-2-
"The Address is starting soon," Mrs. Weasley called out, as she flicked her wand to clear the dishes from the table. Each dish landed in the sink with a thud. Tonight's meal had been a soup, made with garden tomatoes and some of their government supplied rice, which was growing dangerously low.
It was broadcast night, which was a weekly occasion across the Imperial Territories and meant that most of the Weasley family began to gather around the TV, waiting for the Royal Reporter to grace the screen. Even though the television was a long since staple in their home – they became required in every home when the decision was made to begin the Imperial Address – it was still quite the mystery to the Weasleys, who, in the beginning, sat so close to the screen that their noses nearly touched. With Hermione's help, they soon learned that sitting so close was unnecessary and, yes, each button on the remote control had a different purpose. Mr. Weasley still couldn't remember the difference between the buttons to change the volume and the channel.
As Mrs. Weasley began to run the water in the kitchen sink, a small "crack" came from outside the front door. Mr. Weasley walked in, his hair ruffled about and his shoulders hunched, as they were every evening when he returned home from work.
"How was your day, dear?" She asked her husband, who came over to peck her on the cheek while she busied herself in the kitchen.
"Not great, I'm afraid. Poor old Abraham was setting up a new Floo network today for a family who'd moved house, but the poor chap was so tired, he stepped off into the Nott's residence. Mr. Nott was furious. Reported Abe to the Royals. He was sent home early, so things got busy for the rest of us."
Mr. Weasley, due to the precarious nature of his past job in the office of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, was no longer trusted to do any form of government work under the Imperial Rule. So, his new position was in a Logistics office in London, in charge of setting up Portkeys and maintaining Floo Networks for the greater Britain area. Tedious work done for dirt pay was the current reality for Mr. Weasley.
"Oh no," Mrs. Weasley replied, moving a rag across the table as she spoke. "What'll happen to him?"
"We're not sure. It was an accident - a petty crime at most I'd think, but you know who's in charge. Abe'll be lucky to be shown any mercy at all, I'd expect."
Mr. Weasley sighed, shaking his head as he sat down in his favorite armchair just off the kitchen, near enough that he could continue his conversation, but close enough to the TV so he could see the countdown for the Address. Mrs. Weasley brought over his bowl of tomato soup and placed it in his hands.
"Molly, you've been cleaning all day. Come join us, I'll finish up the cleaning after the broadcast is finished."
Mrs. Weasley had a steady job as a cleaner for some Essentials over on the other side of the hill. It was backbreaking work, despite being able to use magic, and she returned home each evening exhausted, took an hour or so to rest, and then began preparing dinner for her family, after which she would clean up her own home, too.
The television made a faint beeping sound, indicating ten minutes remained until the start of the Address.
These days, the contents of the broadcast varied, but were mostly updates on the new wizarding school, Axios, which took the place of Hogwarts, and focused heavily on the teachings of the Dark Arts. The Royals now use Hogwarts as their permanent residence, and Axios was now where most witches and wizards in Britain attended school. Hermione would most likely receive her teaching assignment there after she completed her final Degree, but for now, she was taking her time with her studies..
If not about Axios, the broadcast mostly covered the progress Voldemort was making in his quest to expand his control over other countries' Ministries – his current conquest being the Ministère des Affaires Magiques de la France. Of course, these countries knew of the war inching towards them, and some were preparing to fight, but Voldemort's power was unprecedented. If Dumbledore and Harry Potter had been the best chance of defeating the Dark Lord, and had failed, then what hope did the rest of the world have?
As the rest of the family watched the Address, Hermione was tucked away at her desk in her small room, trying to decipher some ancient runes from an old textbook she'd bought, inconspicuously, in Diagon Alley. This, and many other forms of magic that were not inherently Dark, were deemed irrelevant by the current Department of Magical Education, and thus means of studying it had to be bought secretively.
"Hermione! You might want to come and see this!" Ron's voice carried from the living room to where she sat at her desk.
She had missed the beginning of this week's Imperial Address – after she finished with ancient runes, she got caught up in her Transfiguration textbooks and no one in the Burrow had bothered to disturb her for what would most likely be an uneventful broadcast – but she managed to make it to the living room, taking her usual spot next to Ron, just in time to see the Royal Reporter, looking poised and proper in dress robes of a deep blue, give the last report:
"Our final report of the evening is regarding the recently announced Royal Choice. The castle is thrilled with the response from applicants and sources tell us they've already received hundreds of submissions in just the first few days since letters were sent to all eligible candidates. They've seen applications from all over the Imperial Territories, across Europe, and from as far away as the Americas.
With a week left until Prince Draco himself will announce his 30 Eligibles, rest assured that there is still time for any suitable young women to submit their names. In fact, as of today, the King has promised any family of an applicant to the Choice will receive Elite rations for the following 6 months, regardless of caste. Deliveries will begin as soon as the submission is received.
This is a one-time offer and will only be given to the families from which came a legitimate submission. A reminder that all applications are due no later than July 1st.
We live under the reign of a truly generous King and a gracious Dark Lord.
That completes tonight's Imperial Address. Please make sure you tune in next week, July 5th, as we witness our beloved Prince Draco choose his 30 Eligibles.
Good night from the Royal castle. Long may he reign, King Malfoy, under the guidance of the Dark Lord."
Hermione sat in the stunned silence that followed the end of the broadcast. Every face in the room wore the same shocked expression, which confirmed to Hermione that she'd definitely heard the report correctly.
Extra rations just for applying to The Choice?
This was a big deal. Maybe not to the daughters of Elites, who'd never known what it was to be hungry. Even Essentials like Hermione could choose to pass on the extra rations without noticing the loss. But for the Commons and, especially, the Undesirables, this could be the difference between finally having enough food or the usual, constantly unsatisfied hunger.
Receiving more food would mean a much more comfortable winter. And, for the Weasley family, this fate fell upon young Ginny's shoulders.
It only took a moment for Ginny to realize the weight of what they'd just heard. Either she submits her name to the Choice for the sake of feeding her family, or she refuses to join the Royal Castle's gameshow and guarantees her family another hungry winter.
The tense atmosphere too much for her to handle, Ginny stood wordlessly, eyes clouded with tears, and ran up to her room, shutting the door behind her noisily. Mrs. Weasley stood up and quietly followed her daughter out of the room, worry etched in her aged face.
Mr. Weasley also decided to take his leave, muttering his usual laments about the sad state of the world, which left only George, Ron and Hermione in the living room to discuss this new offering from the Royals.
"What a plot twist," said George, fishing out the remote from between the couch cushions. Keeping his voice low, he asked, "Do you think Ginny'll do it? Submit her name for the rations?"
"She has to, doesn't she?" Ron asked, matter-of-factly, as though the answer to George's question was a simple one. "I mean, Elite rations? If we're smart, we could make those last well into next Spring." He played idly with Hermione's fingers as he talked.
"It'd be nice not to have to take extra jobs this year. I don't think I can take another winter of listening to Mrs. Billings drone on about her daughter's wedding to a Royal," George complained. "He's not even an actual Royal. He's only part of that caste because he's a soldier working as a guard for the Malfoys…"
"Honestly, how can you both be so insensitive?" Hermione pulled her hand away from Ron's, as if his touch burned. "You do realize if Ginny enters her name, and is Chosen, she can never come back to live at the Burrow? Unless she's stupid enough to break the rules like me, which she's not. The two of you have no right to tell her what she should and shouldn't do!"
"It wasn't meant to be that deep, Hermione," Ron said, his eyes bearing a look of innocent ignorance. Did he truly not understand what a heavy decision this was, offering themselves for marriage to a man like some mail-order bride? Especially when considering that man was Malfoy? Is that why he could so easily suggest that she enter her name, too?
A cocktail of anger, annoyance and other unidentifiable emotions stirred inside her. "Of course it wouldn't seem deep to you! It's not you who has to do it!"
In a way that said 'I want no part of this conversation' George stood, mumbled to Ron some rendition of, "You're digging yourself a hole, Ronnie" and swiftly made his exit, though not before his parting line of, "Grave mistake."
A "crack" from outside indicated that he must've disapparated back to his own home.
"Hey," Ron soothed, his face contorted in concern. Although it seemed genuine, it wasn't enough to stifle Hermione's annoyance. He used a hand to turn Hermione's face towards his. She obliged, though her face remained hard. "We were just thinking aloud, that's all. I just figured with the hundreds of girls applying, the chances of Gin getting picked are so low -"
"And what if she is picked, Ron? What then? I'm sure there are repercussions for backing out after being Chosen. She can't just take that decision back!"
Ron recessed, his face flashing through different emotions of realization before he resolved to sharing his epiphany with Hermione.
"I get the feeling we're not talking about Ginny anymore," Ron said, and Hermione very much wanted to roll her eyes, but resisted the urge for the sake of peacekeeping.
"How could you tell me to submit my name?" Hermione regarded him seriously, genuine curiosity coursing through her. In the emptiness of the living room, her words fell heavily.
"It was a mistake, Hermione. I shouldn't've said it - " he trailed off, leaving Hermione to press him for the rest of his sentence.
"But?"
"But… I still stand by it." Ron's posture straightened, like a man about to defend himself in front of the court. However, the judge was his girlfriend, so it wasn't looking good for him at the moment.
"Listen," Ron said, adjusting his position so he could look at her, "if a lottery were created for men and the prize was to potentially move myself up in caste, you bloody bet I'd be first in line to submit my name. This life isn't fun, Hermione," he gestured around the Burrow, "You're already living below your means by staying here. You could still be living the comfortable life of an Essential, with enough food and a respectable job and some dignity when anyone asks you which caste you're a part of. You won't find any of those things by staying here with me."
"Isn't it enough when I tell you that I don't need those things?" Hermione said
"Can't you understand how burdened I feel being the reason you decide to give them up?" Ron countered.
There it was – Ron's truth. He felt burdened by his damning Hermione to the life of an Undesirable.
The cocktail of emotions from earlier filtered into just sadness. This conversation had undertones of loss and rejection and finality, and Hermione wasn't ready to face any of those realities.
The pair got quiet. Tears began to spill freely into Hermione's lap as she could only bring herself to look at her hands.
"Were you lying when you said we would figure out our life together, if I submitted my name and I wasn't Chosen?"
Ron sighed. He took a moment to cultivate his response, but when he finally did speak, he evaded her question. "I love you, Hermione. For the past two years, and unknowingly, for many more before that, I have loved you. And in this sick, fucked up world we've been dealt, you deserve more than I can give you."
Ron reached his hand down to grasp hers, which she promptly evaded.
"No," Hermione said, "Don't you dare - " Her rising anger was making it hard for her to collect her thoughts. She took a shaky breath before continuing, "If you loved me, Ronald, you'd be asking me to stay, not pushing me away! As if you're doing me some sort of kindness!"
Ron seemed on the cusp of retaliation, but she was uninterested in hearing him saying anything more about separating for the sake of her future. She got up from the sofa.
"You know," she said, halting in her march away from Ron, "maybe I will submit my name. And if I'm Chosen, I'll be sure to give you the extra rations as my parting gift," she said and then swiftly left the room.
If she had looked back, which she hadn't, she would've seen Ron succumb to his afflictions.
Set on speaking with Ginny about the broadcast, and busying her mind with anything except her conversation with Ron, Hermione spent a few minutes gathering herself in the bathroom. When her eyes were rid of their red tinge, she left to seek out Ginny.
Outside of her door, Hermione knocked twice, then let herself in.
"Hey," she said. In front of her, Ginny sat on the edge of her bed, legs hanging off the side. Her face, now void of any tears, looked decisive and sure.
Ginny acknowledged Hermione's presence with a sniffle and a nod.
Instead of sitting next to Ginny, Hermione sat on the floor in front of her, legs crossed, as if she were back in primary school. Using her wand, she summoned a pillow from the bed to cradle in her lap.
She hadn't planned what to say, and realized she didn't know how exactly to comfort her friend, but she knew they must share some similar feelings about the Royal Choice. She was mostly glad to be away from the scene she left behind in the living room.
As Hermione was contemplating how to begin abating the worries of her friend, Ginny spoke.
"I'm going to do it," Ginny said. "Submit my name," she added seconds later, as if she felt the need to clarify her intentions. Her updo was struggling to hold in the hairs that framed her face, evidence that her face had been buried in her hands mere moments before.
Ginny's sudden admission shocked Hermione, and it took a moment for her to construct a response.
"So – so you've decided? You've decided, right? Gin, it's important to me that this is a decision you've made for yourself and for no one else - "
"You sound like my mom," Ginny interrupted. Hints of a smile played at her lips.
"Did Mrs. Weasley try to convince you not to submit your name?" Hermione asked.
"She tried to tell me that it's not my job to take care of the family." Ginny said.
"She's right, you know."
"That argument would've worked in a world where we had enough to eat. At least before, we were poor but we weren't hungry. Food is as good as gold now. What kind of person would I be to turn down gold?"
Hermione didn't have an answer for her. In the silence, Ginny's mind changed course, fabricating a new anxiety.
"Harry would be so ashamed of me," Ginny whispered.
Hermione reached up to grab her hand. "That couldn't be further from the truth. If Harry were alive to live in this new world, he would understand why you'd choose to submit your name." Hermione climbed onto the bed, pulling her into a hug. "You want to help your family, Gin. It's admirable. Harry would be behind you on this. Trust me."
In a moment of weakness, Hermione asked -
"What if I submit my name with you?"
"No," Ginny shook her head, "You've done enough for us."
"It's not just for you," she lied, though she thought back to Ron's insistence in the shed and, again, tonight after the Address.
In a sudden surge of spite towards Ron and sympathy for Ginny, Hermione solidified her fate in the way of a few sentences.
"We heard the same broadcast tonight – by just submitting, we can get enough food to last this winter comfortably. That's worth it." Hermione spoke as if she'd be spending another winter at the Burrow with the Weasley's, though after tonight's argument with Ron, it was unclear whether that would come to be.
"Besides, it sounds like plenty of other girls around the world are trying to get to Draco. No chance we'll get Chosen. We'll take our food, say thank you, and burn those stupid letters in the fire." Hermione knew these things were impossible to guarantee. But saying it aloud helped convince herself and seemed to lift Ginny's spirits, albeit minisculely, so she stood by it.
"You think Ron won't care if you apply?"
You have no idea is what Hermione thought, but what she actually said to Ginny was –
"Ron will…understand."
And so both single ladies of marrying age filled out their applications and enclosed a picture in their envelopes, then sent off their submissions to the Department of Royal Affairs by owl.
Not even a full day later, a delivery of rations appeared at the Burrow, its quantity 3 times that of any food bundle they'd ever received. Together, they celebrated this bestowal with the best dinner they've had in years. Ron and Hermione even set aside their grievances to enjoy the merry mood.
This happiness lasted for 7 days, as they basked in the elation of having enough food.
Until the next Imperial Address changed everything.
Prince Malfoy, looking quite princely in his dress robes of all black, stood patiently as his Handler adjusted his tie. Next to him, within a well-enforced carrying case, upon a pillow of crushed velvet, sat the crown he'd be wearing for tonight's Imperial Address.
"Fifteen minutes until showtime," called out one the of the camera workers, who had his coffee hovering in the air next to him while he flipped through his clipboard of notes.
The castle's ballroom - previously Hogwarts' Great Hall - was bustling, as everyone finished the preparations for tonight's announcement of the 30 Eligibles. Prince Draco's announcement.
The camera crews were magically positioning their cameras towards the thrones in the apex of the room, reporters were speaking furiously into their quick quills, finalizing their questions for the follow up interviews, and several Handlers were marathoning back and forth between himself, the King and Queen, making sure they were attended to and were camera ready.
The Malfoys had done this many times before – each week, the Imperial Address was recorded live from the castle, and every so often the Royals needed to issue a public decree, so this routine wasn't all that foreign to Draco. However, the contents of this broadcast were from a request personally issued to the King by the Dark Lord himself and thus had a lot of pressure behind its success.
It was crucial to Lord Voldemort, as he had mentioned this to King Malfoy many times prior to this night, that his regime avoid any unbecoming appearances, and that this Royal Choice be an example of the power and wealth of the Royal family and the Imperials – or else.
Draco shuddered to think of what 'or else' would entail. At the hands of the Dark Lord, murder wasn't implausible for those who displeased him.
When all Handlers were finished toying with his dress robes, Draco turned to the mirror. He grimaced. The all-black look was strategic, his personal Handler's idea, meant to resemble a groom's attire to better convince the public of Draco's intentions of finding a wife.
Complete rubbish.
This whole charade was a complete and total waste of his time.
He'd been lucky to have spent his years as a Royal thus far, soaking up the attention, partaking in the lavish parties, drinking unhealthy amounts of alcohol with his friends, and attending to the most beautiful women who wanted nothing more than to please the Prince.
And please him, they did. Over the years, he'd made the acquaintance of many lovely women, some of which were enthusiastic to hear about his latest jaunt around the quidditch pitch. They'd bat their eyes and be disrobed in his bed less than an hour later.
The broadcast tonight signified the end to that fun. This would be Draco's introduction into a life of domesticity and responsibility.
Complete and total rubbish.
His personal Handler, a young wizard named Barclay, similar in age with the Prince, bounded up to him, seemingly short of breath.
"They're – ready – for you – Your Highness."
"You alright, there, Barclay? Merlin, they have you lot going all out for this show, don't they?" He clapped his Handler on the back. The gesture was returned with a small smile, though the man was still doubled over in exertion.
"No worries, friend. I've got a bottle of scotch in the parlor with our names on it after this is all done," Draco promised,
Draco gave himself a last once over in the mirror, let one of the guards carefully place the crown upon his coiffed hair, and sauntered over to the set of thrones.
Eventually, the King and Queen joined Draco in their seats. The Royal Reporter, who today dressed in robes of deep scarlet, took his place at a podium next to the Royals.
The countdown began. 3 – 2 – 1 –
Showtime.
"Good evening to the Imperial Territories. On behalf of the Dark Lord and the Royal family, I'm Phineas Wells and I'd like to welcome you to a very important Imperial Address." Phineas, who was very good at his job, flashed his glistening smile to the cameras, and Draco was sure he had captivated anyone watching. Well, the women, at the very least.
As was customary, the Reporter sped through the many announcements – the addition of a specified Cruciatus course at Axios and some prospective professors who could teach it, the locations of the next rounds of home inspections, an advancement in the pursuit of the French Ministry -
The last announcement before Draco's cue was about Military Service. Draco, suddenly faced with nerves for the first time since starting these appearances, attempted to listen to the details of the final message. The Dark Lord required a growth to the military. Any witch or wizard in possession of a wand no older than 10 years may join. Must have adept knowledge of both offensive and defensive spells. That's all he could comprehend – his hearing kept oscillating in and out of function.
Prince Draco narrowly missed Phineas announce his name to join him at the podium, among claps from his parents, Phineas, and even the crew behind the cameras.
Acutely aware of the fact that the Dark Lord must be watching his every move from some cold room in the Imperial Palace, and that his father will have his head if he can't perform this without a hitch, Draco stood from his throne, using his knees for support – and to hide the fact that his hands were sweating profusely – and walked with all of the confidence he could muster to meet Phineas.
They shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and the Reporter began his questioning of the Prince.
"Prince Draco, looking dashing as ever tonight."
"Ah, you flatter me. You don't think the all black is too – melancholy?" Draco made a point to grip the lapels of his robes, shifting from foot to foot, as though modeling his chosen attire. This made Phineas laugh heavily.
"Not at all, you look positively regal. Like a groom ready to meet his bride."
Interesting. Barclay would be thrilled his wardrobe idea was a success.
Draco continued without pause. "Well, that is what we're all here for, isn't it?"
This was the part of the script where Draco needed to sell his fervor for this opportunity to find a wife – despite it being terribly nonexistent.
"It is, indeed. Tell us, are you nervous about having 30 witches move into the castle?"
"Nervous? Phineas, this feels like a dream. I'm still waiting for someone to pinch me awake."
Laughs.
"Tell us, what will you be looking for from these ladies?"
Fake pondering, a nervous hand to the back of the neck.
"I think first and foremost, I'll be looking for a Princess." Lies. "The importance of the Choice isn't only about me finding a wife, but also a suitable Princess to help lead our Territories." Lies, all lies. "Of course, I've always had a soft spot for women who can bake.." This one was true, though the closest he'd had to this type of woman was a particularly indecent night with a delicious blonde and 6 cans of whipped cream -
"We're learning trade secrets here, ladies and gentlemen. Do you mean to say that the way to your heart is through your stomach, Prince Draco?"
"Without giving too much away, I will say that I've never been known to turn down a Banoffee Pie." He flashed a smile of his own towards the cameras, for good measure.
"There you have it. A secret to the Prince's heart bestowed to us by the Prince himself. Well now, don't you think we've kept those at home waiting long enough? Should we let them know the names of the 30 Eligibles?"
"It would be my pleasure, Phineas." Time to get this over with. He had a bottle of scotch waiting and a sudden appetite for Banoffee Pie.
He and Phineas swapped places, so that he was directly behind the podium. With a deep breath, he began to read from the cards in front of him.
"Miss Hannah Abbott of Britain."
Ah, the first familiar name. He'd had a feeling some women from his past would show up as Eligibles. This woman, though, he only recognized by name and couldn't produce a single memory of her from their time at school. Her picture flashed briefly on a screen in front of him.
"Miss Pansy Parkinson of Britain."
Draco had expected this one. Pansy, of pure blood, similar allegiances, their history was long and complicated. She looked quite beautiful in her picture, though he knew better than most that behind the pretty face was a cunning, dangerous woman.
"Miss Gabrielle Rosier of France."
This face was new. A woman with black hair that seemed to meet no end appeared on the screen. She had a brooding, rather sexy appearance, exaggerated by her choice of red attire. He looked forward to meeting this one.
And on and on this went – Draco read off names and a picture of the young woman would appear on the screen.
"Miss Elizabeth Young of the Americas."
"Mariya Belov Of Eastern Europe."
"Astoria Greengrass of Britain."
"Hermione Granger of Britain."
Draco paused slightly after this name.
Granger?
Her picture showed as the name was still registering in his mind. He noted the familiar brown curly hair he remembered from years earlier was much tamer now, lying in loose curls just past her shoulders. Her face, though a little gaunt, was bright, and her smile lit up her chestnut brown eyes.
He'd been paused a fraction too long, so he read through more names as he analyzed.
"Padma Patil of Britain."
Granger looked too healthy to be an Undesirable. He did a double take back to her name to check her caste.
"Veronica Vexmoor of the Americas."
Ah. So she was an Essential. This made sense given that she could have easily out-tested the entirety of students at Hogwarts, present company excluded, of course. He hadn't the chance to prove his smarts, as the war shifted everyone's priorities in those days, but he still felt himself quite capable of matching Granger's intelligence.
His wonders continued. If she was an Essential, then why was she so thin? And, despite her caste, she was still considered an enemy of the Imperials, right? Weren't these women vetted before being Chosen? How had she made it through?
"Tracey Davis of Britain."
This was befitting of Granger, to show up in the least expected way. Even years after Hogwarts, she was still an enigma.
And sifting through these kinds of thoughts, Draco made his way through the list, gave some nonsense outro to Phineas about how excited he was to meet these ladies, and closed out the broadcast with a lot on his mind.
His last thoughts before being swept up in the follow up interviews were concerning what Granger's life was like these days.
Not that he cared, good or bad. Just a curiosity.
And as he laid in bed that night, wanting to recap the women who would be moving into his home in a matter of weeks, Draco was pissed because the only woman he could vividly remember from the call list was Hermione fucking Granger.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed the second chapter. I'm very much enjoying writing this one. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Jane