In reality, of course, Snape's uncharacteristic outburst merely succeeded in startling a passing Hufflepuff into offloading her porridge onto the floor but, as Harry's experience at Hogwarts confirmed, news of one's misfortunes often travels faster than news of one's triumphs.
"How – how dare they!" he spluttered, crumpling the parchment between trembling fingers.
"Bad news?" Dumbledore inquired innocently.
"Oh, did something I say give it away?" Snape snapped back. "I thought you told me you'd sorted this?" he growled, depositing the letter squarely on top of Dumbledore's breakfast.
Dumbledore brushed the grease spots off impatiently with his robe sleeve, frowning down at the formal black print. "Well," he said simply after a considerable period of silence.
"'Well?' Is that the only comment I'm to receive on the impending destruction of my life?" he said, snatching the parchment back.
Dumbledore tutted. "Come, come. It doesn't do to exaggerate."
"I'd rather eat my knees with a fork than submit to this – this ridiculous insult to my sacrifices." He banged his fist down angrily on the table.
"My, what an interesting turn of phrase you have, Severus."
Snape visibly bristled. "I'll be discussing this with you later. Away from prying eyes," he said, glaring coldly at Hermione.
Hermione watched him go with a puzzled look - what did she care that he'd got another poison pen letter? It was hardly breaking news and, at times like these, she couldn't help rooting for the psychopath. Dumbledore must have noticed her expression, for he turned round and patted her hand reassuringly. "Just a little misunderstanding, I'm sure."
Unfortunately, Snape possessed none of his optimism, and his mood only darkened as the day progressed. He supposed he should have seen it coming, really. Despite the Order of Merlin publicly testifying to the contrary, it still rankled the Ministry of Magic that Snape had played them for a fool for so long, making a mockery of their intelligence department during the war. This was their perfect revenge, foisting some unwanted spinster into his life and bed. He shuddered at the thought. 'Dumbledore was supposed to sort it,' an angry voice iterated in his head. After all he'd done for him – for everyone, really – and this was his reward. Quite frankly he was starting to question whether Voldemort himself would have conjured such an absurd and sadistic piece of legislation. And at least under Voldemort his marriage partner would have been of the more desirable sort. He shook his head.
"Seat, Severus?" Dumbledore waved his arm magnanimously in the direction of a tall-backed armchair opposite his own fireside seat as they sat down to their evening interview.
"You had led me to understand that I was to be exempt from the Ministry's interference," Snape said in a tight voice, bypassing any introductory niceties.
Dumbledore sighed. "And so I honestly believed - right up till the moment you received your summons. Yes, I truly had no idea they intended to disregard my earlier request."
"Surely you can write to them again, explain my circumstances?" He rose abruptly from his chair, pacing in front of the fire with his hands behind his back and a troubled frown on his face.
Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "I'm afraid there really is nothing I can do. It's entirely out of my hands now." He spread his empty hands to illustrate the point. "That contract is so watertight you could sail it across the lake."
"Or use it to wipe your-"
"Severus!" Dumbledore interjected. "Please try to keep your comments constructive." He eyed Snape disapprovingly over his half-moon spectacles, making him feel like an errant schoolboy all over again. It was a discomforting feeling, and a technique which Dumbledore seemed particularly adept at. Snape wondered whether he would be able induce the same effect on his former pupils - whether, years from now, he would succeed in transporting the Longbottoms and Weasleys of this world back to the cowed, wide-eyed children he had encountered across the classroom. Then he remembered Hermione Granger and his lip curled with derision. Yes, she was walking proof that he had retained his touch – she still seemed to expect him to take off house points for walking around the castle after hours.
"This is ridiculous! Haven't I given them enough? My blood, my sweat, my youth and now they want, what, my firstborn?" he snorted. "And what good am I anyway, my mother didn't marry into a traditional family. Surely the nations' reserves of pure-blood bachelors can't be so depleted that I am to be counted among their ranks?"
"Has it occurred to you that you were targeted less for your ancestral past than for your recent actions?"
Snape immediately stopped pacing. "Yes, I had thought of that," he confessed, massaging his brow as he sank back into the armchair. "But why now?"
Dumbledore shrugged. "I'm afraid my influence carries much less weight than it used to. Perhaps they were merely waiting all along for an opportune moment."
"Ridiculous!" Snape repeated, as though hoping the Marriage Contract would transform itself into a stray Boggart. "Surely there must be a loophole here somewhere!" He stared at the text in front of his eyes with an expression of acute concentration.
"I've studied the contract extensively and I'm afraid it truly is unbreakable." Dumbledore paused, before continuing in an excited rush. "I hear they employed Goblin drafters! Extraordinary, really." He shook his head in wonder.
"Yes, let's just sit here admiring the phraseology, shall we? Because that would be really constructive," Snape drawled sarcastically. "There must be more to it," he muttered under his breath, eyes flitting rapidly across the page.
Dumbledore stared into the fire, watching the flames curl and crackle as the silence lengthened. He smiled to himself. Sometimes fate had a strange way of working.
"Promise me one thing," Dumbledore looked up at the tone of pleading in Snape's voice, shaken out of his reverie. "Promise that, until I find a way out of this, you'll keep it to yourself."
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'She's actually alright when she loosens up a bit,' George mused to himself as he held first one set of robes, and then another against his body in front of the full-length mirror. He decided in favour of the dark purple robes and laid the discarded set on the bed. Sure, there had been a time when you never would have guessed her parents' vocation, and it still wouldn't kill her to break open a bottle of Sleakeazy's once in a while, but it wasn't as though he had chosen her for her looks. If that had been his sole concern then things would have been a lot easier, but physical gratification had been the least of his worries upon receiving a Marriage Contract from the Ministry of Magic.
He had regarded his first letter with little more than distracted annoyance, handing the offending document to Verity at the end of a busy week with instructions to inform the Ministry of their error. When a second, third and fourth notification had been received he had resigned himself to taking the afternoon off and making a personal visit to the Ministry of Magic in order to close the matter. To be informed that there had been a clerical error had been small comfort indeed upon discovering that the Marriage Contract could not be revoked.
But then George was a pragmatic sort of person and he wasn't about to waste any time on maudlin self-pity, beyond venting the necessary string of expletives. Nursing a pint in the Leaky Cauldron later on he had considered his options – an exercise somewhat curtailed by a general reluctance to view the martial state with anything short of bemused distaste. To him, marriage inhabited that same category of the inexplicably popular to which he also consigned trade magazines and non-contact sports, so what sort of endorsement was his mother's oft-cried plea that everyone else did it? Confronted with the total futility of the task ahead he had followed the only sensible course of action; got steaming drunk and removed himself from social circulation for the weekend by stumbling over to his parent's house.
It was there that Harry had made the quiet suggestion that had transformed George's outlook. Rather than searching for a suitable bridal partner with which to spend the rest of his life he had merely to find someone who has trustworthy and clever, and above all someone sensible enough not to get carried away with romantic notions in the process. As someone who's solvency depended on the ridiculous, George rarely dealt in the sensible, so that his mind instantly connected with the one person upon whom such qualities could be depended; Hermione Granger. He could hardly think of a more appropriate specimen than a girl who had evangelised on elf rights at her hormonal peak.
Of course, Fred couldn't quite appreciate such heroic pragmatism. 'What on earth do you want to marry miss iron knickers for?' he had spluttered incredulously when George had broken the news earlier in preparation for this evening's general announcement to the rest of the family. Brushing the globules of projectile tea from the front of his robes, George had patiently explained that he had to marry someone, and had just been about to describe the exact nature of his obligation when Fred had butted in angrily and accused him of betraying the sacred Forge creed. Heedless to any attempts at interruption, he had predicted copious weight gain, a sense of humour bypass and gone on to outline a dire future where George's primary concern and sole topic of conversation centred around which school little Suzy would get into, before showering George in even more tea by slamming his mug down angrily on the table and storming out of the room. Despite receiving a muttered apology several hours later, George had felt disinclined to correct his twin's assumptions in return for such a poor show of faith. It would do some good to re-assert himself and administer a bit of a shake-up to the Weasley family's established viewpoint of George P. Weasley. With that in mind, and with a final reassuring glance at his reflection, George walked over to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo Powder.
"Wotcher, Hermione." He grinned as he stepped out from the green flames and gave his robes a quick brush-down over her hearthrug.
"You're late," she replied in a matter-of-fact voice, looking him directly in the eye as she tried to resist from making an unflattering double-take at the immaculately-dressed young man in front of her.
He waited for comment on his attire, having dispensed with the usual Dragonskin jacket in direct response to Fred's provocation, but was forced to reflect that Hermione was more concerned with his time-keeping skills than the amazing transformation wrought in her honour.
"You look nice," he said, breaking the silence.
"Oh. Thanks," she replied, rediscovering her tongue. "You only get one chance to make a first impression."
George chortled. "I think you're about eleven years too late for that – and you had the gall to quibble over my punctuality!"
"Oh, that was entirely different," Hermione said dismissively. "That was the first time your family met Hermione Granger - this is the first time they meet Hermione Weasley."
"Er, aren't they one and the same?" George said, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
Hermione sighed patiently. "Unfortunately, prospective daughter-in-laws are subject to rather more stringent assessment than childhood school friends. God alone knows how Molly is gong to react," she added darkly.
George paused thoughtfully before opening his mouth to respond.
"I've got one word for you," Hermione said, holding her hand up to forestall any objection, "Fleur," she finished significantly.
"Are you kidding?" George said incredulously. "I don't think she'd care if I brought home the giant squid just so long as it agreed to marry me. Bill was the shining golden boy; I'm more of a dull, tarnished sort of colour, saved from a life of dissolute bachelorhood by the love of a good woman. Besides, Fleur was different, she was…" he trailed off, searching for the right word.
"Beautiful?" Hermione shot back, fixing him with another of those unblinking stares.
"I was going to say something along the lines of 'difficult'," he said, colouring slightly under her gaze. He looked at her from lowered lids as she made her final preparations to leave. No, she certainly could not be described as any great beauty, but then he doubted whether it was something on which she had ever wasted much thought, and he rather resented the accusation that it was the only layer lesser minds were capable of discerning. "Well, shall we make a move?" he said shortly
She nodded, hesitating at the proffered arm before taking hold as they stepped into the hearth and began their inexorable journey toward The Burrow. She tightened her grip on George's arm as they sped through the floo network at a dizzying rate, staggering out to face an audience that seemed to comprise the entire Weasley family.
"Oh, Hermione, how lovely to see you." Mrs. Weasley took a step forward, kissing Hermione lightly on each cheek. "You'll excuse the crowd – we're waiting for our first glimpse of George's fiancée. Imagine that, my second boy to get married!" She dabbed at a tear in the corner of her eye. "He's kept it quite to himself. Have you met her?"
"Er…" Hermione hesitated, looking from one expectant face to another with a sense of rising panic.
"Actually, you've all met her," George said loudly, stepping in to rescue Hermione. There was a pregnant pause while George placed his arm proprietarily around Hermione's shoulder. "Allow me to introduce your future daughter-in-law."
If Hermione's nervous attempt at a smile resembled more of a grimace than an expression of pleasure it went unnoticed in the following commotion as every Weasley attempted to speak at once.
"…but when did…"
"…why didn't you tell us…"
George raised his hand for silence. "All I can say is that we wanted to keep it quiet until we were quite sure of our feelings. Isn't that right, darling?" He gave Hermione a squeeze and planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek which she responded to by giving him a sharp dig in the ribs.
"I'm so happy for you both, but, oh, it all seems so sudden." Mrs. Weasley clasped a hand to her chest and sat down in the fireside rocker with a thump, her face draining of colour.
"What was that all about?" Hermione hissed out of the corner of her mouth to George as the other Weasleys clustered around their mother in concern.
"Just adding a little authenticity - all part of the show," George said, snaking his arm further around her waist as he took full advantage of the rare opportunity to wrong-foot Hermione Granger.
"Well can we make it less of an exhibition!" she snapped, batting his hand away irritably. Really, anyone would think he was enjoying this!
"Suit yourself." George shrugged, before walking over to accept an enthusiastic backslapping from his father and a bone-crushing hug from his mother.
"Come here, Hermione." She inhaled the rich scent of cinnamon as Mrs. Weasley enveloped her in a warm embrace. "Welcome to the Weasley family. Of course, I had hoped before… but that's in the past," she finished brightly, flashing Hermione a smile.
Even Fred came over to offer mumbled congratulations, which George accepted with pointed magnanimity. Only Ron stayed his distance, sulking in the corner.
"Since when were you and George an item?" he huffed.
"It's been a while now," Hermione said, blushing at the lie as she tried to catch George's eye.
"Yeah, since you received that Marriage Contract I reckon," Ron muttered under his breath.
"What was that?" She turned around distractedly to face Ron.
"Well what a coincidence. You need a husband and suddenly George finds himself the object of your affection. Couldn't trap me into it so you switch your attentions to my brother – next best thing, isn't he?"
Hermione frowned. "Not that it's any of your business, Ronald, but I just so happen to be in love with George." Ron snorted sceptically. "Maybe one day you'll realise that the world doesn't revolve around your big head," she huffed, before returning to George's side and making a point of wrapping her arm around his waist.
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Snape stared at the letter for the hundredth time that week, willing it to reveal some hitherto undetected flaw he could exploit. But Dumbledore had been right, and there really was nothing he could do. That left only one option - he had thirty days to find a wife.
He leant back in his chair, closing his eyes in concentration, but no viable candidates sprang to mind. Maybe his mother had been right - that, in the past, he had been too particular. Now it was too late for all that and he was too confirmed in his bachelor ways to even contemplate disrupting his comfortable routine. A woman in his life would be difficult enough to accommodate, but children too? He grimaced. Not for him strained family mealtimes and screaming tantrums.
He looked at the letter again. Thirty days or they would select a candidate for him. He shuddered. God only knew what sort of woman received no marriage offers and required automatic matching by the Ministry.
He picked up the other piece of mail he had received that week - a wedding invitation, of all things. How fitting. He turned the thick, white card over in his hand, idly tracing a finger along the looping gold writing until he realised that he had been inadvertently tracing Hermione Granger's initials. He pulled his finger away sharply. Now this piece of mail had come as no surprise at all - as far as he was concerned it had only been a matter of time before that infuriating know-it-all latched herself onto a Weasley and succeeded in producing another endless line of imbeciles. He promised himself that he would quit teaching before the sorting hat got anywhere near the first Granger-Weasley head.
No, the only surprise surrounding their imminent nuptials had been the inclusion of his name on the guest list. But then he understood that it was to be something of an event, taking place in Hogwarts itself and that all the staff had been invited as mere formality. Of course, he had initially planned to find himself unavoidably absent over the period, but then the thought had occurred that it might provide the ideal opportunity for finding himself a wife.
He examined his face critically in a small, dirty mirror, frowning as he noticed a deep wrinkle on his forehead. Not bad. Maybe his nose was slightly hooked, but that only leant him an air of noble dignity, and if his skin was slightly sallow that only testified to the hours spent indoors engaged in worthwhile intellectual pursuit.
Unfortunately, the looking glass begged to differ.
"Not looking your best, are we?" a shrill voice piped up.
Snape slammed the mirror face down on the table irritably. Bloody know-it-alls.
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