour each week for one of Britain's most valued international partners. Or so he'd been told repeatedly. Of course, Britain had to have allied back during the war with the French, of everyone. It only figured that the French Minister was Gael Bouchard. And naturally, Bouchard would be a bastard. It couldn't have been Lupe Garza or Synnöve Lykke, who conducted all her meetings over Gobstones and some of the finest, and most potent, akvavit Michael had ever tasted. No, it had to be the French and it had to be Bouchard, damn him.
Damn the machine too. The brass and steel Ericsson Skeleton Type had been modified, of course, as magic generally disagreed with electronic contraptions. Even the simplest leviosa tended to cause every digital watch within fifteen meters to malfunction, so Merlin only knew what might happen to a telephonein a place as magically-saturated as the Ministry. As Michael on occasion could reluctantly admit—and would have admitted readily, had he not been on the receiving end of its disadvantages—the Magi-Phone really was an impressive and enormously efficient invention in communication. It was sleek and attractive too, gleaming glossily with nostalgic charm.
Presently, its handset hovered near his ear, the roped cord snaking behind back to its base on his desk. If only it would hang limp, like Muggle ones did, rather than undulating with the rise and fall of Bouchard's voice and reminding Michael, annoyingly, that he should pay attention to whatever it was Bouchard was saying. Or, rather, bellowing. And bellowing loudly, at that. Very loudly.
For Salazar's sake, there was a perfectly nice Channel between London and Paris that, as far as he could tell was there for a bloody good reason. Why would anyone, ever, try to narrow all those lovely kilometres with a machine? Three hundred and forty-four kilometres was a fantastic distance, perhaps surpassed only by three and a half thousand kilometres of ocean.
Michael wiggled his toes in distraction and caught sight of his own face, white again now that his holiday tan was fading, and his neatly-combed black crop of hair. Then—there—at just the right angle, backwards gold letters, reflected in the fresh veneer of shoe polish, blinked blithely at him. PROSPERITY MORE THAN JUST A POSSIBILITY—IT'S A PROMISE! VOTE CLAFTON!
He'd hesitated for a week before he'd finally agreed to the slogan—worried that it might sound grandiose—but he hadn't considered that it indeed might be an impossible promise. After all, witches and wizards just needed reassurance that it was safe to settle down again and have babies and spend their earnings. Oh, yes, Michael had made that promise with only the barest understanding of the breadth of the problems he wanted to solve, never mind what the daily chaos of running a secret nation would be like. However, spending his days settling disputes over the entrée for this dinner and that dinner, agonizing over the politically appropriate amount of foreign aid to send, and subduing a domestic initiative to establish a separate parliament had all quickly disillusioned him of the fantasy of government.
Since taking office just nearly a year ago, not one matter that landed on his desk had been free from confusion. For the past six months he had been occupied with the exhaustive intricacies of creating the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act. It was time-consuming and enervating. In February a legal intern had misinterpreted a sixteenth century Wizengamot ruling on forced marriage. Half a month had passed before the boy's mistake was corrected and by then enough questions had been asked that a multi-departmental investigation had been launched to determine whether the act might also violate a subclause of the 1718 agreement with Denmark on the trade of salted fish. That had lasted through March.
Michael tilted his toes until he could no longer see the campaign advert on the wall behind him mirrored in the waxed leather. Somehow, last June's election simultaneously seemed as if it had happened yesterday and as if a decade of minutiae had passed since. He'd run for office to bring prosperity to wizarding Britain and a year later his single accomplishment to date had been announced only in that day's morning Prophet.
"Eet eez far too risky to 'ave witches and wizards popping een and out of countries wizout ze governments knowing 'oo zey are." Bouchard's thickly accented tenor climbed even higher in agitation. "Zey jeopardize ze entire agreement!"
Conferences regarding a proposed amendment to the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy were going poorly and further diplomatic efforts had just been rebuffed, apparently quite rudely, by the Swiss and the Greeks.
"Eef zey do not manage to control zese – zese impertinent ministries, I will go zere myself and deal wiz les sangsues ingrate. Zen zey will not dare—"
"I hardly think that will be—"
"—les bêtes complètement ineptes nous manquer de respect."
Michael gritted his teeth. Inevitably Bouchard dominated conversation, habitually interrupting anyone who dared try and speak. In fact, on Michael's first call with Bouchard, the man had interrupted him so many times that he'd been thoroughly convinced that his end of the phone was broken and the other man couldn't hear him. Yet, after near about ten attempts to fix the thing, Michael had ultimately had to conclude that, yes, Bouchard was just obscenely inconsiderate.
"Zey sit on zeir behinds all day and do what? Nozzing! They do nozzing—"
"I'm sure that the Bulgarians would be more than willing to help, especially after that whole Karkaroff scandal—"
"Eet eez zeir duty to all of Europe to keep our countries secure and zey 'ave criminals 'iding in zeir own land and zey do not even know."
"Well—"
"Eet eez a disgrace!"
"Is that so?"
Michael plucked a particularly glossy quill from the floor and twirled it. Light caught the edge of the feather as it spun, a rainbow blur. Part of what made Bouchard so particularly unbearable was his blatant disdain for the rest of the world. Michael had few disagreements with the man over actual policy matters, and yet he would gladly row with Berto Gatti about tariffs any day rather than spend an hour finalizing a joint peace treaty with Bouchard. Of course, he could never let the press hear him say that—he'd be thrown out of office by supper. Imagine: MINISTER FOR MAGIC UNITERESTED IN PEACE.
"You will speak to ze Bulgarians, yes?"
Why him? It wasn't as though Bouchard was incapable of calling Dinumituski Oblansk or as though Oblansk thought much more of Michael than Bouchard. Well, perhaps he did.
"Yes, I—"
"We will need zem to agree in writing, since zey 'ave not always been so good at keeping zeir promises."
Oblansk would not like that, but he would scarcely be able to refuse—not when Britain and France were asking. Still, such an unnecessary and insulting request would not at all help endear Britain to the rest of Europe, and Britain was not in any position to be offending friends, given recent years. But the French were friends too—the closest friends of them all—and Bouchard was a sensitive man.
"Uh, alright, I suppose. I'll have my secretary, Eleanor, owl your office the papers—"
"Eez zat trusted? Zere 'ave been incidents of zese British owls going missing, no?"
"Oh?" Michael highly doubted there had been any reports of the sort. "Not that I've heard, but I can assure you that there won't be any problem. Eleanor will have the agreement there by the end of the week."
"Zat eez acceptable."
"—no, I will not!"
At the shout Michael jolted upright, his foot inadvertently toppling a stack of paperwork and detaching from his desk various reminders, which Eleanor had meticulously spell-o-taped in place.
"Why don't you put your wand down, you don't want hurt anyone."
"Excuse me? Did you forget that I know how to use my own wand? I am a witch."
"No, I—"
"How many bloody times have I saved your sorry arse?"
"I don't know. I only—"
She didn't wait him to finish. "Don't worry. I'm not going to hurt anyone. Yet."
"Come off it, he just meant that you should wait and think about what you're doing before—"
"I know exactly what I'm doing!"
The raised voices filtered under Michael's door in muffled fragments while, around him, forms and bits of coloured paper drifted down to join the gum wrappers and half-dozen quills already strewn about the floor. The first voice, undoubtedly, was a woman, the second was a man, and possibly a third voice was another man.
"But eet might be difficult to get ze Bulgarians to agree—"
Bouchard was still speaking but Michael wasn't listening any longer. It was impossible to concentrate on him.
"—since zey care only about zemselves."
"I will not calm down!" The woman.
"What is the meaning of this?" Eleanor demanded. The two—three?—other people ignored her.
"Just stop and think about—" a man said, the second man, if there were indeed two.
"Don't you tell me to stop!"
"I'm just as angry as you are, believe—" the first man attempted.
"That's funny because you don't seem half as angry as I am."
"Believe me, I'm—"
"No." She said abruptly. "No, you're not. You can't possibly be, cause you've still got Gin if all of this does go to shit!
"And what about me, Mione? Who have I got? If this happens I'm just as buggered as you. But you don't see me with my wand out, bursting into the Ministry."
Between Bouchard's drone and the closed door, Michael only caught every other clause, but he could tell now that it was definitely three people. Curiosity pricked at him. In nearly thirteen months as Minister for Magic he'd experienced his handful of angry witches and wizards, but not once before ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning. Michael couldn't stay in this conversation for much longer before he would have to deal with whatever was happening outside.
"Monsieur le Président, I really must—"
"Zey do not concern zemselves with ze matters of Europe. Zey assume we will protect zem even eef zey refuse to protect us. We must make eet clear zat Europe will not protect zese traitors."
"I don't have to explain myself to you."
"Good. We're not asking you to," the first man said drily.
"We just want to make sure you don't do anything you'll regret."
"Oh, and I'll regret this, will I? Honestly, I don't need you two protecting me everywhere I go—"
Whatever it was she said next was lost.
"Ze Bulgarians must be reminded zat—"
Michael interrupted again. "Excuse me, Monsieur le Président, but—"
"—we will not take zeir treachery lightly."
With Bouchard clearly off on another impenetrable rant, Michael resumed his eavesdropping.
"He didn't say you couldn't—"
"I know that, Ron. I know that because I don't need permission from either of you to do anything."
"Of course, you don't, but would you please just listen—"
"I listened plenty this morning already."
"This is an incredibly inappropriate way to behave inside the Ministry!" Eleanor's indignant voice carried over the argument. "Please, just put your wands away and tell me what is the pro—"
"Oh, do shut up," snapped the second man.
"Monsieur le Président, I really must excuse myself—something has just come up." Michael interjected.
He didn't exactly mind the argument for its entertainment value, but he wasn't about to let Eleanor be so rudely talked to.
Bouchard paused and drew a short breath. "Eet eez important?"
"Harry, get the hell out of my way!" The woman sounded furious.
"What? Oh, yes, uh, very important, my apologies."
"Zen we will speak again next week?"
"Yes. Next Tuesday at eight thirty?"
"Zat eez fine." Without a word of goodbye, the telephone went silent, and the handset re-coiled and dropped gently into its cradle.
Bang!
Noise erupted outside. Two grunts of pain, nearly a dozen other yells of surprise, and the crash of several falling objects.
"No! No, you can't do that!" cried Eleanor.
The door burst open and Hermione Granger barged inside, wrenching her shoulder free from Harry Potter's grasp.
"Don't you dare follow me!"
Harry Potter stepped back unconsciously at her command, one hand flying up to gingerly examine his bruised check. A few meters further down the corridor Ron Weasley stumbled to his feet. But Michael only caught a momentary glimpse before, with violent flick of her wand, Hermione Granger slammed his door shut.
So, this was her. After spotting her at Ministry and society functions from afar over the years, he was finally meeting her. Somehow, he had never envisioned that, in the moment, she would be brandishing her wand at him after jinxing both Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter out of her way.
"M – Miss Granger," he stammered. "Good morning."
"No, it isn't. And it's Ms. Granger."
"My apologies," he said. "Is there anything I can do for—"
"Rescind the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act."
"Pardon? I'm not sure I heard corre—"
"I said, you have to rescind the War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act."
"I'm afraid I can't do that."
"You know as well as I do that you can. Lines fifty-one through fifty-eight, section twelve, article eight of the Wizarding Legislature Process Procedures Manual outline the Minister's power to rescind laws within a reasonable period of reconsideration, generally agreed to be within three days of signature.
He felt almost as he used to when Minerva McGonagall scolded him for not knowing something he really ought to have known. Michael steeled himself. Yes, he'd heard Hermione Granger called the Brightest Witch of Her Age, but he'd never imagined her to be such a swot. It was half funny.
"What I mean, Ms. Granger, is that I won't rescind it. The wizarding community desperately needs this if we are to survive. I've worked hard to get the WRRA passed, and I'm very proud to have signed it into law. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"
She stared at him hard for a long second, then brutally shoved her wand into a pocket, ripped that day's copy of the Daily Prophet from her handbag, and snapped the pages upright.
"You can't do this! Haven't you lot learned anything? I mean, how can you possibly think that forcing people to marry and reproduce is alright? You might as well just start collecting wands and registering Muggleborns. I—"
"Now that's uncalled for."
The Muggle-Born Registration Committee had been nothing more than a translucent guise for blood purification. The War Repopulation and Rehabilitation Act was different. They needed this. As quickly as their numbers had fallen during the war, magical births only continued to dwindle, fewer and fewer, each year since.
"We're facing a crisis right now, if we don't do something we'll die out. The Ministry is trying to protect—"
"That's ridiculous," Hermione Granger said shortly. "The last war with Voldemort lasted three times as long, you lost nearly four times as many people. The birth-rate now is rebounding almost as quickly it did then. Even with the increase in stillbirths and squibs among purebloods since the first war, we're hardly in dire shape. It's ridiculous and quite frankly misleading to suggest that wizarding Britain is at risk of extinction."
The exact figures escaped Michael just then, but the memory of the worried faces and the ominous census report at that first meeting last November resurfaced vividly. He'd look at the numbers again later.
"Ms. Granger, I cannot share with you the data, but I can assure you a Ministry investigation concluded that unless immediate action is taken, Britain's limited magical community will face severe depopulation."
"Oh, excuse me if I don't trust the Ministry implicitly, but you see, you don't exactly have the best record of serving the public interest." She snapped acidly.
"I know that you have not had the best experience—"
She snorted.
After an appraising pause, he continued, "with the Ministry in the past, Ms. Granger but I trust you will understand that drastic circumstances do require drastic solutions."
"Again, I don't believe that there are drastic circumstances right now, and even if there were, the Ministry has to realize that the end doesn't justify the means. Thicknesse used everyone's panic about Voldemort to register Muggleborns and throw them in Azkaban in order to supposedly protect the magical community from the crisis of magic theft. He said the same thing that you are now. And twenty years ago, Crouch and the Ministry said the same thing when they authorized Unforgivables and essentially crippled the entire judicial and court process. You know, if the Ministry had done something to stop Voldemort instead of wasting time covering up Azkaban breakouts, so many people wouldn't have died in the first place. If there is a crisis, it's of the Ministry's own making! I don't remember the Ministry being so concerned with depopulation when a lunatic was trying to murder a significant section of Britain's limited magical community!"
"May I remind you, Ms. Granger, that I was not responsible for those decisions and am not to blame for—"
"You worked here, didn't you? At the Ministry under Thicknesse? What did you do to stop any of it? I mean, for Christ's sake they were rounding up twelve-year-old's and tossing them to the dementors."
As if he didn't already know that. He'd done a fine job of glazing over that hiccup during his campaign, and a shred of resentment grew that she would bring this up.
He'd only been the Junior Assistant Head of the International Magical Office of Law at the time, what did she expect him to do? Risk getting himself and his family killed when the most resistance he could have managed was waylaying the odd import of Mimbulus mimbletonia or Graphorn horns?
Not everyone could be a perfect saint.
Michael slowly let out the breath he'd been holding. "I am truly sorry that you are so upset by—"
"Upset?" Pausing momentarily to consider that notion, Hermione Granger let out breathy, derisive laugh. "Oh, I'm not upset. I'm so, so, so far past upset. You see, the Ministry is trying to breed me with whoever's got the most oats."
"You are perfectly welcome to marry whomever you'd please." He said more stiffly than he'd intented.
"How is three months enough time to—" Granger's eyes darted to his left hand and then flicked over the framed photograph of Gemma and Eva. "You're married, aren't you? How long did you know your wife before your wedding?"
Two years, eight months, and one week exactly.
"I don't really see how it matters, Ms. Granger."
"How long did you know her?" Granger insisted.
He sighed. "I don't know, maybe a year or two."
"And yet you expect the rest of us to lie back, close our eyes, and think of England?"
"This is not an unprecedented measure, Ms. Granger. Warlocks governed nearly all medieval wizarding marriages and immediately after the Black Death the Wizards' Council ordered that no witch or wizard older than fourteen be unmarried. Arranged marriages are hardly as uncommon among wizards as they are among Muggles. While you may not be accustomed—"
"Oh, spare me. It's not about Muggleborns not understanding wizarding society. It may not be unprecedented but all the precedent is at least six centuries old, the last marriage compulsion legislation in England ended in 1432. Why you would want to reinstate it now as some form of, I don't know, bizarre political suicide is utterly beyond me."
"I am not reinstating anything." Michael did his best to keep the frustration with her accusations out of his voice. "Obviously, the precedent isn't perfect, that's why we didn't reinstate any of the old laws. The WRRA builds off the old laws but reflects modern wizarding society."
"Rubbish! There's a clear implication that the witch is supposed to stay home and care for children. You provide no childcare system, have no plans to expand or improve childcare facilities, you don't even give childcare stipends. How—"
"You seem to have quite a lot to say, Ms. Granger. Perhaps you'd better make an appointment with my secretary and come back another day. I could address your concerns more thoroughly then."
It was evident that Hermione Granger was not about to be appeased anytime soon. And it would be just as well for him to deal with her next week, once he'd had a chance to sleep and consult with the CML, as it would be to deal with her today.
"No, I don't think I will. In a quarter of an hour this morning I found about two dozen gaping flaws even though supposedly you've been working on this for months. I can only assume the Ministry hired baboons to write it. Have you even considered that there might be domestic abuse? Or actually thought through your ban on divorce? What happens then?"
Abuse? It was as if a silent gasp had caught in his throat. Surely, they had discussed that at some point, although Michael couldn't remember when of what had been concluded. It must have been during one of the meetings he'd missed. Yes, it must have.
There was no question now, he needed sleep and a conversation with the CML before anything could be done about Hermione Granger.
"You will simply have to come back another day, Ms. Granger. I have a meeting and am already running late." He didn't, not exactly, at least nothing more pressing than a lunch appointment with Amarice Wildey from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, which was still a few hours off.
"You have to rescind it. You haven't thought any of this through."
"Ms. Granger," he began.
"Hermione!" Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley burst through the door.
"Hermione, what happened? Are you—"
"It's fine, Ron. I was just leaving."
Hermione Granger turned sharply and stalked out of his office, brushing roughly past Ronald Weasley and Harry Potter. Stunned, neither moved for a moment, then Weasley hurried to follow her.
"Erm, sorry about all this." Potter shifted uncomfortably in the doorway.
When Michael said nothing, Potter nodded briefly and left. The latch clicked into place and Michael was alone.
He had done the right thing, hadn't he?
The door opened again nearly as soon as it had shut. Eleanor's head poked around the corner, her deep umber forehead furrowed with even deeper creases. The thin cornrows encircling her head were all pulled back into a glossy, low knot at the nape of her neck. The rest of her person quickly followed her head, and swiftly she was through his doorway with the door closed behind her. Like usual, she appeared scrupulous and intent, if rather flustered.
"Michael, I'm sorry. I tried to stop her, really, I swear to Agrippa I did. I should've gotten my wand out sooner and summoned security or stunned her or something, but it was just that it was Hermione Granger and – and Harry Potter. I didn't think she would ever go and jinx someone like that. And in the middle of the Ministry, too. But then she did, and – oh, I'm sorry."
"Don't worry about it. Honestly, I don't think much could have gotten in Ms. Granger's way this morning." When she still looked nervous, he added, "Really, Eleanor, don't worry anymore about it. It got me away from Bouchard faster, anyhow.
A glimmer of ease returned to her. "Always a silver lining, I suppose."
"Most definitely. I counted today, and I didn't get a word in—not even 'hello'—for ten and a half minutes."
"I thank Merlin every day I don't have to talk to that man."
"Oh, speaking of that—"
"No. No, we've gone through this. You can't cancel the calls. You can't offend the French, and Bouchard's touchy—everyone knows that. There's no knowing how he'd react, and if it goes badly," she stopped forebodingly, then added, "Your whole legacy would be just another imbecile minister."
"That actually wasn't what I meant for once."
Eleanor had the decency to look mildly abashed.
Michael continued. "The Greeks and Swiss backed out on the ISWS, so we're going to try to get the Bulgarians to vouch support—I figure they're not really in a place abandon us—but Bouchard wants them to agree on paper. Can you draw those agreements up and get the IMOL to review them and send them over to his office by the end of the week with whatever's our most trustworthy owl?"
"Our most trustworthy owl?"
"He's heard rumours that British owls have been going missing."
Eleanor laughed. "Only because Algie Mucks keeps trying to write to Morganna and won't stop sending his half-blind and half-dead owls to do it."
Michael laughed then too.
"Right, so I'll get on that agreement." Eleanor said, making for the door. "I can have it for you by Thursday morning if you want to see it beforehand."
"Ah, I really better." He agreed reluctantly, and Eleanor nodded that she'd heard him.
She nearly had the door closed when another thought came to him.
"Would you also make sure nothing about this morning gets out to the Prophet or Witch Weekly? Probably wouldn't be good publicity for everyone to know that Ms. Granger's rather against the act."
Worry again creased Eleanor's brow. "I'll talk to everyone—of course, they already know they're not supposed to speak to the press anyhow, but I'll mention it again. You should know though, that, well, I think – I think I might've seen Betty Braithwaite in earlier this morning with that sleazy Prophet photographer—you know the one. I can't be quite sure, but I do think there was flash just when she cast the jinx, and it could have just been the jinx but I think more likely it was from his camera."
Michael sighed and interrupted before she could begin to apologize. "Wasn't your fault, don't worry. But do try and see if you can get them to pull the article. Maybe owl Gervais—he's always been a bit of a pushover."
The door closed again.
What a mess.
He had done the right thing, hadn't he? Their world needed this to survive? Sure, it wasn't ideal, but this was the real world—don't let the perfect get in the way of the good and all that, right? From below the Prophet headline Ministry's New Marriage Law: Mandated Love? the law stared up at him in big black letters. He knew what it would say; he had read it hundreds of times through dozens of drafts and countless revisions.
Whereas, the events of the Second Wizarding War were felt strongly by the United Kingdom Magical community and;
Whereas, the population of the United Kingdom Magical community is at serious risk of decimation and possibly disappearance;
Whereas, in the years since, no sufficient rebound of population growth has occurred to ensure recovery from the losses of the Second Wizarding War and;
Whereas, the Minister for Magic is authorized and obliged to take any and all measures to protect the United Kingdom Magical community: Therefore, let it be authorized by the Minister for Magic,
Article I. That, as of 18 June 2002, the Department of Marriage and Family Stability shall be established to oversee the enforcement of the following.
Article II. That, as of 18 September 2002, each wizard or witch of United Kingdom citizenship shall be lawfully required to adhere to the following.
Article III. That each unmarried wizard or witch between the ages of twenty-three and forty and of United Kingdom citizenship shall be notified by the Ministry of Magic of his or her assigned spouse on the date of 18 September 2002 or upon his or her twenty-third birthday.
a. That spouses shall be determined through magical and physical assessments to evaluate magical, intellectual, and reproductive compatibility. The Department of Marriage and Family Stability shall assess and assign all spouses based on highest overall compatibility.
1. That each unmarried wizard or witch between the ages of seventeen and forty and of United Kingdom citizenship shall be obliged to report to the Department of Marriage and Family Stability and comply with all required compatibility assessments on the date of 18 September 2002 or upon his or her seventeenth birthday.
b. That the Department of Marriage and Family Stability shall be allowed to reassign spouses only with a valid petition.
Article IV. That each eligible wizard or witch and his or her assigned spouse shall be required to enter into a magically and legally binding marriage within three months of the younger spouse's above notification.
a. That each eligible wizard or witch and his or her assigned spouse shall be required to complete all licensing paperwork requested by the Department of Marriage and Family Stability within three months of the younger spouse's above notification. That an authorized representative must witness the completion and signature of all licensing paperwork from the Department of Marriage and Family Stability.
b. That eligible each wizard or witch and his or her assigned spouse shall be required to complete a marriage bonding ceremony within three months of the younger spouse's above notification. That an authorized officiator from the Department of Marriage and Family Stability must conduct the marriage bonding ceremony.
c. That each wizard or witch married prior to his or her turning twenty-three but after 18 September 2002 shall not be required to comply with article IV(a) and article IV(b).
1. That each wizard or witch married prior to his or her turning twenty-three but after 18 September 2002 and the spouse of that wizard or witch shall be required to complete all licensing paperwork requested by the Department of Marriage and Family Stability prior to that wizard or witch turning twenty-three. That an authorized representative must witness the completion and signature of all licensing paperwork from the Department of Marriage and Family Stability.
2. That each wizard or witch married prior to his or her turning twenty-three after 18 September 2002 and the spouse of that wizard or witch shall be required to complete a marriage bonding ceremony prior to that wizard or witch turning twenty-three. That an authorized officiator from the Department of Marriage and Family Stability must conduct the marriage bonding ceremony.
d. That each wizard or witch married prior to 18 September 2002 shall not be required to comply with article IV(a), article IV(b), and article IV(c), inclusive of sections IV(c)(1) and IV(c)(2).
Article V. That each eligible wizard or witch and his or her spouse shall be legally considered a financial unit.
a. That each eligible wizard or witch shall be required to submit documentation of his or her employment, income, and assets to the Department of Marriage and Family Stability for review.
b. That the Department of Marriage and Family Stability shall name one spouse per marriage to be the providing spouse based upon an assessment of each spouse's employment stability and history, income, and assets.
1. That each eligible witch or wizard must prove stable employment and income for at least one year to be qualified to be named providing spouse.
c. That the income and assets of the providing spouse shall be evaluated for the purposes of taxation.
d. That the providing spouse shall be legally named the head of the household.
Article VI. That each eligible wizard or witch shall be required to share a residence with his or her spouse.
a. That each eligible wizard or witch and his or her spouse shall be required to have the shared residence approved and registered by the Department of Marriage and Family Stability.
b. That each eligible wizard or witch shall be required to cooperate fully with periodic evaluations that representatives of the Department of Marriage and Family Stability shall conduct as to verify compliance with article VI.
Article VII. That divorce and annulment shall be prohibited.
Article VIII. That each eligible wizard or witch and his or her spouse shall be required to produce three magically proficient children.
a. That each eligible wizard or witch married after 18 September 2002 and his or her spouse shall be required to produce three magically proficient children within nine years of marriage.
b. That each eligible wizard or witch married prior to 18 September 2002 shall be required to produce three magically proficient children by 18 September 2009.
c. That each eligible wizard or witch shall be allowed to petition the Department of Marriage and Family Stability for an exemption from article VIII.
d. That the Department of Marriage and Family Stability shall be allowed to grant an exemption from article VIII to a wizard or witch and his or her spouse if that wizard or witch provides proof of impotence or infertility.
e. That a witch or wizard who is infertile or impotent shall be required to receive any and all possible healing services to remedy his or her infertility or impotence.
Article IX. That the use of contraceptive or abortive spells or potions shall be prohibited.
Article X. That disobedience of any of the above articles by a wizard or witch shall be punished with up to a three year sentence in Azkaban.
a. That the Council of Magical Law shall handle all violations of the above articles.
Michael had hardly stepped into their small foyer for more than a moment before the stress of the Ministry began to dissipate and fade amidst the profound sense of home. This far north even summer carried a mild chill and the evening was cloudy, but inside it was warm and alive as ever. Garlic and the sounds of cooking—giggles muffled by the stove's steady hum and the ringing of pots and pans—filled the air, and he inhaled all of it. Only the slightest groan of the floorboards gave any sign that a woman with extraordinarily soft footsteps was approaching. Michael turned toward the noise and caught sight of her just as she rounded the corner.
Her dark hair was in disarray, her eyeglasses rested slightly askew, and tomato sauce smudged her forehead and emerald robes, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I thought I heard you come in."
"That you did," he said, taking a step closer.
One more step and they had closed the distance between them. Michael leant downwards to meet her kiss and wrapped his arms around her as she hugged him tightly. She was so warm, especially after the nipping Hogsmeade breeze, and she held onto him like she knew he never wanted to leave.
"Merlin," he gasped, eagerly drawing in long breaths.
Her fingers fiddled with the back of his collar, ticking his neck. "After six years I'd hope you'd know my name."
"Gemma Farley-Clafton," he grinned. "Even if I tried I don't think I could forget it."
"Good." A smirk splayed across her lips. She pecked him again on the mouth. "And I would never forget you, Michael Clafton."
Then, staying entwined in each other's arms, she leaned her forehead against his chest and let him rest his chin on her head. Michael could feel her sagging against him slightly, weariness evidently wearing on her. He trailed his fingers up her back, hoping to soothe some of the tension. She breathed slowly and deeply against him.
"The evening Prophet arrived earlier, if you want to see it. I think your name came up a few times."
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
He could feel her smiling.
"But I was expecting it might. The one that rather shocked me was Hermione Granger's."
"Oh, that," Michael laughed. "Of course, that's what they decide to publish. I could have used you today, though, fantastic Curse-breaker that you are."
"Really? Why?" Gemma asked, then admitted. "There wasn't much in the Prophet, honestly. Probably just a teaser for tomorrow's. Between the sensationalism and speculation Skeeter hardly said more than that Hermione Granger forced her way into your office this morning and that no one was seriously injured. Didn't even say what she was so upset over. Most of the paper was going over the act and everything. Was there trouble or—"
"Mumma!" Eva wailed.
"Impeccable timing." Gemma sighed.
"As always." He nodded.
Gemma brushed a hand along his arm, sending a thrilling shiver down his spine. "I'll see to Eva. Go get cleaned up, take your time. Dinner should be ready in a quarter of an hour."
"No, you've been working all day. I've got Eva."
Her brow wrinkled. "Are you—"
"Of course, I'm sure."
"Mumma!"
"Mummy will be right in, sweetheart." Gemma called, extracting herself. Michael let go reluctantly and followed her down the hall to the kitchen.
He lingered at the door, watching, as Gemma went to Eva and took her up in her arms, rubbing soothing circles across the almost-one-year-old's back.
"Eva, guess who just got home." Eva stopped crying and looked up at her mum, spotting him over Gemma's shoulder.
"Dada! Dada, Dada, Dadaaa!"
"You want Daddy? But Daddy's got a penchant for unparalleled tyranny, hasn't he?" Gemma cooed to Eva teasingly, no doubt quoting some opinion piece from the evening Prophet, which Michael hadn't had a chance to read yet. She loved reciting whatever particularly witty or cutting criticisms of him she would stumble across.
"Isn't that right, Eva? He's a deluded despot, keen on returning to monarchy. He'd probably even make you eat your peas. Mummy's much, much nicer, aren't I?"
"Dada!" Eva insisted, making him laugh.
"Don't you listen to Mummy, Eva. As king I'd imprison anyone if they ever so much as tried to make you eat vegetable. Even Mummy."
His chest thrummed with an almost painful happiness as he lifted his daughter from his wife's arms.
"Ruthless." Gemma shook her head as she returned to whatever pot was steadily boiling away on the burner.
Within a minute Michael's novelty and distraction value had worn through, and Eva began to cry again. It took another few minutes to finally discover that Biba, Eva's stuffed rabbit and constant companion, had fallen out of reach.
Dinner passed, Michael feeding Eva while Gemma ate, then hurriedly scrambling to finish his own spaghetti before it cooled. They snatched hardly five uninterrupted minutes together during the whole meal before Eva began to squirm and Gemma had to take her upstairs for bath and bed while Michael did the washing up.
But Eva was finally asleep, the silence water upon parched ears. Tiredness ached in his forehead, begging him to close his eyes. Light footsteps turned into the room and Gemma collapsed onto the opposite end of the couch.
"H – how was Gringotts?" He asked, through yawns.
She didn't answer, only watched him. "Long day?"
"Well, you already know all about it."
"Like I said, the Prophet only really said that Hermione Granger came into your office, jinxed Potter and Weasley, but didn't injure anyone too badly, and not much else."
"Well, that's most of it. Potter and Weasley tried to reason with her but she wouldn't listen. I was in my office—I'd just gotten off the phone with Bouchard—when she jinxed them but when she came into my office I could see that she'd knocked Weasley to the floor and she'd given Potter a black eye. Of course, by the time they got through the wards, everything had been healed."
Gemma frowned a little. "I didn't know your office had wards."
"Oh, a few, mostly just to prevent theft and dark magic—nothing too complex. But she put them up to keep everyone else out. I didn't even notice, she did this one little flick to close the door and I thought that was all, but she'd set up this whole network that they needed a Curse-Breaker to get through."
"She was upset about the Law?"
Michael sobered. "What else?"
Gemma opened her mouth.
"Tea?" He didn't wait for an answer but got up and walked into the kitchen.
He could have made it magically, but this way he avoided talking. No doubt, behind him, Gemma was sat, half up, propped on her elbow, staring confusedly after him. Ignoring how his spine tingled under her gaze, Michael rummaged for a kettle.
It seemed impossible to think that they hadn't considered that there might be domestic abuse. Or that the law could put a strain on childcare facilities and working parents. How many more mistakes would there be? How many more months of work would it take to fix all the mistakes Hermione Granger would no doubt uncover? And for all the doubts plaguing Michael, he had no doubt that she would uncover mistakes. That wickedly angry look in her eyes as she'd stood in his office had assured him she would. Hermione Granger had stoked dozens of doubts in his mind and he wanted, at least for now, to entirely ignore the possibility—the probability—that she might be right. They needed more babies. It wasn't the law that concerned him precisely, but his increasing sense that, somehow, he couldn't have taken a worse approach to it.
"Hey."
He jumped when Gemma touched his back. As usual, her footsteps had been silent.
"Hey, look at me." She reached around him and held his wrist, pressing insistently until he turned. "Listen to me. I still think you made the right choice. And twenty years from now when everyone else finally realizes that too, they'll thank you for it."
He shrugged. Wizarding Britain desperately needed the law, but Michael highly doubted he would wind up on the right side of history.
"I mean it, Michael. I think you did the best thing you could have done given everything."
He shrugged again.
"Michael, you—"
"Tomorrow. Can—" He faltered, feeling a desperate lump form in his throat. He summoned a cough. "Can it wait until tomorrow? Please?"
Gemma nodded.
Silence lingered a minute longer.
"Anyway, I had the delight of talking with the Deputy Head of the Improper Use of Magic Office for an hour today. I was so close to throttling the humourless old relic."
Michael put the kettle on the stove and smiled, listening.
If you enjoyed—or didn't—any and all reviews are very much welcome and appreciated. I really love hearing your feedback, constructive criticism, or rambling thoughts and reactions. Thanks so much for reading!
The newly revised Chapter Two: The Campaign Against the Minister will be up shortly!