A/N: Hello! I am updating a little sooner than planned simply because it's about to be Canadian Thanksgiving! So no update coming your way this Sunday, but perhaps Monday or Tuesday. For now enjoy this large chapter. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed.

October 21st, 1999 - Thursday

Despite the fact that the Burrow had to be rebuilt after the war, very little has changed. There's less clutter, to be sure, as many of the Weasley's small knick-knacks disappeared in the flames. It also helps that none of the children except Ron live at home anymore, and even Ron is in the process of finding his own flat.

The kitchen is still small, and backs onto a large green field where Hermione will often watch the Weasley's and Harry play quidditch. It's one of Hermione's favourite places in the world. It's always bustling with energy, and laughter rings from the windows even as they apparate to the front stoop.

Molly nearly lifts her in enthusiasm when she hugs her; fussing over her appearance. Hermione hugs her back just as tightly, the closest thing she has to a mother left. She's eternally grateful that despite her and Ron not working out romantically, they had remained friends, and that Molly and Arthur Weasley had barely blinked when the relationship had crumbled.

Sometimes Hermione wondered if it was because they had already lost too many children; a disastrous attempt at romance was hardly about to estrange another.

"Happy early Birthday!" Hermione cries, and Harry gloms onto their hug, squeezing them tight.

"Blimey, Mum," Ron's voice echoes from the kitchen, "let them breathe!"

Hermione beams at Ron and dashes towards him, embracing him tightly. He laughs into her ridiculously messy curls and spins her slightly.

"It's been way too long, Moine," he mumbles, blue eyes sparkling, "tell me, how are the House Elves?"

Hermione laughs, "They're good, thanks for asking. Closer to equal status every day, hopefully. How is the shop?"

Ron's face lights up and before she knows it he's describing the newest Quidditch line he's invented that George had okay'd — it's been flying off the shelves, literally. He describes their "Weasley Whips" and "Bludger BonBons" and Hermione lets herself drift for a moment, content in his radiating happiness.

"Ron, I'm so proud of you." She says, finally. He flushes a deep red, but he nods slightly.

Harry calls them over to the table — already crammed full of people. Arthur sits at the head closest to the door, Percy on his right and Ginny on the left. Bill and Fleur had made it for Molly's early birthday party and sat at the opposite end of the table. Percy and George faced them, leaving the spots open for the usual golden trio.

"No Bill?" Harry questions.

Molly sighs, "No, unfortunately, he's busier than ever in Romania. He sends his best though!"

Dinner is roasted chicken with baked potatoes, and Hermione rivals Ron for how much gravy she can pile onto her meal. It's been ages since she's had a home-cooked meal, and Molly Weasley is no slouch in the kitchen. They had offered to make dinner or order in to celebrate her birthday, but she had insisted that cooking was her pleasure. The table buzzes with happy murmurs, and Hermione remembers a time not so long ago that everything had felt hopeless. She had never thought they would get back here.

"Mrs. Weasley, this is delicious," Hermione compliments.

Molly waves her off, "You're too kind, dear."

It's Harry who finishes his meal first and floats the empty plates to the sink, performing a quick household charm to start the washing. Hermione is momentarily impressed, as household charms had never been something Harry had excelled at. Ginny is beaming, however, and it occurs to Hermione that Harry might be showing off just a little.

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry starts, once all the plates are away, "we've a present for your birthday."

Molly's eyes shine for a moment, "You didn't have to do that, darlings."

Ron shrugs, "We did, Mum. Last year we had just finished the war and were still rebuilding, and this is the first time it's felt halfway normal."

Arthur reaches over and clasps his wife's hand, "Molly, we all love you very much."

Hermione takes that as her cue and pulls her wand out to levitate the object they had hidden in the closet. It's covered in dark velvet, and Hermione leaves it near the table so Molly can unwrap it herself.

Molly stands slowly, and all the conversation halts, as though they are collectively holding their breath. She slowly heads to the velvet cover and drags it off, exposing a shining mahogany grandfather clock.

Her gasp is soft but audible, and she slowly lifts a reverent hand to touch the glass face gently. It's got ten spindly arms, each spelling out a name. Instead of the time, the clock reads: Safe at Home, School, In Transit, Work, Hospital, Mortal Peril, Bed, Lost, Shopping.

"Merlin," Molly Weasley breathes, "It's just like my old clock."

Her old clock that she had carried everywhere with her until it had succumbed to flames. Hermione was glad only that Molly never had to see Fred's hand slowly slide to lost.

Arthur stands and moves to her trembling form, "George had the idea, love. We knew the old one so well, so we had it designed in Diagon Alley, but then it was Hermione who took it to get charmed. Took us ages. Turns out it was a very unique clock."

"It was," Molly says, finally turning to them. She has tears in her eyes, "It is. This is… this is beautiful. Too much."

George shakes his head slowly from the other end of the table, "No, Mum. It's not too much. You deserve it."

Molly smiles, "And you added a few names. I love it. Harry, dear, and Hermione, I had always wanted to add you to my old clock."

Harry flushes, "Yeah, Ron insisted you'd want it."

Molly smiles, a full broad smile they had hardly seen since the Battle of Hogwarts. "This is the best birthday gift ever, my darlings. Thank you."

She doesn't mention that every single hand on the watch is pointed to Safe at Home; a parade of names: Ginny, George, Arthur, Molly, Harry, Hermione, Percy, Bill. The only exception is Charlie, alone and aimed at Work. It's the first time since their third year at Hogwarts that Mortal Peril has no hands pointed towards it. It's a welcome sight.

The moment is broken only by a loud thumping noise outside their kitchen window, where a snow-white owl now perches. For a heart-stopping moment, Hermione thinks it's Hedwig, come back to life.

Percy moves to the window and lets the strange owl enter, unclasping what appears to be a satchel of letters. The owl takes off without a moment's hesitation, and Percy frowns down at the pile of parchment in his hand.

"They're letters from the ministry," Percy states, "quite a few of them."

He tosses a rolled-up letter to George, Ron, Harry, Ginny, Hermione, and keeps one for himself.

The letter sits heavily in Hermione's hands. She's not sure what's coming, but dread washes through her, and she knows she's not the only one to feel it. Harry is so accustomed to his life falling apart that his hands don't even shake as he unrolls his parchment, the first to even break the seal.

He sucks in a breath at what he finds and grits his teeth. Half of Hermione wants to tear her own letter open and read, but she's spellbound, watching horror and disappointment flit through her friend's green eyes. He turns to Ginny momentarily, looking as though he's been punched.

"I — I don't know what to say," Harry says, "I'm… I'll read it. I'll read it for you."

The warmth of the Burrow seems to fall away as Harry reads, and Hermione wants to sink through the floor. All of this — all the fighting and pain and death, and this is what it's come to.

"To Mr. Harry James Potter:

As you may be aware, we are facing many challenges to the wizarding world as we know it. Our economy has fallen 73% in the past five years, our school registrations have dropped by a third, and the birth rates of witches and wizards have been more than halved. On top of this, the many losses we suffered during the Second Wizarding World have made for an almost impossible situation. In an effort to regrow and rejuvenate our world, the Ministry of Magic hereby declares the 'Wizarding Population Growth Act' or WPG in effect.

The WPG mandates that all witches and wizards from ages 19 to 40 that are eligible will be matched with a compatible partner. Rest assured, your partners will be drawn from a pool, and compliment your personality and magical signature. A marriage between you and your partner must be completed within 30 days from your assignment. A child must be conceived within the first year of marriage, or, in the case that it becomes necessary, other fertility options or treatments may be pursued.

If a witch or wizard cannot procreate, the marriage may be annulled or maintained, depending on preference. If annulled, a new match will be provided. If the original match is maintained, a surrogate or donor may be used.

Your assigned partner will be provided 24 hours from now. The matches have already been made, and the people of the wizarding world will accept the names they have been given. We recognize this is a difficult choice, but for the greater good of our wizarding world, we must persevere.

No elopements or marriages will be allowed, recognized, or honoured in the next 24 hours.

Regards,

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic

Babajide Akingbade, Supreme Mugwump of International Confederation of Wizards

Ernest Hawkworth, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot"

The silence that falls as Harry's voice fades is dark. After a moment, all that is heard is the scrambling of hands-on paper as every letter is unrolled. Hermione's own copy lays in her limp fingertips, every word the same as Harry read, other than the greeting, spelling out her own name.

Arthur's face is as red as his hair, "How dare he? How dare Kingsley? We fought with him. We're friends."

Percy is the first to shake his head, "I don't think it's Shacklebolt, dad. I think he didn't have a choice. The names listed at the bottom? This law has the backing of the Wizengamot and the International Confederation of Wizards."

Harry turns to Ginny in a flash, "We'll run. I can get an illegal portkey, we'll go. I'll marry you, Ginny Weasley. I won't marry another."

Ginny's smile is marred by tears, "I'd marry you, too, Harry Potter, but they won't acknowledge an elopement. They say so in the letter. We'd never be able to come home."

Ron turns to Hermione as the others erupt in conversation. His eyes are downcast, and his voice is soft as he speaks. "Hermione, I know it didn't work out between us, but if I'd known this was coming… I would have married you."

He means it, too. She's not surprised; Ron's loyal to a fault, and though they aren't in love with each other, they do love each other. A marriage to Ron wouldn't even be so bad; at least she knows him. At least he's kind.

She could get any name. It could be anyone.

"It's not your fault, Ron," she slides a hand into his, "we didn't know. There's nothing we can do."

The words are lies in her mouth because she's already planning. She stares across the table at Harry, who has no eyes for her, only Ginny. Hermione has seen Harry Potter in every state: thrilled over his first broom ride, exhilarated but terrified while fighting a dragon, and with grief etched into his face with loss, even still and cold with death. She's never seen him look like this.

Hermione won't rest while the ministry steals the happiness that Harry has found. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs her, she'll fix this.

Mrs. Weasley is weeping at the head of the table. Not loud sobs, just silent tears tracking down her cheeks. All the warmth and happiness from only a few minutes prior has been stolen.

"Come back tomorrow at 5 PM," Molly implores them all, "let us be together when these letters arrive."

"Sure, mum." Ron whispers, still staring at the letter, now crinkled in his fist. Hermione nods along. She has nowhere else to go, and she needs to know whose names they all receive.

Bill and Fleur cling to each other as they stand slowly. They make their way to Molly and hug her tightly, whispering in her ear. They are headed back to Shell Cottage, which they made their permanent residence after the war. Hermione has never been jealous of them before, but she stares at the way Fleur has tucked herself into Bill, the way he clasps her to his side. They have escaped this law; they are in love.

It's something the rest of them might never have.

They say their goodbyes shortly after Bill and Fleur depart, wishing Molly a happy birthday, though the magic of the evening has disappeared. Hermione notices that the hands on the clock still point to Safe at Home, though she feels like they should have moved.

She hugs Harry and Ron goodbye and then apparates with a crack.

She lands on the front lawn of a large house. She's been here before, though rarely. Few in the wizarding world have this much access, however, and Hermione intends to use every advantage she has.

She slams her fist on the white door, not pausing in her barrage even when she hears footsteps.

The face that greets her is almost unrecognizable. Kingsley has developed deep lines in his forehead, marks of grief and stress. He looks clammy, and when his eyes fall onto her, he appears as though he is carved of stone.

"Hermione Granger," he intones, "I should've known you'd come."

Hermione grimaces, "Kingsley, I won't insult you by assuming that you approved of this ridiculous WPG act."

Kingsley closes his eyes slowly, pain flitting across his face. "I do not. I am also affected by it, you know. I'm 38 this year. I'll be receiving my name assignment tomorrow, the same as you."

Hermione nods slowly, "I'm sorry to hear it."

They stare at each other, and it reminds Hermione of so many meetings during the war. She's always respected Kingsley. He's no fool, and he's always treated her as an equal.

"If you're here for me to change your name, I can't. I can't help you at all."

Insulted, she fires back, "I'm not here for me, don't you understand?"

Kingsley frowns, but it clears almost as instantly, "Ah. I see. You're here for Harry."

Hermione takes her own pride and dignity out of the equation. She's already said she'd do anything for Harry, and she'll prove it.

"Listen to me, Kingsley. You cannot do this to Harry Potter. You owe him. The entire wizarding world owes him. I'm begging you. Do whatever you have to do, pull whatever strings you have, but make sure he receives Ginevra Weasley's name tomorrow."

Shacklebolt sighs, "I can't, Hermione, don't you think I would have tried to get myself out of—"

"You don't fucking matter, Kingsley," Hermione snaps, the expletive exploding from her lips, cutting off his words. His face registers hurt, but she's already moved on. "You don't matter. You're a grown man, a grown man who has known happiness and safety and just, well, more. Harry Potter is the best of us, the best of the entire wizarding world, and right now you are the only person I know who can make sure he didn't sacrifice everything: his parents, his schooling, his friends, his name, his reputation, his life — for nothing. Can you imagine his parents' reaction to this? Imagine Lupin or Sirius? You're telling me they died to protect him, only for us to spit in the face of his bravery? Don't repay the debt we all have this way, Kingsley. Do the right thing."

Hermione's words are knives, and she aims them where it matters. Kingsley seems smaller than she's ever pictured him in her head, and for a moment she feels guilty. He's done his best with the garbage hand the war had dealt him, and Hermione is grateful for everything he has managed. She knows his hands were tied, but she hates it.

He exhales, "I'll try, Hermione. I make no promises."

Hermione nods, "It's the best that I could ask from you. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

She whirls on her heel and takes only two steps before turning back. Kingsley Shacklebolt's dark eyes watch her from his doorframe.

"Also," Hermione hisses, deadly, "you should know that if he gets a name that is not Ginny Weasley's tomorrow, I'll burn the entire Ministry down. This isn't a threat, it's a warning for you to run. Give him Ginny, Shacklebolt, or prepare for war."

She apparates with a crack.

Her cottage is dark other than a small glow from her end lamppost when she apparates to the front lawn. Weariness drains her soul, and she slogs towards the green front door, only to find a letter on her porch. It's familiar, only in that she's seen the wax-sealed crest that holds it closed once before.

Snakes around an M, sloppily pressed this time, as though it was done in a hurry. Hermione is so sick of opening letters.

She enters her house, the front door opening into a cozy living room on the right and kitchen on the left. Everything is muted earth tones and soft, the safest haven Hermione could create after the war. The lamps ignite with wandless magic, and Hermione plops into an overstuffed armchair that reminds her of Gryffindor tower.

She unrolls Malfoy's letter to find a hastily written script. Hermione can't recall Draco Malfoy writing anything in a hurry in her life. She wonders if it's a reply from her letter a month ago, acknowledging his mother's death.

"Granger,

I assume you've received the letter from the Ministry. Consider this warning a portion of my debt repaid.

Crabbe, Goyle, Montague, Rowle, Selwyn, Dolohov, Yaxley, Travers, Rookwood, Jugson, Avery, or Marcus Flint.

If you receive any of the names I have written, ignore your Gryffindor bravery for once in your life and run. They are Death Eater families and you are in danger.

There may be others. If you receive a name you are unfamiliar with, proceed with caution. Do not share this letter with anyone.

Regards,

Draco Malfoy."

Hermione rolls his letter again and sits on her couch, drained. Malfoy's warning bounces around her skull, and Hermione wonders if she should have fought harder for herself. If she gets a relative of Dolohov, she'll take Malfoy's advice and run for the hills. Her side twinges in remembered pain of his curse in the fifth year, and all the complications it had caused.

Hermione has never been the type to pray, but she desperately hopes she gets a name she recognizes. Someone patient; someone who will understand when she wakes and can't leave her bed because her shaking is so bad. Someone who shuts doors gently and moves slowly and doesn't ask why she has no parents.

Although she's never harboured a romantic inclination towards any of the Weasley's other than Ron so long ago, she almost hopes she gets one of them. It would be easy to marry George, or Percy, or even Ron. There'd be no passion, she's sure, but they wouldn't be unhappy. There would be understanding. It might even be the best-case scenario.

Her tears are abrupt, and Hermione lets herself fall into painful hysterics. Her soft carpet still hurts when she falls to her knees, and she cries as she hasn't cried since the war. She sends up silent prayers, willing to be selfish for this moment.

Please, let it be someone kind.