A/N: Hello, all! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. In the comments for chapter 2 KaneWolf asked about a fancast for Hermione, definitely 100% Noemie Lenoir. I love Emma Watson, but she's just not my Hermione. However, Tom Felton forever. For. Ever.

oOo

Draco resisted the urge to rake a pale hand through his platinum hair, he resisted the urge to shift his weight nervously from foot to foot, he resisted the urge destroy the entire sodding room.

What even bloody sodding time was it? The Ministry owl had come in the early morning and then Draco had promptly lost track of time. And space. And quite frankly reality itself, because surely this was some sort of lucid dream.

The wizard had been waiting patiently - as patiently as a Malfoy could wait- for the last ten minutes- thirty minutes? A thousand minutes? who knows- outside the office of the Minister of Magic. He could all but feel the parchment, the Ministry decree, inside his pocket, polluting the fabric of his impeccably pressed emerald green robes. Grey eyes narrowed but a fraction as the parchment all but burned through him.

This was an outrage. A bloody outrage.

No one had seen it coming.

The war was over, the Light had won, the Malfoys had conceded. Beyond conceded; his family had practically groveled at the feet of Harry-sodding-Potter, savior of the wizarding world, and had been rewarded for their cowering when the Chosen One's unending mercy had spared them Azkaban. The Malfoys, along with the rest of the "tainted" pureblood families, had paid an unholy amount of galleons and self-respect in repentance for their sins, they had drained their resources, they had begged and pleaded, they had bent and broken, that had heeled at the feet of their new master, but this- this! This was beyond anything they could have imagined.

Had he not been sufficiently punished?

A loud noise from the hallway tore Draco from his thoughts and the wizard whipped his head around to catch a glimpse of what could only be described as a storm -no- a maelstrom of wild hair. He knew that hair...

The Minister's brunnette assistant stood, throwing her hands up as the undiluted magical rage rolled across the room. "Auror Granger, you can't-"

"Sit down, Janet," her voice held an ice that Draco hadn't recalled ever hearing from the amber eyed muggle-born and he was momentarily taken aback by the sound.

"You don't have an appointment!" The assistant- Janet- insisted, her voice firm.

"Kingsley is expecting me." Granger remarked with the barest shrug of her shoulder.

"Auror Granger- ooff!" Janet fell back roughly into her chair as if pushed and stared up at Hermione with wide green eyes, her plump lips agape.

Draco coughed out a surprised laugh and then Hermione Jean Granger, Holy Spirit of the Golden Trio, turned her firewhiskey gaze towards him and it was all Draco's self control to keep from shivering under the weight of her dark features.

How long had it been since he'd really seen her?

In the few years following the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco had caught glimpses of the witch around the Ministry and on the front pages of the Prophet, but he couldn't recall when he'd last been close enough to count the freckles dusting her small nose. War had been good to Hermione Granger, Draco observed with only the barest sting of shame.

Maroon Auror robes clung to her figure in a modest but flattering cut, accentuating her narrow waist, small shoulders, and wide hips. Granger had always been petite, Draco supposed, though her ability to fill up a room with hair and swottiness alone made her seem larger in Draco's memory. Now, Draco noted, though her dark hair was as positively mad as ever, there was something enchanting in the fact that the witch had obviously given in to the chaos of her chestnut danced around her head and cascaded down her back like gnarled waterfall, refusing to be contained by spell or hair clip. Granger was a different witch. Draco could see it in how she squared her shoulders, in the casual confidence with which she held her head and raised her brows to size him up. She was not the school girl he'd once scorned and what Draco felt prickling at the hair on his skin was distinctly not loathing, not even close.

"Malfoy," Hermione nodded, her voice losing it's frigid bite from just a moment ago even as her pink lips drew into a thin line.

"Granger," Draco acknowledged with a nod of his head.

Hermione looked towards the Minister's door and then back at Draco. "Would you like to go in together?" She asked motioning towards the door, her tone betraying none of the thoughts that were no doubt buzzing beneath that formidable mane.

"I believe," Draco drawled, "I arrived first, thus my appointment is first."

Hermione let the barest of smirks tug at the corner of her mouth. "Suit yourself," she practically purred before gliding past him. She casually swung open the door to Kingsley Shacklebolt's office, which Draco knew was warded as he'd try to barge his way in when he'd first arrived, and disappeared behind it.

Draco stared at the door and then to a very flustered Janet and then back at the door, his grey eyes narrow.

"Damnable, witch." Draco muttered under his breath as he strode towards the door, but found it once again locked.

Perhaps he did still loathe her, the swot.

Draco quickly weighed his options, considered his choices, balled his hand into a fist and banged once on the mahogany door. "Granger," he growled, wagering that the silencing charms warding the office only worked one way.

His gamble was rewarded when the door swiftly opened and Draco found himself staring into Hermione's grinning face. Had she just been standing there waiting?

"Changed your mind, Malfoy?" She asked pleasantly, her head leaning casually against the edge of the door.

"Perhaps it would be more," Draco began politely through clenched teeth, "advantageous if we met with the Minister together."

For a brief moment, as the witch sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and stared up at him, Draco wondered if she'd refuse.

"Probably best." She finally conceded, opening the door wide enough for Draco to slip in.

Shacklebolt sat with his elbows resting on a giant desk, his dark brow wrinkled in a frown, and his hands steepled in front of him. The tall wizard looked tired, haggard even, surrounded by towering stacks of parchment and too many cups of what Draco assumed was cold tea, but the Malfoy heir didn't much care if the Minister felt burdened.

"Minister," Draco acknowledged the wizard's presence icily, pulling out a chair next to the now seated Granger, "I trust you know why we're here at this ungodly early hour."

Shacklebolt put up his hands and sighed. "I'm honestly surprised it took you both this long."

"I was on shift when the owl arrived or I would have been here sooner." Hermione admitted, demurely folding her hands on her knees. What happened to the cold fury from just a few moments before, Draco wondered, eyeing the witch wearily.

"Kingsley," Granger began seriously, "this is -well, I'm not sure where even to begin. It's absurd. Ludicrous. Preposterous. Nonsensical!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Excellent vocabulary, Granger, we're all quite impressed, I can tell you."

Granger ignored him. "What's going on, Kingsley? Is this some sort of joke?"

"I wish it were, truly I do, but it's real." Shacklebolt rubbed a hand over his bald head. "Before we go any further, I want you both to know that I've done all I can-"

"All you can?" Draco hissed, the angles of his face twisted in disbelief. "What does that even mean, Shacklebolt? If you'd done all that you could do, surely this whole debacle could have been avoided."

"It means, Mister Malfoy," Shacklebolt shot back without the venom Draco would have expected, "that this was not my decision."

Draco and Granger both narrowed their eyes almost in unison.

"Whose decision was it?" Granger asked first.

"The Wizengamot," was Shacklebolt's only response.

"The Wizengamot?" Draco sneered, lifting his chin in determination. "This couldn't possibly be," he struggled to find a thorough argument, "the Wizengamot is full of old families-"

"Not completely full." Granger cut in thoughtfully.

"-they'd never propose something so ludicrous." Draco finished, his mind reeling. His father, though stripped of much of his privilege, had somehow managed to hold onto the Malfoy Wizengamot seat, cold comfort that it was. If this had been the Wizengamot's doing then Draco would have heard at least whispers of it before that blasted Ministry owl showed up at his window.

"They did propose it, Malfoy," Shacklebolt assured him, folding his large arms across his chest and leaning back into his hair, "and they ratified it, edited it, made it all but ironclad. If you've got a problem with it then best take it up with the Pater and Mater Familiases of the British wizarding world, they're the ones responsible for this particular mess."

Draco fumed, he bristled, he considered the merits of lowly muggle aggression and the benefit of punching Shacklebolt's teeth into the back of his skull.

"Kingsley," Granger began slowly, obviously considering each word before she said it, "what benefit does the Wizengamot see in a forced marriage decree? It's positively barbaric, feudal at best."

Shacklebolt shrugged, his eyes soft on the witch, "It's not altogether unheard of, arranged marriages that is, 'Mione."

"Mione?" Draco mouthed with a sneer. That nickname is barbaric.

"Most pureblood families still arrange marriages for their children, sometimes when the children are as young as five." Shacklebolt looked over at Draco, who shrugged noncommittally.

"Not common, but not unheard of, yes." Draco agreed, albeit reluctantly. He didn't appreciate his culture being used as a means to justify the Ministry's interference in his life.

"Yes, I know that," Hermione sighed, "I'm not wholly uneducated in pureblood wizarding ways, quite the opposite in fact."

Draco cocked an eyebrow at that. Really, little muggleborn? "If you think hanging around the Weasley brood is a proper schooling in pureblood culture, you've been woefully misled, Granger." Draco sneered.

"You are, as always, Malfoy, so remarkably unpleasant." Hermione said sweetly, the smile never dropping from her face, before she turned back to Shacklebolt. "Yes, but those arrangements, though archaic, are all done through the families and the children, when grown, can choose to break them. They're not binding. This," Granger pulled out the offending decree from her robes, "is magically binding, this," she waved the parchment, "is a threat."

Shacklebolt scrubbed his hands over his face. "I know, I know, but what would you have us do?"

"Keep your goddamned noses out of our bedrooms?" Draco suggested and he could've sworn he noticed Granger nod her head slightly in agreement.

"Children aren't being born." Shacklebolt announced gravely, leaning forward onto his desk, dark eyes pinned to the witch and wizard before him. "Our society will die out and it's not a question of if, it is a question of when. No one is getting married. No one is having children. In fact, no magical children have been born since Voldemort died." Shacklebolt squeezed the bridge of his nose and sighed. "Honestly, I'm starting to wonder if this wasn't somehow his final curse upon us. Be ruled or die, seems like something the tosser would've done."

Draco was about done.

"This is outrageous." He growled, folding his arms across his chest. "If there's a fertility problem, marriage won't fix it. Witches and wizards could all get married and have sex every day, all day-"

"Well, that wouldn't necessarily help, constant sexual intercourse I mean," Hermione, Shining Swot of Gryffindor, chimed in, "a wizard needs time to build up his volume if he wishes to impregnate a witch."

"Vol-volume? What the fuck, Granger? What the literal fuck?" Draco could feel his face burning red, he'd never heard something quite that medically vulgar come out of a witch's mouth. Pansy was vulgar, to be sure, but she was also an idiot, he'd never heard her discuss "volume" before.

"Volume, as in semen volume, Malfoy. Sperm." Granger flashed him a smile full of golden honey.

Draco threw his hands in the air. "Have you not dignity, witch? Sweet fucking Circe. "

"Fucking Circe indeed." Granger agreed.

"Oh very funny, Granger." Draco rolled his eyes. "Quite clever."

"I thought so, yes." Granger's light hearted giggle was like an ice pick and Draco shot the witch a glare full of malice before turning to Shacklebolt.

"I cannot, under any circumstances, marry this witch." Draco said with the sort of finality one expects from someone accustomed to getting their way before he rose from his seat. "Fix this, Shacklebolt."

"Godric's sake, Malfoy, sit down. The marriage law has been ratified, it's been voted in and unfortunately, despite what I assure you were my best efforts on Hermione's behalf, the two of you have been chosen as the bloody poster children. The first eligible witch and wizard paired. Now I have a great many other things on my plate so if you want this sorted out you'll have to do it yourself."

oOo

The unmistakable pop of an Apparition split the air and Draco Malfoy found himself standing before the gnarled iron gates to the Burrow. Platinum brows furrowed and the wizard let out a deep sigh through his nose, gripping his wand tightly.

He hated the Burrow. He hated the Weasleys. He hated red hair and freckles and so many sodding children.

Ginny's manic voice cracked through him like a whip, wrapping around his mind with audacious violence.

"She was engaged, Malfoy."

The pureblood heir had left Ginny on the floor of her home, exhausted but not incapacitated, and floo'ed from Grimmauld Place back home before immediately Apparating to the Weasley homestead; propelled more by raw fury rather than rational thought.

If Draco were thinking rationally he would have perhaps devised a plan of attack, so to speak, before rushing headlong into enemy territory, but as it were Draco had no strategy.

He did not even want to be near Weasley's at the moment, he'd rather be home destroying more irreplaceable antiques at him home, but Potter was here and though Draco was -he'd never admit it- a bit terrified of the Boy Who Lived, he was driven by a greater need: finding his wife. Perhaps he'd been slumming it with Gryffindors too often as of late, an unfortunate side effect of marrying a lioness, and it'd left his top notch self preservation instincts a bit frayed, because he was most certainly about to step foot into a lion's den.

Draco turned up his nose in preparation and steeled his nerves. Salazar only knew what Potter had already informed the Weasley clan regarding Draco and Hermione's row, there could be an entire army of red heads just waiting for his arrival. In fact, Potter was probably right there leading the charge, wand at the ready, insufferably arrogant face contorted in fury, it'll be an absolute bloodbath-

"Oh, Draco dear!" The lilt of a feminine voice snuck up behind Draco, startling the wizard and he made an extremely emasculating squeak of surprise. Quickly Draco turned, wand outstretched, to find himself staring into the smiling face of the Weasley Matriarch.

"We didn't expect to see you today." Molly's face was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the welcome Draco had been imagining and the wizard found himself quite disarmed.

"Oh uhh, yes," he stammered, "I'm sorry to pop by unannounced, I was just looking for uhh Pot-Harry, I was looking for Harry."

Molly's smile widened, which was most disconcerting for the wizard as his own mother, the pillar of femininity in his Freudian subconscious, had smiled five times in his entire life. Maybe six.

"You've just missed him, my dear, he dropped off the children and then had to run to the office."

Draco suppressed a sigh, but whether it was from annoyance or relief he couldn't tell. "Oh, then I'm sorry to bother you, I'll just be off-"

Suddenly Molly Weasley was grabbing Draco by the elbow. "Nonsense!" She exclaimed, pulling him through the gates. "You've arrived just in time for tea!"

"I have?" Draco asked attempting to pry his arm from the greying redhead, but he found her grip to be quite steadfast. "I wouldn't want to trouble you, Mrs. Weasley."

Circe, did the woman lift weights or wrestle trolls? Surely housework alone couldn't account for muscles such as these. Despite his attempts to dislodge himself, Draco's arm was well and truly stuck in the witch's grasp.

"Draco dear, how many times must I tell you?" Molly admonished, "Call me Molly! None of this Mrs. Weasley business, we're family after all."

Family?

If Draco had found this entire experience to be surreal before, well now he knew it was a hallucination. Perhaps Ginny had succeeded in murdering him and this was some sort of depraved hell.

He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.

"ARTHUR!" Molly screeched as they approached the house and Draco turned a startled expression to the witch before quickly schooling his features. "Put the kettle on, Draco is here for tea!"

Arthur Weasley popped his head out from one of the Burrow's many windows, a gentle smile on his ruddy face and a baby in his arms. "Oh, wonderful! I'll put out another cup," he called before disappearing.

Hell. It was hell.

Draco determined that he was in no mental condition to be entertaining Weasley's. "I'm so sorry, but I really-"

"And I've baked the most delicious treacle tart, Harry's favorite y'see, but there's plenty left over." Molly ushered the wizard inside and sat him at the table and before Draco could truly wrap his head around what was transpiring he was was being poured a cup of tea and a served a plate of tart.

Arthur sat down across from Draco, the youngest of the Weasley-Potter brood in his arms. Draco always forgot the child's name, was it Lily or Luna? Impossible to remember.

"So, Draco," Arthur adjusted the baby on his lap, who coo'ed happily, "how are things? Haven't seen you or Hermione for a few weeks."

"An eternity!" Molly exclaimed, taking the seat next to Arthur. "I'd nearly forgotten what you looked like, my boy."

A rude retort danced just on the edge of Draco's tongue, but he quickly bit it back. It seemed obvious now that no brigade of crimson haired wizards would be attacking him and in fact, it appeared as if Molly and Arthur were completely unaware of his wife's switch departure and subsequent disappearance. Perhaps they would be able to supply him with insights Ginny had been unwilling to give up.

Draco smiled and took a sip of tea.