~-* Chapter One: Boorish, Unimaginative Slob *-~


For a mob of people, it was surprisingly quiet.

There were different kinds of silences, she mused as she sat, and this was perhaps the most unique and uncomfortable. This was the silence where there was nothing to be said, nothing to be done – and the thing that they faced was hard and unbearable. The tension hissed in the air, sending a shimmering sheet of heated electricity over the crowd of still witches, all of them feeling the tight anxiousness joining them in an invisible web of nervousness. Several benches had been Conjured to support the crowds, but most of them were standing in a long line, as if getting the news quickly would be easier than waiting for the agonizingly slow line to inch forward. A Silencing Charm had been placed over the head of the line, to muffle the angry shouts and fragile sobs of the delicate witches as they received their letters. The woman watched the idle fascination as the stream of tortured witches went to the next room to meet their spouses, watched their faces and expressions as they left the closely packed room. Some were relieved, some were terrified, and some were enraged, all of these emotions visible on their faces and stirring together like potions in a cauldron.

Unlike the restless majority of the room, the witch in question was sitting on a bench, her nerves frayed to shredded nothingness, trying to hide her fears behind a notepad and a cold façade. Her ankles were crossed, her posture impeccably prim, square-framed glasses perched on the tip of her nose as her lips tightened while she pursued the notes she had jotted. At her feet, a small leather bag sat quietly, a watchdog, a sentry, sitting near her calves. Gray stockings disappeared into a black pleated skirt, cinched at the waist with a narrow black belt. A white blouse was tucked crisply into her skirt, and a gray vest was buttoned firmly across her chest. A sheaf of silver-blonde hair fell in her eyes as she began writing again, her right hand grasping the corner of her notepad firmly, her left wrist planted hard on the soft sheet of paper as she wrote. Her hairstyle was short and cropped close in back, with no bangs in front – so no hair would fall into her vision, yet there was always a sheaf of blonde hair that avoided even the best shears. When her gaze flicked up from the pad of paper, a pair of lazy, cold gray eyes scanned the room as if searching for potential predators, and then dropped her gaze like a guillotine whenever someone tried to catch her eyes.

"Gother, Sarah!"

At the sound of her name, those iron-gray eyes swept upwards, and she rose, setting her teeth determinedly and hiding the fact that her hands were shaking by sliding her notepad into her bag. She swung the bag over her shoulder and crossed the room, her comfortable – and sensibly low-heeled – shoes tapping in the quiet of the room. She felt eyes follow her, terrified, wide eyes, like lambs watching another sheep go to slaughter. Her nostrils flared subtly and she tilted her head back, sending that quirky sheaf of blonde hair sliding back against her cheek again, and she automatically tucked it behind her ear. She walked briskly up to the small glass window where a frazzled-looking receptionist marked her name with a tap of her wand. "Miss Chancery?" She said drily, looking up at the younger witch. The blonde woman took the envelope with a mechanical nod and stepped to one side so another witch could step up. The witch behind her had bushy brown hair and chocolate brown eyes, and she began speaking the instant Sarah stepped aside.

"This is a completely illegal venture, do you know that? You
can't just force other witches and wizards to marry each other with no previous look at commitments or backgrounds!" The bushy-haired girl said, but the receptionist had apparently heard this too much today, and instead merely handed the envelope to the bushy-haired girl and beckoned to the next girl in line. Fuming, the bushy-haired witch tore into the envelope feverishly and succeeded in slashing it down the middle in her anger.

Not five inches away, a far-shorter and much quieter blonde witch pursued with growing horror the answers to the questions her future husband had given. Every questionnaire had been filled out with a Truth-Teller Quill, so every answer was completely and brutally honest, although judging from the spidery handwriting, she couldn't tell if the answers were written tongue-in-cheek or coldly serious.

Location: A small flat in London, to which I refuse to give the address. If you're the Ministry, look me up in the books.

Current Occupation: I own my own little potion shop, focusing mainly on mail-order, but I do have a small place where you can come in and bother me, if that's what you're asking.

Previous Occupation: I was unemployed for a good while, but my last job was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at a prestigious school.

Previous Marital Status: Never married, thank Merlin.

Current Marital Status: Didn't I just answer that?

Favorite Book: If you honestly expect me to answer a question I could find in Witch Weekly's "true love" survey, you will be saddened to know that I refuse to answer this question, as it is a waste of my time and ink.

Favorite Author: See answer above.

What are you looking for in a spouse: Seeing as this ridiculous law has overruled many appeals, I see this is a question I must answer, unfortunately. Someone quiet, intelligent, and who has the ability to keep their mouths shut and stay out of my way. Also, someone who can at least try to hold up their end of a conversation without reverting to insipid topics for which I care nothing for.

Age: Thirty-seven. Merlin, I'm old.

Name: Professor Severus Snape, Order of Merlin, Second Class.

Compatibility: 89%

The small blonde witch leaned against the wall with a thump, all the blood draining from her face and her icy gray eyes going blank as she tried to absorb the meaning of the last line. She tried to swallow, to coat her dry throat with something, and then gave up. There was no use – she couldn't protest. Protestation never helped her, anyway.

She was going to be married to a murderer.


He stretched out his legs in front of him, ever muscle frozen and wound like a spring ready to snap. His black cloak was drawn tightly around him, and he ignored the hubbub with practiced ease. There had been a strict no-hexing rule at the door, but that didn't stop the almost constant stream of jinxes flying towards the poor receptionists who were handing out the unfortunate test results. Eventually, wands had to be handed over with a magical golden strip around the handle to identify them, which worked to a point. Now the disgruntled grooms were sparring verbally and physically, and the entire room stank of testosterone. Some of the men tripped out the door with dreamy, lovelorn expressions on their faces, and to these wizards the man curled his lip and sneered. He folded his arms tightly across his chest and watched with snide fascination the angered, yet also anxious, looks on the faces of the wizards. He saw more than one person he knew, including two-thirds of the Golden Trio – even these celebrities hadn't been exempt from the brutal law. It was a stupid law, really – specifically pairing Muggle-borns and half-bloods with Pure-bloods. It had been artfully produced three years ago, and had been been painstakingly worked on for the past two years as it was turned down numerous times. All sorts of the common people protested it, but the people who supported it were the people in power, and also, the ones who were already married. Even the Minister himself, Kinsley Shacklebolt, had hastily gotten himself wedded to a certain Hannah Abbott not a week before the official law came out.

He checked his nails and waited, ignoring the angry mutters of the wizards around him. Directly across from him was the Golden Boy himself, a classically handsome man with curly, unruly black hair and striking green eyes, and attracting most of the attention in the room. He must have had witches clamoring for him before this sudden captivity, and Severus almost felt sympathetic for him. But it was Harry Potter, so he quelled any pity in his chest for the handsome man with a cruel smirk. Now, the other one on the hand, the lanky ginger who was in the papers almost constantly, was one of the ones shouting insults. Potter had given up on him hours ago, and the Weasel-King was shooting sour glances towards a certain sleek-haired blonde who bore the scar of the Malfoy name. Weasley was famous in the papers, coming out boldly with different photos every other day with new gorgeous women hanging on his arm. And each one was captioned "Weasley Getting Serious", but everyone knew it was a lie. The Weasley boy would rather swallow a live Flobberworm than get shackled into a relationship, and yet here he was. He felt another grim smile curl his mouth.

"Snape, Severus!"

He got to his feet with a swirl of his dark cloak, and he strode up to the booth, snatching the papers from the receptionist's shaking hands before the pale man had a chance to say anything. He stepped off to one side with a decisive click of his boots, and ripped open the paper, slitting it with his finger neatly and whisking out the paper. His dark, liquid black eyes devoured the words on the page before him, and the contemptuous sneer grew more pronounced with every word he read.

Location: 154 Dunston Street. It's a pretty little cottage in the country, where I reside with my parents.

Current Occupation: I'm a columnist for The Daily Prophet. I write under a penname, so don't even try to look me up.

Previous Occupation: Student. This is my first job.

Previous Marital Status: Nothing has ever piqued my interest, so I'm very, very single and have never been married. I can't imagine if I had, although I think I might be a good deal happier choosing my own mate than being thrust together with some boorish, unimaginative slob that you picked off the streets at random.

Current Marital Status: This question is unnecessary in my case, and I refuse to repeat myself. It's not a task I find pleasant or enjoyable.

Favorite Book: 101 Things Not To Do While Brewing, by James Druther. It's witty and sarcastic, two things I like to see in a book.

Favorite Author: H.G. LaGrange, a talented authoress who writes the most poignant nonfiction I have ever seen in my life. Her brusque outlook on the distinctions between undermined races are completely riveting. I strongly suggest you go out and buy some of her works.

What are you looking for in a spouse: Now, you can hardly expect me to answer that honestly, can you? I suppose someone who makes me feel safe. Someone smart, and witty. I do appreciate a good laugh, so funny as well. Oh, hell, I think every woman is looking for a man like that. If you find him, and he's not a complete slob or a cardboard cut-out, please send him my way.

Age: Twenty-five years of age, thank you very much.

Name: Sarah Gother

He arched an eyebrow and actually snorted aloud. They were marrying him off to some innocent little girl? He checked the age again. Twenty five? The age gap between them was astronomical. But at the same time, she was living with her parents at the age of twenty five? He shook his head and wadded the questionnaire in a tight ball in his fist, thrusting it into his pocket. He swerved through the crowd, setting his jaw and slamming the door open with the heel of his hand. He marched out into the wide, spacious hallway, the cool, fresh air bathing his face. He collided abruptly with someone, and he instinctively drew back, a scowl already forming on his face and a retort springing to his lips. But instead of seeing a frowning wizard, he saw a short, pale blonde witch with no blood in her cheeks and who looking in grave danger of fainting. He brushed himself off and snapped out a curt apology. "Sorry," He grunted, and she looked up full into his face, the obsidian eyes meeting with her silvery-gray ones. They stood out sharply from her pale face like two stars, and he felt his jaw tightening. She was short and petite, barely coming up to his chest, with a square, no-nonsense look to her shoulders and a decidedly aesthetic look about her, as if her clothes had been chosen to look pretty but businesslike. Round hips and full breasts were flattened profusely by unseen Charms and garments, a woman who wants to attract no negative attention whatsoever.

He was everything she remembered from the haunting days of terror in his Potions classes. She had graduated with high marks, but only because she had gnawed off half her fingernails and thrashed awake at night, scribbling feverish notes and cramming for his tests. He was a monster in his classes, deliberately blind to the antics of his House, and a tyrant when it came to grading. She had once gotten points off for misspelling "Lycanthropies" in one of her term papers, and she still remembered the whopping fifty points he had taken off, dropping her grade from a 'E' to an 'A'. He was still just as tall, his black hair grazing his jawline, those dark, hooded eyes sneering at her, his mouth downturned. Every inch of him was dressed in black, from his black vest to his polished black boots. He was broad-shouldered, with a narrower waist than she had remembered, and his cheeks were perhaps a shade thinner. She remembered his long, messy, public trial concerning his duties as a Death Eater. Eventually, he had been exonerated and gifted with amnesty, along with an Order of Merlin for his undercover work, but it didn't change the fact that he had still killed Albus Dumbledore in cold blood. Nobody knew how he had survived his vicious snake wounds to the neck, and even the fantastic stories printed in the Prophet were too ridiculous to be believed.

"Professor?" She said in a weak, faint voice glaringly unlike her usually brisk, icy tone. "I'm Sarah Gother. Your future wife."

Surprise reflected momentarily in his midnight black eyes, but vanished just as suddenly. A smirk – a smirk she would become very familiar with – twitched his mouth. "Then I suppose that makes me your boorish, unimaginative slob." He said with a sneer.


A/N: Feel free to whack me over the head with a big stick. I'm a terrible author, I know, to go starting another story when I have so many other stories I'm neglecting. Please feel free to leave a review and tell me to knock it off, or, if you like the story, to keep going. It all depends on you. :/ If you like it, then yes, there will be some smut in later chapters, because obviously this is a Marriage-Law fic. If you don't like it, then go ahead and slap me.