A shattering sound of glass breaking had Hermione scrambling for her comforter as the privacy of her bedroom was broken. After she shot out of the thick black blanket of sleep and looked around for Death Eaters or Mad Eye Moody (He had once jumped out at her from the family lined closet and shouted "Constant Vigilance!" when he was sent to retrieve her for Order business), she realized that the intruder had been an owl with plumage like steely cream and what appeared to be a rather nasty attitude. The owl disdainfully dropped an oilskin container of some sort and seemed so affronted at her offer of a cold kipper that he wasn't sure what to do next. He settled for an indignant hoot and a vicious nip to the offending fingers.
Hermione grabbed the odd, scroll-like parcel from its resting place below her window after a quick reparo and puzzled at its unusual surface. It appeared to be made out of animal skin of some sort that had been finely tanned and elaborately tooled to bear an ancient-looking crest. She shook off the idea that it could be human skin and tried to believe that her intruder had delivered a scroll made of pig skin. For all she knew, it could be hinkypunk skin; there was no sense worrying. She quickly untied the scroll from its fastenings and unrolled the thick parchment within.
The sick falling feeling that constricted her stomach was chased closely by the "You should have known!" from her inner voice as she read on to find that yet another petition for her hand in matrimony had been made. After quickly directing a well deserved "F you!" (She just couldn't bring herself to use the full F bomb, but the thought was there) to Cornelius Fudge for the law that was forcing her to consider these offers, she was aghast to find the name on the elaborate proposal was Draco Marcus Malfoy. Had the owl still been there, it would have looked down its perfectly appointed beak at her for the her most undignified double take, as well as her strangled sputtering and vocal wonderings as to whether this was a joke by the Weasley twins or the unthinkable truth. It had to be the Malfoy's owl, she concluded; it even had the plumage and irrational hostility to match.
A soft hoot at the window and a tapping told her that the disturbing parchment would not be the last of the day's mail. A bedraggled-looking tawny owl alighted on her windowsill and offered a letter in a blue envelope with a seal showing a wand shooting sparks. The owl appeared to be quite old and immediately ate the kipper offered to it, with a burble Hermione supposed was meant to express appreciation. It promptly fell over into the wash basin on the counter in a fashion rivaling even the Weasley owl, Errol.
Hermione felt that this suitor had unknowingly made a pretty poor impression. She ripped open the epistle in question with the tip of her wand. Ick double ick, she thought, as she glanced at the signature of Mr. Ollivander. It was a small wonder the owl looked so old, she reflected; its owner was ancient and highly creepy. The body of the letter did little to reassure her. Ollivander had said her wand was very admirable and whippy. He had been taken with her when she and her over-eager parents had purchased it. The fact that he had fancied her when she was 11- and because of her wand!- was the final strike against him.
Olivander's distasteful proposition was the 47th unwelcome offer of marriage she'd received under the new Ministry Marriage Law. She was sorely tempted to call this 46 because she wasn't sure if Neville had remembered to file the official paperwork. In fact, she wasn't even certain about his lineage. Neville could easily have missed the part about being a pureblood. He couldn't even follow basic directions in Potions, much to the chagrin of his fellow Gryffindors and the malicious delight of Professor Snape.
She glared at her still-open window as yet another owl came through, and at this time of night! The heckled-looking owl carried a suspect-looking message in a Ministry envelope. She grimaced as she ripped at the envelope, noting with anger that they had spelled her name wrong yet again. Hemorine Granger, she harrumphed. Still, it wasn't as bad as the time they sent her post to Hemorrhoid Granger; Ron had called her that for weeks. What good was magical record keeping when you didn't even bother to check spelling? She regarded the letter with less apprehension than the weird oilskin parcel but with a guarded skepticism none the less. The Ministry never sent good news. The letter read,
Miss Hemorine Granger:
We are pleased to note that you have received 46 offers under Law 4,886,560 Section 56.9 commonly known as the Non-Magical Birth (Muggle Born) Marriage Act. As you are probably aware, a new amendment to this law has been passed as an Emergency Measure by Minster of Magic Cornelius Fudge. The amendment states:
She hurriedly read on to note that her ability to choose between her 46 suitors had been seriously impeded. The Ministry would rank them according to some cockamamie standards. If they still had fathers or brothers who "are capable of producing progeny" or were of "a less established and ancient lineage" they would be removed from her list. If a father or brother of the man in question could not produce children, or was married to a witch incapable of bearing them, the sons received Ministry endorsement and their petitions would be given priority. She ground her teeth together and turned back to the letter.
Enclosed is the revised list of possible options. You are reminded that your response is required by your upcoming birthday or a suitable mate will be assigned to you.
Cheers,
Bruce C. Broswaithe
Department of Matrimony
Had the Malfoy owl still been there it would have fled to preserve its sense of dignity as Hermione screamed and chucked porcelain unicorns at the pink walls of her childhood room. When she'd run through all the statuary close at hand, fingers like angry bolts of lightening ransacked the envelope. She whipped out the parchment to find the field limited by a shocking amount.
Draco Malfoy
That was it. The only name on the list was of a known Death Eater and suspected pervert. He certainly had never displayed anything near affection for her, his intentions were obviously nefarious.
She noted, at times of panic, her mind was quick to avoid the all consuming issue and look for scraps of sanity and humor. She always did the best self reflection while in peril. The last time she was on a dangerous mission for the Order, she had realized that her hair was bushy and needed to be tamed. It was now that she questioned whether Malfoy senior still had it going on or if Narcissa was out of service. Given that Malfoy sr. had never seemed frustrated and had always glanced somewhat lecherously at passing women, she assumed that poor, nervous Narcissa had to be the one allowing Malfoy jr. to force her hand. But then again maybe Malfoy was a heinous bastard who did such terrible things because he had no other means of release. Not that this would excuse him for his terrible acts, but it certainly explained a good deal. She giggled a bit too much, thinking it was very Malfoy to skip straight past requesting her hand in matrimony to forcing it. When she had collapsed in hysterical laughter she realized that none of this was even remotely funny. Her violent cackles and burbles had turned instead to tears. She thought of the thousands of hours she had lavished on her studies, her plans for the future, her dreams, and she could almost feel them all coming to nothing because she was forced to marry. Doubtless her education would end and she would be… treated less than nicely. Another trick of her mind was to gloss over things until they could be neatly labeled. "Raped, tortured, stripped of power, and forced to bear evil progeny" was not good for her internal file system so "treated less than nicely" would have to do for the time being.
She had always been inclined toward pacing and was currently doing her damnedest to destroy a ten foot long bit of carpet. Biting the one poor nail that bore that brunt of her nerves during exams and moments of peril until the quick oozed blood, she worked her way up and down the carpet of her room in 12 Grimauld Place. She ground her heels into the carpet for another turn when her thoughts made an equally sharp about face to settle on Ron. He had proposed before the ink on the Marriage Law had properly dried. She had accepted, but with more than a few reservations. She had immediately assumed that he would want a huge family of bushy red heads but was shocked to find that he didn't really want children; he felt that, in dire circumstances, two was plenty. That worry was the tip of the iceberg. Even so, she didn't think she could bear breaking down his plans, his dreams, and future while simultaneously telling him that once again his brothers stood in the way of his happiness. She loved Ron like a brother. Kissing him and performing the other…ahhem…requirements set down by the Ministry gave her the heebie geebies, to be sure, but she would gladly face the heebie geebies in place of torture and rape.
Ron might have been a poor stand-in for the nerdy Prince Charmings she had imagined herself marrying when she was a girl, but at the very least he was a friend. Now she was saddled with the worst pick of the lot, save Crabbe whose appalling acne must extend well below that thoughtless and oily blimp he dare call a head. She shivered in revulsion. His father must have taken him out of the running, the nasty old bugger.
She savagely wadded the offending piece of paper. She had spent far too many years color coordinating notes and being in absolute control for surprises of any kind to agree with her, let alone one a large as this. She simply didn't know what to do. Her choices were gone, her plan (HER plan!) hadn't worked, and she was really hungry.
While she was still swearing in a stream of very creative adjectives about the origins of Cornelius Fudge another owl came through the window. Some of the experimental potions set brewing before her vacation had reached a stage where they needed to be carefully watched or they could produce fireworks even Neville had never managed.
Hermione packed a change of clothes and toothbrush and shrunk it down to fit in her pocket. One could never trust public toiletries with Fred and George around.
Hermione grabbed the odd, scroll-like parcel from its resting place below her window after a quick reparo and puzzled at its unusual surface. It appeared to be made out of animal skin of some sort that had been finely tanned and elaborately tooled to bear an ancient-looking crest. She shook off the idea that it could be human skin and tried to believe that her intruder had delivered a scroll made of pig skin. For all she knew, it could be hinkypunk skin; there was no sense worrying. She quickly untied the scroll from its fastenings and unrolled the thick parchment within.
The sick falling feeling that constricted her stomach was chased closely by the "You should have known!" from her inner voice as she read on to find that yet another petition for her hand in matrimony had been made. After quickly directing a well deserved "F you!" (She just couldn't bring herself to use the full F bomb, but the thought was there) to Cornelius Fudge for the law that was forcing her to consider these offers, she was aghast to find the name on the elaborate proposal was Draco Marcus Malfoy. Had the owl still been there, it would have looked down its perfectly appointed beak at her for the her most undignified double take, as well as her strangled sputtering and vocal wonderings as to whether this was a joke by the Weasley twins or the unthinkable truth. It had to be the Malfoy's owl, she concluded; it even had the plumage and irrational hostility to match.
A soft hoot at the window and a tapping told her that the disturbing parchment would not be the last of the day's mail. A bedraggled-looking tawny owl alighted on her windowsill and offered a letter in a blue envelope with a seal showing a wand shooting sparks. The owl appeared to be quite old and immediately ate the kipper offered to it, with a burble Hermione supposed was meant to express appreciation. It promptly fell over into the wash basin on the counter in a fashion rivaling even the Weasley owl, Errol.
Hermione felt that this suitor had unknowingly made a pretty poor impression. She ripped open the epistle in question with the tip of her wand. Ick double ick, she thought, as she glanced at the signature of Mr. Ollivander. It was a small wonder the owl looked so old, she reflected; its owner was ancient and highly creepy. The body of the letter did little to reassure her. Ollivander had said her wand was very admirable and whippy. He had been taken with her when she and her over-eager parents had purchased it. The fact that he had fancied her when she was 11- and because of her wand!- was the final strike against him.
Olivander's distasteful proposition was the 47th unwelcome offer of marriage she'd received under the new Ministry Marriage Law. She was sorely tempted to call this 46 because she wasn't sure if Neville had remembered to file the official paperwork. In fact, she wasn't even certain about his lineage. Neville could easily have missed the part about being a pureblood. He couldn't even follow basic directions in Potions, much to the chagrin of his fellow Gryffindors and the malicious delight of Professor Snape.
She glared at her still-open window as yet another owl came through, and at this time of night! The heckled-looking owl carried a suspect-looking message in a Ministry envelope. She grimaced as she ripped at the envelope, noting with anger that they had spelled her name wrong yet again. Hemorine Granger, she harrumphed. Still, it wasn't as bad as the time they sent her post to Hemorrhoid Granger; Ron had called her that for weeks. What good was magical record keeping when you didn't even bother to check spelling? She regarded the letter with less apprehension than the weird oilskin parcel but with a guarded skepticism none the less. The Ministry never sent good news. The letter read,
Miss Hemorine Granger:
We are pleased to note that you have received 46 offers under Law 4,886,560 Section 56.9 commonly known as the Non-Magical Birth (Muggle Born) Marriage Act. As you are probably aware, a new amendment to this law has been passed as an Emergency Measure by Minster of Magic Cornelius Fudge. The amendment states:
She hurriedly read on to note that her ability to choose between her 46 suitors had been seriously impeded. The Ministry would rank them according to some cockamamie standards. If they still had fathers or brothers who "are capable of producing progeny" or were of "a less established and ancient lineage" they would be removed from her list. If a father or brother of the man in question could not produce children, or was married to a witch incapable of bearing them, the sons received Ministry endorsement and their petitions would be given priority. She ground her teeth together and turned back to the letter.
Enclosed is the revised list of possible options. You are reminded that your response is required by your upcoming birthday or a suitable mate will be assigned to you.
Cheers,
Bruce C. Broswaithe
Department of Matrimony
Had the Malfoy owl still been there it would have fled to preserve its sense of dignity as Hermione screamed and chucked porcelain unicorns at the pink walls of her childhood room. When she'd run through all the statuary close at hand, fingers like angry bolts of lightening ransacked the envelope. She whipped out the parchment to find the field limited by a shocking amount.
Draco Malfoy
That was it. The only name on the list was of a known Death Eater and suspected pervert. He certainly had never displayed anything near affection for her, his intentions were obviously nefarious.
She noted, at times of panic, her mind was quick to avoid the all consuming issue and look for scraps of sanity and humor. She always did the best self reflection while in peril. The last time she was on a dangerous mission for the Order, she had realized that her hair was bushy and needed to be tamed. It was now that she questioned whether Malfoy senior still had it going on or if Narcissa was out of service. Given that Malfoy sr. had never seemed frustrated and had always glanced somewhat lecherously at passing women, she assumed that poor, nervous Narcissa had to be the one allowing Malfoy jr. to force her hand. But then again maybe Malfoy was a heinous bastard who did such terrible things because he had no other means of release. Not that this would excuse him for his terrible acts, but it certainly explained a good deal. She giggled a bit too much, thinking it was very Malfoy to skip straight past requesting her hand in matrimony to forcing it. When she had collapsed in hysterical laughter she realized that none of this was even remotely funny. Her violent cackles and burbles had turned instead to tears. She thought of the thousands of hours she had lavished on her studies, her plans for the future, her dreams, and she could almost feel them all coming to nothing because she was forced to marry. Doubtless her education would end and she would be… treated less than nicely. Another trick of her mind was to gloss over things until they could be neatly labeled. "Raped, tortured, stripped of power, and forced to bear evil progeny" was not good for her internal file system so "treated less than nicely" would have to do for the time being.
She had always been inclined toward pacing and was currently doing her damnedest to destroy a ten foot long bit of carpet. Biting the one poor nail that bore that brunt of her nerves during exams and moments of peril until the quick oozed blood, she worked her way up and down the carpet of her room in 12 Grimauld Place. She ground her heels into the carpet for another turn when her thoughts made an equally sharp about face to settle on Ron. He had proposed before the ink on the Marriage Law had properly dried. She had accepted, but with more than a few reservations. She had immediately assumed that he would want a huge family of bushy red heads but was shocked to find that he didn't really want children; he felt that, in dire circumstances, two was plenty. That worry was the tip of the iceberg. Even so, she didn't think she could bear breaking down his plans, his dreams, and future while simultaneously telling him that once again his brothers stood in the way of his happiness. She loved Ron like a brother. Kissing him and performing the other…ahhem…requirements set down by the Ministry gave her the heebie geebies, to be sure, but she would gladly face the heebie geebies in place of torture and rape.
Ron might have been a poor stand-in for the nerdy Prince Charmings she had imagined herself marrying when she was a girl, but at the very least he was a friend. Now she was saddled with the worst pick of the lot, save Crabbe whose appalling acne must extend well below that thoughtless and oily blimp he dare call a head. She shivered in revulsion. His father must have taken him out of the running, the nasty old bugger.
She savagely wadded the offending piece of paper. She had spent far too many years color coordinating notes and being in absolute control for surprises of any kind to agree with her, let alone one a large as this. She simply didn't know what to do. Her choices were gone, her plan (HER plan!) hadn't worked, and she was really hungry.
While she was still swearing in a stream of very creative adjectives about the origins of Cornelius Fudge another owl came through the window. Some of the experimental potions set brewing before her vacation had reached a stage where they needed to be carefully watched or they could produce fireworks even Neville had never managed.
Hermione packed a change of clothes and toothbrush and shrunk it down to fit in her pocket. One could never trust public toiletries with Fred and George around.