Hermione Granger was eating a nutritious breakfast the morning the notice arrived from the Ministry of Magic.
The Marriage Law.
Deemed a necessary act due to a declining population after the Voldemort Wars, the Ministry in all its obsequiousness had decided that all unwed British magical citizens between eighteen and fifty years of age were now required to marry within a month and produce at least one magical child within three years and three children within ten. Witches and wizards would be matched by the new Matrimonial Department, primarily focusing on merging purebloods with halfbloods or muggleborn. Those who did not adhere to the law would have their wands snapped or would be sent to Azkaban.
It seemed like something she should be worried about, she lightly considered while chewing a bite of grapefruit.
Hermione Granger had no intention of going quietly. She had been expecting something like this. In the time Hermione had been involved with the magical world, the Ministry had shown itself over and over again to be demonstrably stupid, short-sighted and autocratic. But she had a trick in her sleeve. A government predominantly managed by a pureblood population was arrogant. They assumed too much acceptance by their citizenry. Hermione was going to make them pay for that assumption. She was well aware of her political allure. The so-called Brightest Witch of the Age, a member of the Golden Trio, a primary actor in the downfall of Voldemort, intelligent, kind, and with a penchant for following the rules even to her own detriment.
They didn't know her AT ALL.