Wow,Chapter 2 already? Pamela: You hear that too much in fanfiction, say something different. Me: -glare- If I want to say it, I'll say it! Pamela: Whatever you say. . . . Me: -huff- Anyways I want to thank kittenonabroomstick for her review. I thought it was really sweet of you to take a moment of your sleep to write me a review. It literally made my hear melt. Thank you! And I also want to thank all my reviewers for reviewing. You're the best!

Chapter 2: Harry

Harry Potter was scared.

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, who had fought – and won – against Voldemort not once, but seven times, was scared of a letter. However, as he heard the tearing-open of parchment and subsequent screams of horror, he found himself more terrified than he had ever been in his life.

For all intents and purposes, this simple, folded piece of parchment in his shaking hand held his future in its' script. By order of the Ministry, he would have to run off and get married to some stranger – or worse, some Slytherin. The very idea of marrying a member of that slime was repulsive enough, but to actually have children with them? Oh, Merlin help him! Nothing Voldemort had ever thrown at him could be as frightening as this. And, to think, this had all started out as a perfectly normal day; he had been planning to go out on his Firebolt and practice some Quidditch moves, maybe even try a Wronski Feint. But now . . . his hand shook as he held the letter.

Get a grip, Potter! His subconscious mind shouted at him. Use that Gryffindor courage – open the damn letter! With a deep breath, Harry unsealed the envelope, drawing the piece of official-looking parchment from it. Rapidly, his green eyes scanned the letter, looking for the most important piece of information.

Dear Mr. Potter,

First, I must offer my heartfelt congratulations to you for being one of the eligibles to participate in the Marriage Act! The wizarding world's continuation is absolutely dependent upon yourself and your peers.

In more pertinence, after some testing based on your personality and tastes, the Ministry has decided that your best potential partner is Miss Pansy Parkinson from Slytherin House.

Remember, you should be married within the year and have at least one child within three years. Thank you for your cooperation and, once again, congratulations on your imminent engagement.

Yours Most Sincerely,

AnnaMaria Regan

Head of the Department for the Re-Development of the Wizarding World

"Harry? Harry, mate, you alright? You look a bit green there." Opposite him, his redheaded friend peered concernedly into his face.

Just as silent as Hermione, Harry handed his own letter to his best mate. Ron's eyes widened with each word until Harry thought they might just pop out of their sockets.

That would be interesting to see, he thought vaguely.

"Bloody hell," Ron's fervent whisper snapped Harry from his reverie. "I'm so sorry, mate." In seven years, Harry had never heard Ron sound quite so sincere. If possible, it scared him even more than the letter had.

However, despite his feelings, he couldn't speak. He felt that if he did he would either start screaming or vomit. Or both.

"Where you going, Harry?" Neville Longbottom turned to face Harry looking, unlike the rest of the table, as though Christmas had come early.

Lucky bloke, bet he got what he wanted, Harry thought bitterly.

"Hospital Wing," he barely was able to croak out before making a mad dash for the doors. In lieu of throwing himself off the nearest cliff that seemed to be a good second option. After all, Madam Pomfrey would probably let him hide there for a few days . . . and the small matter of a certain Dark Lord needing to be defeated.

What Harry didn't know was that he was fleeing from an impending disaster zone. Barely moments after he had reached the top of the marble staircase, the Great Hall exploded. Or, at least, it seemed to. Students turned in their chairs, once again searching for the catalyst of the noise while diminutive Professor Flitwick fell off his own chair. Professor Trelawney, for once seated, at the teachers' table took it as a sound of impending doom. Perhaps she was right; at least, doom for the certain fiance of a certain Pansy Parkinson. For, indeed, it was she who had made the noise and she who was feeling less than romantic toward her husband-to-be.

"I'M MARRYING SAINT POTTER?!" she shrieked.

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