Chapter Two – The Ministry Man Cometh

30th of November, 1999.

It was a shame.

Snape had taught him once upon a time. Their class must have been one of his first, in fact. He remembered how it was returning to school after a year's absence. War had come down hard and seemed to cut life into two. Something was either Before the war or After the war, and those two periods could never mix or barely even be spoken of in the same breath.

It was somehow easier to accept the many changes then to question them. There were empty seats in the Great Hall, new faces at the teacher's table, and certain names that were only mentioned in hushed voices. There were reasons, but did you really want to ask them?

Severus Snape was one of those new professors. He had been skinny, greasy and a little twitchy, wearing his oversize academic robes like a fancy dress costume. There were rumours, but at that time there were rumours about practically everyone. Still, there was something that lived behind those black eyes and reared its flashing, unpredictable head from time to time. 'Skeevy' or 'dodgy' were the words Charity used, and he was inclined to agree. It was worrying, especially as he wanted to be a Mediwizard then and needed NEWTs potions. In the end, Snape proved to be just as adequate an instructor as Slughorn, though not nearly as pleasant, but such compromises were made After.

He graduated in '83 with reasonable marks, all things considered. They were still tidying away Death Eaters, and Muggle Relations was buzzing on everybody's lips. The world was recovering, the future promised to be brighter, and he found himself trading the well-trodden path for a chance at 'the vanguard of the modern wizarding age'.

That was one of Charity's terms. She was something of a star then, with her six Outstanding NEWTs. She was also a Prefect, his Gobstones Captain, and very pretty. He was totally smitten with her, of course, at least for a little while.

Border restrictions were lifted at last that year, so for Christmas they spent a month together in Muggle Europe. It was to see the sights, but they seemed to spend all their time in cold railway stations and cheap hotels, talking by the hour. Well, she talked. He tended to listen, whilst pretending not to notice the way the slanting light caught on her chestnut curls, or the shapes her lips made when she pronounced certain words, or the look in her eye when she mentioned particular contentious subjects. She brought along her record player, and when she was tired of talking they listened to her collection of Muggle records. She played "Do they Know It's Christmas" until the vinyl gave out, with a look on her face that he would never quite understand. He only thought the song was alright.

St Mungo's had already replied offering him an apprenticeship, but at her say-so he tore the letter up, letting the pieces fall from the Rialto Bridge into the black water beneath. Guss, you and I can make something big, something right, she had said. Looking into those caramel eyes, he had no choice but to believe her wholeheartedly.

By February he was loitering around the Atrium with her, and a few other bandwagon jumpers and general gawpers – a young Rita Skeeter among them - waiting to ambush the Minister just weeks before election. The Sunday Prophet that week had Charity's face beaming from the cover. He was in that photograph too, but somewhere behind, a little out of focus and alternating between grimacing and hiding. In '84 they were both working as juniors in the new Muggle Relations department under Fudge, with whom she had had the occasional lunch to which he was not quite invited. In '88 she had moved on to Hogwarts and her 'true calling', leaving him to hold the fort that she had won.

'91 was the year that the Boy Who Lived returned, and with him unsettling whispers. By '95 war was looking certain, and Charity was talking in earnest about the Marriage Law, 'the second wave' and making her mark in history. She said she needed her dependable deputy again, to do the footwork for her grand idea while she was busy 'forming the minds of tomorrow's leaders'. Naturally he was more than happy to drop everything just for her. The law was a reality by the following summer, and he was installed in his new desk in the Department of Domestic and Marital Affairs .

And then, of course, their troubles started.

First there was the Brockdale Bridge incident; then Amelia Bones, Head of the Magical Law Enforcement; Poor Emmeline Vance, taken out in broad daylight while protecting the Muggle Prime Minister; the Dementors breeding up and down the country; giants sighted in Somerset; a botched Imperius attempt on one of the Muggle Minister's people; and, of course, Fudge's sacking.

All of this rather swept the Marriage Law aside, and the new Minister, hard-faced Rufus Scrimgeour from the Auror Office, was not exactly the type to care much about the ins and outs of dominant and recessive genes. Without orders to the contrary, they simply carried on, as if the country wasn't falling into tatters around them.

He would never forget going to work that morning to find the Matchmaker working for the first time. 'A marvel of wizarding Arithmancy and Muggle genetics', she had dubbed it, but for the first time in his life he found he could not quite agree. Whirring and whistling like a mad kettle, it spat out lengths of red ticker tape with dozens of names, birthdays, deadlines, occupations, hair and eye colour, parentage, education, and many other details that he had no business knowing. He glanced through them, prepared in theory for what he would find, but came to a dead stop at the very first one.

Hermione Granger, Hogwarts student. Born: 19th of September 1979. Bloodline: 7th Generation pure Muggleborn. Skin colour: White. Hair colour: Brown. Eye colour: Brown. Education: Ten (10) Outstanding OWLs, enrolled for six (6) NEWTs. To be married by: 19th of February, 1997. Desired number of offspring: Three (3) or more. Incentive: 500 Galleons per child.

She was still in school and not even of age yet, but the Matchmaker had already fixed a future for this bright young woman. Mediwizard, professor, potioneer, interpreter, activist, tinker, tailor, candle-stick maker: there were many things she might have been, but to the Matchmaker did not care about any of this.

He couldn't quite share the excitement of his colleagues over this obscene invention. There were more of them in the days that followed, picked out and priced seemingly at random by this queer, cruel system that he worked every day but did not understand.

There were complaints, of course, from parents, teachers, and even Dumbledore, but those went to the Head.

"Laws are laws," said Dorian who was simply not to be questioned. "And besides, the Matchmaker doesn't go back on its word".

This was literally true. They had made the Matchmaker a binding magical contract, and though none of the participants had entered of their own free will, the punishment was, as always, death. And so, with regret but much less guilt, he wrote back to all the anguished girls and boys, parents and teachers, that they were all very sorry, but there was no alternative. Blame the former Minister, if you will. And plenty did, for all sorts of reasons.

He opened a file for each Muggleborn, and into it placed the petition letters as they came. Hers had easily been the thickest and full of the most alarming names. There was Vincent of the Crabbe clan, barely of age himself, volunteered by Mrs Crabbe who 'wanted some more smarts to the family'; Garrick Macnair, by all accounts his father's son which was enough said; a minor Lestrange, estranged from the main criminal branch, but no doubt ready to join in this time around; and Amycus Carrow, who had a three foot long charge sheet and was old enough to be her father and a half. Even sadder were the names that had not made it into the file: Ronald Weasley, who would not be of age within the deadline, though only by a few cruel days; Neville Longbottom who had a similar story; Harry Potter, the same again; Charlie Weasley, who worked abroad and did not satisfy residency requirements; Remus Lupin, who was a registered werewolf and therefore disqualified from selective breeding (and, some would eventually come to say, any breeding).

When she engaged herself to Severus Snape in January, he was almost relieved.

He witnessed their wedding himself. It was held on a frosty February morning, in the worst inn in Hogsmeade. There were no flowers, no friends, no family, no gifts, no handsome groom, and no blushing bride in her dream dress. There was only Dumbledore to perform the spell, McGonagall to hold the poor girl's hand in case she bolted, and himself as the guest that no one invited. For a month afterwards, the boggart in his closet wore Hermione Granger's face. But then there were more of them to do. Avery-Smith, Nott-Ingleby, Carrow-Walton. They were all too similar.

He wondered how his Charity could have ever thought this a good idea.

On the first anniversary of the Law, he decided to ask her.

It was a balmy summer evening in Derbyshire. They had not spoken for a while, and he had practised what he would say in front of a mirror. In one hand he had a bottle of decent elf-made wine, in the other the latest Oasis album, hoping that she would have a 'CD-player' and knowing that she probably had at least three.

That was the first time he had seen a Dark Mark in person.

Three days after throwing a handful of dirt on an empty coffin, Jones-Mitchell had their first child. It was a bouncing baby boy bristling with magic, and the couple, though still a little strange with one another, showed no signs of anger or heartbreak or unspeakable sorrow. He felt that he understood Charity then, and how she had birthed this mad, terrible idea. Like all revolutionaries, she knew the value of sacrifice. The Snape-Grangers of this world were the price we paid for the greater good.

That was two years ago. A lot had happened since, not least the war which had hardly been a war at all. By the time they had even noticed, the enemy was already deep within, reaching around all the soft places and squeezing. The heart of disease had been in his own department, the one that everybody had overlooked. He was almost relieved when it had all caved in only a few days ago.

All the same, a part of him felt keenly what a shame it was that it should all end like this, when it had started at Christmas time fifteen years ago, on a bridge in Venice, holding her hand as they watched the sun setting over the marvellous city.

It was literally shameful.

-o-

This and more was heavy on Augustus Highman's mind as he stepped out of the Atrium and into thin air.

When the world decompressed again, he was standing on the neat sidewalk of quiet, comfortable Oxfordshire. It was mid-morning, and the wide, picturesque street was quite deserted. On either side were grand old houses with handsome windows, neatly trimmed hedges and wrought iron gates. Rather conveniently, he had landed near a street sign, and its shiny, black-enamelled arm told him that this was indeed Bard Mews.

"Number 9," he muttered to no one, as he started down the street with his eyes open for house numbers.

But he hardly needed them to find what he was looking for. At the end of the street, on a corner block, was a house set quite apart from all the others. Something about the overgrown hedges, leaf-piled gutters and broken attic window told him it was the right place more than the ivy-hidden sign.

He didn't much like house visits at the best of times – was probably still a little on what ordinary people called the 'shy' side – and a nervous shudder went down the length of his spine as he approached the tall gate.

It had been locked and secured with a heavy, rusty chain wound in a rather tight coil. It would be a futile task, but he made to try it anyway. He had barely brushed his fingers against the cold, rusty metal when the air thrummed with the distinctive ripple of a strong warding charm. This was followed by a loud crackle from somewhere beside him.

"Hello?" A female voice issued from the wall to his right, faint and weary.

"Er," said his mouth, before the rest of him was quite ready.

He approached the source of the noise and found that the wall contained a domestic electric security and communications device, with its grill-like microphonic receiver half hidden behind a layer of thick, bare, wintry vines. He placed his mouth about three inches away from it, which was the optimum distance for most Muggle radio devices, cleared his throat, and summoned his best and least shaky Ministry voice.

"Hello? am I speaking to Ms Hermione Snape?"

There came an audible sigh followed by a rather hard-edged answer.

"Not anymore. I thought that was the whole point."

"Ah."

Actually, he had considered the problem of how to address the not-quite-married-any-longer women, along with all the other problems to come. As with the rest of it, the solution wasn't exactly straight forward. Wizarding divorces were simply not common place.

"Ms Hermione Granger, then, if you prefer. My name is Augustus Highman and I am-"

"- the Ministry Man, come to liberate me."

It was an extraordinary remark, dripping with sarcasm and underscored with accusation. He didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't this. A horribly cold and heavy feeling, worse than a dozen Dementors, began to grow in his belly.

"Quite," he all but whispered, utterly derailed from the rehearsed spiel. "So, er, if you let me in, please, Ms Granger, we can proceed with the...with the 'liberation'."

There was another frazzling noise as the device extinguished itself, and then a horribly loud clanking right under his noise as heavy chain loosened its coils and slithered heavily away, like a thick, many-segmented serpent. The gate swing creakily open, inviting him up the leaf-littered driveway.

He put on a suitably official face and followed the red brick road up the gentle slope, wondering what he would find at the top of it.

She was already waiting for him there, standing just inside the open doorway, with her arms firmly crossed, her lion's mane of bushy hair, and looking quite a lot thinner in the cheeks than the teary-eyed schoolgirl he remembered. There were, he noted, dark circles under both brown eyes. She was wearing a bright yellow apron.

"Sorry – I seem to have caught you at a bad time," he ventured, gently.

She gave a rather sharp, violent shake of her head, as if tossing off a fly, and sent that mane of hair bristling.

"Not really. Come in."

The stiff invitation was followed by an even stiffer step backwards.

He stepped awkwardly past her, trying very hard not to notice the alarming details all around him. The abandoned look continued onto the interiors of the house: there was a pile of letters and newspapers at least a foot high behind the door, pieces of furniture swaddled in ghostly white sheets, and a thick layer of grey dust which lingered over everything like the fuzz on an mouldering peach. In fact, the dust was so thick that he could make out trails of footprints crisscrossing the wooden floors and cutting through the grey cover to show some of their original, handsome mahogany.

The door clicked behind him, and, when he finished jumping from surprise, he found himself staring at her expectant face. His mouth, sensing that he must say something, began to open before he quite thought up the words to put through it.

"Lovely house," was what his mind shortcut to, in total disregard of the cringing that would follow.

"It was my parents' place," she replied, as if he had not said something completely foolish.

A slight crease appeared between her eyebrows and she proceeded to glance past and around him. She raised one hand from its resting place inside the other elbow, only for an inch or two, and gestured around with a single thin finger, unwilling, it seemed, to unfold her arms.

"I sent them away during the war. Haven't had a chance to clean all of it up, as you can see. I expect I'll call them back when I'm done. With the divorce, I mean."

"That was very wise of you."

He meant it. There had been dreadful, unspeakable things done to the parents of Muggleborns during the war. He met her gaze with some difficulty, and ventured a smile that wasn't quite returned.

"I suppose you're here to collect the forms," she said, in a very flat voice. "I've got them ready. Follow me."

He followed her bushy head past the handsome staircase and through a hallway, heading towards some bright room at the end of it whose light seeped into the darkened corridor. It was lined on both sides with large, framed photographs. The slanting light caught the dust on the glass at odd angles, giving them an opaque, frosted look. He stole glances at them as he walked past. There was a chubby-cheeked baby dressed as a sunflower. A small girl with buck teeth and ringlets, clutching onto an enormous satchel in one hand and the coat tails of a shy, bespectacled man in the other. Taller now, the girl was reading a book on a garden bench, sitting beside a thin, mousy woman who had the same lips and nose. The family was on vacation, with bright green grass in front of them and softly undulating fields of lavender in the distance. The girl was alone now, standing in front of an ornate Christmas tree, looking very pretty in a blue, formal gown and trying very hard not to move, although he caught her blinking once or twice.

The final picture was a mystery as a single, small impact in the centre of the glass cover had sent a spidery web of cracks across the whole picture, making it impossible to see what was beneath.

"Death Eaters?" he asked, even though he had not meant to say anything.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Just the one," said Hermione, quietly.

The corridor opened out into a brightly lit kitchen. There were neat shelves of neatly arranged preserves and spices, beautiful pots of all shapes and sizes hanging on hooks, and a large rack of wine bottles which took up the whole end wall. On the old-fashioned aga stove, a kettle was just beginning to whistle. It would have been very welcoming if not for the dust which tickled his nostrils and the smell of rot.

"Take a seat," said Hermione, who was attending to the kettle. "How do you take your tea?"

"Oh – er – no milk, one sugar."

He took a seat at the family table. Lying on it, next to the vase of dried up, moulting daisies, was the pile forms tied up neatly with red string. The sight of them made him feel extremely nervous again, and he was very glad when the cup was set down in front of him.

"Thank you," he whispered.

He had no idea why he had felt the need to whisper, but now that he had started it was utterly impossible not to continue.

"I see that you have the forms here," he said. "Would you mind terribly if I checked through them?"

Hermione shook her head sharply.

He untied the pile, struggling with the knot as his fingers had suddenly turned very cold and useless. He sifted among them, trying hard only to check the pages and not to read the answers, yet.

"That all looks in order," he said.

"Good," replied Hermione.

They both took long sips of their tea, almost at the same time. When they finished, there was Augustus supposed that he should be the one to break it. He cleared his throat. It was a horribly wet noise from the tea.

"As you know," he said. "My visit today was not simply to collect the forms, but also to ascertain that certain requirements have been met. Can you confirm, please, that you are no longer living with Mr Snape, nor are you in contact with him through Owl post, floo calling, or any other method of communication?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. And, er, this is a rather delicate matter, but do you feel secure in your current location? In…cases of violence or abuse, the ministry can provide security measures for any party that feels threatened by the other."

"No thank you."

"Very well."

He had not meant to say this. He had meant to ask if she really felt safe and to insist that she apply for a guard from the auror office, or at least arrange for a stay with a friend. He was not sure if he believed what everyone said of Snape, but something told him that she should not be alone. But he could not say any of this. Instead, he simply went on.

"The next major step to take is to meet your Act Enforcement Officer. I am pleased to say that your case is being handled by myself, so you will be seeing a familiar face. I have arranged your first meeting to be on Tuesday next, at 11am. Is this a suitable time? If not, I'd be happy to reaarange – "

"It's fine. "

"Good. The aim of our appointments will be to clarify certain points of your marriage, as reported in the forms. During our interviews, I may ask for evidence of any …issues within the marriage, which I would then compile into a file to be used by you or your legal representative at the Appraisal Hearing. This evidence must be legally incontrovertible, which means that it must be obtained under one of three circumstances: under a Vow of truth, under grade 2 Veritaserum, or through Pensieve. Have you given any thought as to your preference? You need not decide that now, but it might be good to consider it – "

"Pensieve," replied Hermione.

"Are you sure?" asked Augustus. "A Pensieve can be very intrusive, particularly given the intimate details I would be forced to ask you about."

He thought of having to sit through hundreds of hours of memories involving her and Snape, and also of having to ask for them, and watch her pull them unwillingly out of her head. It made him feel quite sick.

"Veritaserum is a much better option."

It was against policy to give advice like this, but he found he did not care.

"It wouldn't be like grade 1 Veritaserum," he said in a rush. "You wouldn't feel compelled to tell 'the complete truth' to a ridiculous degree. You would confine your answers to exactly what I asked, so you could keep your – you could keep certain details completely private, if they have no bearing on the case. Or even Unbreakable Vow would be a better option. Again, it would be a vow for 'truth', but not 'the whole truth', you see, so – "

"No thank you," said Hermione, looking into her teacup. "I think I'll take the Pensieve."

"Very well," replied Augustus with great reluctance. "If that's what you prefer."

"Was there anything else you needed to talk to me about?" asked Hermione, pouring herself a second cup of tea.

"No, not particularly."

"Good."

"I'll take my leave then. See you on Tuesday, Ms Granger."

Augustus Highman pushed his chair out rather unsteadily, apologised for the horrendous noise it made against the marble floor, picked up the pile of parchment, dropped it, and picked it up again.

He was very glad when Hermione made no attempt to show him out, and doubly glad when he was outside again, in the leafy streets of Oxfordshire.

He disapparated with a loud pop, wondering how Perkins was getting on with Snape, and feeling decidedly less glad.

-0-

Author's Note:

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Sorry it's been so long in coming – writing my first original novel, so this has been put on the backburner a little.

I hope you found my take on Charity interesting. In many ways, this entire fic came from that one line in DH where Voldemort mentioned Charity's mad inter-breeding idea.

Drop me a line and tell me what you think.

-Zhangers