"You have to help me, Neville—this is—not—Lucius Malfoy is married, right? I won't even talk about how he is an ex-convict, a former Death Eater, and that he was personally responsible for assaulting me." I lean across the small table. "He's married. And there is a clause in the Law which says that married people are exempt. How could this have happened?"

Neville, who has joined the Ministry recently, shakes his head and pulls out a roll of parchment from under his cloak. He's still plump, with kindness written all over his plain features, and I am so glad that he's answered my letter swiftly.

My Patronus has—faded of late.

"Actually, Hermione, I searched through the files of my department—about couples who've been registered to be married under the Law—and I went through Lucius Malfoy's file as soon as I got your letter." His eyebrows draw together in thought or pity, I cannot say which, and he holds my gaze. "He's not married. His wife and he separated right after the war."

I am shocked.

I saw them—I saw him and Narcissa at the trial—I saw how she looked at him.

No. That is impossible.

"But—if they divorced right after the war, why was she by his side at the trial? I saw them, Neville—they were like this." I make a knot out of my fingers. "And why did it never get out? I mean—notorious they might be, and definitely hated universally, but no newspaper would ignore a story such as this, would they?"

What am I doing?

What the fuck do I care if they hid their divorce or why the newspapers have been ignoring them all these months!

I am asking all the wrong questions. But perhaps this is a side effect. Or a coping mechanism for the situation I find myself in.

The only knowledge I should be drawing from all this is that Lucius Malfoy isn't married.

"I don't know, Hermione—they just kept it really quiet, I suppose. And as far as the divorce is concerned, I think they only got it to save their money and assets." He scans the paper he's holding. "The terms of the divorce are such that Narcissa got almost everything in the settlement."

I have a sinking, shrunken feeling in my heart as I look at him. It happens to me so very often now, this horrendous feeling of suffocating in open spaces, of drowning in light and desperately hating the walls that I can feel are closing around me every now and then.

I imagine a wave crashing down on the pavement and I shut my eyes briefly.

Hide yourself.

"Hermione?"

"Yes."

"Are you—is something wrong, apart from Malfoy?"

I want to weep and tell him everything, right here, right now.

"No, of course not. What were you saying?"

He doesn't seem to believe me at first but when I smile, his expression clears up.

Naïve, kind, sweet Neville.

"Well, I was saying that the Malfoys got divorced so that they could keep their property and wealth, that's all."

"And since Narcissa was acquitted of all charges, they couldn't confiscate her property. They did auction the Manor though, didn't they?"

"Yes. But that is a different case entirely—V—oldemort used it as a base. It couldn't have been allowed to remain with them."

"Sure."

And now, I am breathing again.

Softly at first.

And then harder.

"What can I do, Neville?" My voice shakes so much that I don't think I can keep up this facade. I don't want to hear my voice anymore. "They can't do this to me—anyone else, I would've—they can't do this to me."

He rises from his seat and pulls me into a hug.

It is warm—so very warm and genuine—the first I have had in a long time and I cling to it like a drowning woman clinging to a floating straw.

"Go for an appeal. It closes the day after tomorrow—go today. I'll come with you if you like." He pats the back of my head lightly. "I know the lady in charge there—her name is Melissa. She's nice—she'll listen to you."

I draw back from his embrace.

"Thanks, but you don't need to come. I'll go alone."

"But—"

"I'll go alone," I say firmly as I fumble with my purse and pull out two sickles—my half of the bill. "Don't worry; I think I can handle an appeal."

He looks worried.

And pained.

I can feel his eyes on me as I leave the coffee shop.

It hits me suddenly as I step out on the pavement—I didn't ask him about his registration for marriage—he's in the same soup as me—and everyone else.

A twinge of guilt and I brush it off.

I suppose I didn't care enough to ask.

I bite my knuckles frantically.

He's pacing in front of me, out in the waiting room.

I am surrounded by so many people out here.

Draco Malfoy is pacing the floor frantically.

His father isn't here. That's good. If I can get rid of this entire situation without having to face him, I would thank my stars.

I bite my knuckles and watch another couple being ushered into the Appeals room.

Draco Malfoy doesn't even look up.

His face is haggard—and pale, as usual. It is marred by a deep frown and his silver eyes look empty.

He hasn't even noticed that I'm here too.

And he's still pacing.

"Will you stop that?" I snap at him, unable to take it any longer. "Just stop."

He stops.

"Granger? What are you doing here?"

And suddenly, I am looking directly into his eyes, so devoid of warmth or feeling and painted with utter dejection.

"What do you think?" I ask sarcastically. "I mean, what could a single, adult female, recently a victim of the government's hegemonic Marriage Law, be doing in the Appeals department of the same Law?"

He doesn't say a thing.

I mean, what could he possibly say?

We're all victims here, victims of a society that we created, and we're all going to sink together in this madness.

I wonder who it is that he's appealing against and on what grounds?

"Whom did you get fixed up with, Malfoy?" I ask curiously. I want to know which poor girl would have the misfortune of ending up with him in wedded bliss.

"None of your business," comes his curt reply. I shrug, ready to drown into my morbid thoughts once again, but he plops down into a chair next to me.

He's close enough for me to smell him.

"Whom are you appealing against?" he repeats my question.

I tilt my head and run my fingers through the curls.

"That's none of your business," I mimic his reply and it is amusing to see him get annoyed. "Seen your father lately?"

His face turns a strange shade of crimson but he doesn't say anything.

"Oh come on, Draco—silence was never your strong suit," I say slowly, intent upon getting a rise out him. It would be like a strange relief—some sort of twisted retribution if I can only get him to snap. It won't even be hard. "So let's hear the story of why Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy throne, hasn't seen his father in a long time. In fact, you weren't even there at his trial, were you? You remember, of course—the one where they sent him to Azkaban for being a Dark Wizard, a perpetrator of crimes against humanity, and a disgusting person in general."

He's looking at the floor as I speak.

He can't do this.

He cannot keep quiet and accept my jibes, so meekly that it almost makes me feel guilty for goading him.

I won't let him.

"What, you're not going to defend your own father, Draco? Nothing? Not even a bloody lie from that slimy tongue of yours?" I chuckle harshly.

"Shut up, Granger," he gnashes his teeth and gets up as the attendant calls out his name and I am left to my own devices.

He doesn't come out of the room though and when the lady announces my name; I walk inside with shaking legs.

They can't do this to me.

I can't let them.

And yet, what choice do I have?

"Please be seated, Miss Granger. I have your papers here and I see that you're appealing against your marriage to one Lucius Malfoy?"

I slide into the leather seat in front of her and nod. She's a middle aged woman, plump and fair—with auburn hair tied behind her in a bun. Her forehead is sweating profusely and I wonder what it might be like for her, to have to deal with agitated citizens like me.

"Yes," I say. "I am appealing on four counts: a history of torture and assault against my person, our mutual enmity prior to and during the war, his history as a Death Eater and the large age gap between us."

The woman raises her eyebrow at me and sucks the end of her quill.

I am terrified and nervous, to be at the mercy of someone you don't even know—and to know that any moment a simple mark from her quill could destroy me utterly.

"Please relax, dear." She must have noticed my countenance and she offers me a glass of water.

"No, thank you," I refuse with deference, perhaps it is the self serving instinct in me that's reaching out. I would grovel at her feet to get out of this arrangement if it would do any good.

I sit silently as she goes through my forms, making a mark here and there, pausing to shake her head now and then.

Finally, she looks up at me with pity in her eyes and my heart stops.

"I am sorry, Miss Granger, but your appeal cannot be approved."

"What? Why not?" I cry out, grabbing the edges of my armrest. "Surely, out of the many people sitting in your waiting room, no one can have more cause for rescinding this match than me!"

I cringe at the loudness of my voice, a voice that is brittle and breaking, a voice that a caged animal would make.

"Indeed, madam, I sympathise with your plight. But according to the stipulations under the Law, you're not eligible for an appeal. It seems from our records that you were absent at the drawing of lots, during which you could have easily protested the Ministry's choice but you did not. You absence is assumed to be an indicator of the fact that you have no objection to the Ministry's choice of a suitor for you."

I want to make some kind of sound but every noise has died in my throat.

Technicality? They are refusing me appeal on technicality?

And still, I cannot speak.

"I am sorry for the same, Miss Granger, but I cannot help you," she says in a mournful voice and I feel the bitterness of my heart creep up in my eyes.

"I am sorry too," I say quietly and steel myself for an onslaught of emotions—that terrifying cornucopia of dread and depression, the bleakness of my thought s and the impossible turn my life has taken.

I am sorry too.

I always thought that a woman's wedding day was supposed to be special, a glorious moment that she would share with her beloved and her family and friends. I have never been romantic, nor have I planned my wedding day since I was a little girl, like most girls do.

But I had hoped for love.

And I had hoped for peace.

"Please repeat after me, Miss Granger," the Ministry appointed priest says softly, not unkindly. "I take thee, Lucius Malfoy, to be my wedded husband…."

He trails off, invoking Gods and Demons perhaps, I care not which. And I have stopped listening to him. But my lips move of their own accord, as if in reflex, and I lift up my eyes for the first time to look at him.

Him.

Flashes of light and searing pain cross my mind.

I would invoke my demons and set them free if only they would devour the man who stands before me.

His face is white, almost translucent, and glassy—its surface shines like he is made of hard, polished marble and he looks down his nose at me. There's no expression in his face and I can only assume what he's thinking. Perhaps he loathes himself for touching my skin, my filthy, tainted skin as he holds my hand while I recite the priest's vows. Not a single hair on his head is out of place. His grey eyes are unreadable, narrowed at corners, and his lips are curled in disdain—all of this I have anticipated and I hold my heart in a cage of stone as I look into his eyes.

And I imagine that there's a cold storm lurking behind his glassy eyes, a storm that promises retribution for every word I utter, for every breath that I draw—for my mere existence.

I wonder what he sees written on my face. I cannot hide my nervousness and pain, certainly not my horror and disgust at being—Ron always said I had expressive eyes, and maybe he sees everything written on my soul through my eyes—my rage, my desperation and most of all, the shreds of my will to life, falling all around us like confetti in celebration of my fall.

And his.

Perhaps his too.

And soon enough, the priest is finished.

I haven't even heard him speak but he must have said something.

"Congratulations to both of you. The Ministry wishes you wedded bliss and a long happy life," the priest says, ushering us out of the door. There are many other couples waiting to tie the proverbial knot and he must hurry.

My head is bowed in defeat as my legs carry me out of the door automatically. His footsteps are louder and I want to scream at him to cut them out.

I stop at the turn of the corridor, unsure of what to do.

"I hate you," those are the first words out of my mouth. I have my back to him. "I hate you more than I have hated anyone, V—Voldemort included, and I wish that you were dead."

He says nothing.

But suddenly, I feel fear beginning to clamp down my throat and my voice is torn from my throat.

Before he can say anything, or move against me, I take to my heels and flee the building.

Cohabitation is a mandatory clause in the Law.

I lean against the glass in my window, rubbing my forehead against the smooth surface as I try to control the involuntary shivering.

I reach out for another bottle of beer and swallow as much as I can—until my throat burns raw and all I feel on my tongue is the bitterness.

I should stop. I've had—more than I can handle and—

I see the road below. It is grey, bathed in orange streetlight. The few trees around the block sway lightly in the soft breeze. I can hear people laughing.

I have an appointment with him—I will call it nothing else—and we are to discuss how to go about this hideous business.

No grace.

I should be going but the glass in my window is so transparent and I want to keep him waiting while I take my fill of the world below.

I feel oddly light on my feet as I walk towards the pub where he—

I could have met him in a fancy place, expensive and delicate, but that would be his home turf and I am not willing to concede any space to him. Besides, my staggering steps would hardly be out of place in the pub to which I am headed, especially after the many, many bottles of empty beer lying on the floor of my house.

The atmosphere inside is stifling, filled with smoke and stench, and I am relieved. Not caring if he's here or not, in fact I privately wish that he isn't, I turn to the nearest table in a corner and deposit myself ungracefully in the chair. I signal for the waiter to bring me two pints of beer.

"Excuse me, but do you mind if I take this chair?"

I turn to see a young man politely pointing towards the vacant chair on my side. I shake my head and try to focus my attention on his face.

"No, go ahead," I say, waving with my hand. He looks a little like Ron. Okay, a lot like Ron. He has the same hair, a goofy smile and perhaps—

I look at his back for a long time before returning to my beer.

And that is when I notice it.

That is when I notice him.

Yes, notice is the right words because I can barely see him—he has his head covered in a hood and he sits across the table, staring intently at my face. I can't tell much from his posture but he's tense, very much so, and the hair at the back of my neck stand up in wariness.

Fuck him.

I don't bloody care; I won't let him intimidate me, not here, not anywhere else.

Not again in this life time.

I take another swig out of my bottle and look at a young couple dancing nearby.

"This thing suits you," I remark out of the corner of my mouth, derision dripping from my lips. "Hiding in the shadows—afraid to show your face to the world, Mr Malfoy?"

He leans forward and I catch a brief glimpse of his eyes, silver and stone, before her retreats into his shadows again and I shudder.

Damn you, Gods. I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be sitting here with this man, this beast that has caused me so much agony and scars—I would slit his throat if I thought I could get away with it.

As I take the cork off another bottle, he looks straightens up.

"Perhaps a more quiet place would be suitable to our—ah—negotiations," he says softly, and despite the loudness of music and the chatter of the crowd, I hear every word clearly.

"And why would I be interested in going anywhere quiet with you? Not for the pleasure of your company, surely?"

I would love to see his mask of cold politeness slip, so that I and the entire world can see the snakes he hides under his skin. But he merely tilts his head to the right and taps the table with his bejewelled fingers.

He watches patiently while I finish my next bottle quickly. My eyes sting as the liquid burns my throat once again.

"Are you just going to sit there and watch?" I slur, wiping my mouth with the back of my sleeve. "Let's be done with whatever you've come here to say and we can both leave."

I run a shaking hand through the tangled mess of my hair.

Damn him, damn him to hell twice and back again—I cannot see his face and I am not sure that I want to.

He simply taps his fingers. With so many rings.

First. Tap. An emerald set in a golden oval frame.

Second. Jaded stone, silver.

Third tap. A large ruby set in a bluish metal.

And fourth—a simple band—engraved with the Ministry's tiny seal.

I close my eyes.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

I can't feel the middle portion of my body—maybe I am just hungry or it probably has something to do with the beers—the tap of his fingers is like an incessant pounding in my temple and want to tell him to cut it out or something—

"You appear inebriated," he comments, ceasing the infuriating tap of his fingers momentarily but resumes it very soon.

What an astute observation.

Alright, this is it. I am going to get up and walk out of the door. I will deal with him and the bloody Law some other time. I had gotten myself drunk so that this part of the conversation could be easy, so that I could at least bear his presence whilst I negotiated—but I had been wrong.

I have been wrong all along and the alcohol hasn't made this easier. If anything, I feel more vulnerable and exposed. And I can't think straight, a faculty that I need very much in order to speak with the Death Eater, especially in the face of his detached indifference and disdain.

I would almost prefer it if he were hostile and abusive.

"We'll have to do this another time," I say dismissively and grab the edge of the table to pull myself up.

My legs sway as if unattached to my body and I hug myself closer to the walls, creeping towards the door as quickly as I can manage.

I sigh loudly as soon as I step outside and the evening breeze hits me in the face.

My legs wobble.

Oh God.

I take another step towards the alleyway.

Something is rending in my chest and I breathe hard.

Oh God I'm going to die.

And suddenly, without warning, I lose control and crash to the ground.

Hey everyone, thanks for reviewing, following and favoring. I hope you liked the second chapter-I don't know if I have done a good job but I would be very happy if you told me so(wink wink)

Please review and let me know where I lack, and where I don't. Cheers.