Standing in the dimly-lit bedroom with nothing but her modesty to cover her, Hermione Granger thinks:
This…was a mistake.
A known fact: abnormally high death rates and subsequent population lows are a natural consequence of warfare, be it muggle or magical.
Fact: the wizarding community of Great Britain is currently, as a direct result of the Second War, in crisis.
Fact: the Ministry of Magic's response in the wake of this urgent revelation has been the creation and timely implementation of a massive undertaking given the umbrella term of the "Future of Magi-Britain Project"…known in colloquial parlance simply as the "Marriage Law".
Quite basic in conception, the legislation requires a witch or wizard of legal age or older to submit themselves to a 'compatibility investigation' for the selection of an appropriate spouse – the ultimate purpose of which is procreation. Choice made over the course of the requisite fortnight, a magically-binding handfasting ceremony performed by a duly-licensed Ministry official is to take place forthwith sometime within the following one hundred days; proof of consummation to be presented within seventy-two hours (three days) of the handfast bond's creation. No divorce, and no annulment – excepting the case of inability to produce children.
Naturally, with the proposition of this edict came outcry, concerns cropping up thick and fast…
Question: How is 'compatibility' to be determined?
Answer: Via wand core analysis, conducted by no less than Ollivander himself; theory being that wand cores are representative of a witch or wizard's magical essence and are therefore the most reliable indicator of congruency in a prospective life-mate.
Question: Do all witches and wizards of age fall under the jurisdiction of this law?
Answer: Only witches of child-bearing age and wizards below the age of ninety-three (how this number was arrived at has yet to be clearly explained).
Question: Will pre-existing marriages and relationships be put in jeopardy?
Answer: All magical marriages on the Ministry's record-books are not to be affected.
Harry and Ginny escaped by a matter of weeks, having handfasted less than a month following the final battle. Likewise, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood. Not so lucky were Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan, whose civil marriage was not recognized under magical law and summarily dissolved.
Neither were she and Ron.
Fact: the so-called "Marriage Law" passed seven months to the day it was first proposed by bill.
Also fact: every fibre of Hermione Granger's being was – and is – diametrically opposed to everything it stands for.
In this, she has happened across a very strange, most unexpected, ally.
Governmental work makes for strange bedfellows – though none, perhaps, stranger than the association between the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and the DMLE. As liaison to Magical Law Enforcement, Hermione's duties very often have her crossing paths with Aurors and their cases.
Which is how she'd become reacquainted with a certain Draco Abraxas Malfoy.
Having seen little of the boy-now-man since the end of school and the War, being suddenly thrust back into his orbit had felt rather like a cold-water shock treatment. No matter – Hermione Granger was not one shirk responsibility.
She'd helped take down a Dark Lord. She could handle Malfoy.
'Handling', as it turned out, was not required.
If he'd been surprised to be working with her, of all people, he'd hid it well. In all their interactions, he had been unfailingly, faultlessly – albeit coldly – polite. And his work ethic was second-to-none. All things being equal, their collaboration had been one of the smoothest, stress-free undertakings Hermione'd had since joining the DRCMC.
Pointed questions dropped into the right ears had yielded the following tidbits:
Fact: The end of the threat posed by Voldemort had seen the unflappable blond wizard lose everything – his father to Azkaban, his mother to France, and his Manor and its associated fortune to Ministry expropriation. Whatever else may be true about him, it could not be denied that Draco Malfoy was a self-made man.
Fact: Malfoy's arrest record was one of the most outstanding the Auror Office had ever seen. It appeared these days he cared more for justice than he ever had blood purity.
Fact: What Malfoy lacked in amicability, he made up for in spades in respect. Partners could not admit to liking the former Slytherin – his icy exterior impregnable to overtures of friendship – but they swore to a man that they wouldn't hesitate to trust him with their lives.
Itching to the soles of her feet with curiosity over this new, reformed personality, Hermione had nevertheless resolved to put the enigma that was Draco Malfoy out of her mind. His business was none of hers, after all.
Which was why the last thing she'd anticipated was the letter dropped into her lap by a regal-eyed eagle owl the evening the details of the Marriage Law bill were made public. Snapping off the Wizarding Wireless, she'd opened the missive, wondering who in the world it could be from. It read:
Granger,
By now you've heard the broadcast – they've thrown down the gauntlet. So...do you agree to the duel?
There was a post-script:
Say the word, and I'm your second.
Signed at the bottom in a strong, elegant hand:
D.A.M.
Hermione had sat, blinking at the parchment (its creamy weight bespeaking quality) for all of thirty seconds before her hand shot out for a quill.
Why the interest?
His reply was equally brief:
This law tramples on the individual's right to choose.
Having once lived in a world without choices, I'll be damned before I live that way again.
The next seven months had seen their correspondence gird them for a tooth-and-nail battle with the Ministry that should have been beyond the scope of merely two people laboring alone.
Her friends thought she was crazy, she wrote, though not so much for attempting to sue the government as for willingly working with him.
Never mind, he scrawled back. His friends thought much the same.
Through ink smudges and rumpled papers, Hermione Granger had learned a few more critical pieces of information:
Fact: Draco Malfoy – who shockingly possessed not only a muggle law degree but a Ph.D. in forensics, as well – had legal acumen that went unparalleled in the wizarding world. He amassed loopholes and uncovered grey areas of interpretation that even her keen eye missed, leaving no stone unturned.
Fact: Draco Malfoy – the boy who'd once bullied her relentlessly without regard – had grown into a man of principle. Through his impassioned arguments, which wasted not a word, it was clear that he fought – fought, where he never had before – not for accolades nor, in truth, much for the hope of winning...but because it was the right thing to do.
Fact: Draco Malfoy had very much so, Hermione admitted privately to herself, become a person worthy of admiration.
One week before the Marriage Law bill was slated to be brought before the legislature, the Malfoy-Granger v. Ministry of Magic case had gone to court.
And, as so often happens when the rights of the individual butt up against political agenda...they'd lost.
It'd helped, of course, that public opinion had been (somewhat ironically) against them. Turned out – when facing the threat of extinction, the majority valued survival over their freedoms.
Draco and Hermione, left without a legal leg to stand on, had bowed to the Wizengamot, licked their wounds and wished each other well...and had not been in contact since.
Once the ABCs had been processed and the Ministry had worked their way down to the Gs, the owl bearing the summons for Hermione's 'compatibility test' had arrived at breakfast-time in the same ordinary way as the Daily Prophet or Witch Weekly, in a mundane manilla envelope telling her that one Miss Hermione Jean Granger was to present herself at Ollivander's wand shop in Diagon Alley Wednesday next at three o'clock precisely for her examination.
And one Hermione Granger, in compliance such as befit an upstanding citizen, had gone.
Garrick Ollivander, looking old and inscrutable as he'd been when she'd first laid eyes on him as an eleven-year-old girl, had offered no greeting beyond a proffered hand for her wand. Handing it over, she'd watched – curious despite herself – as he'd performed an impressive series of nonverbal casts with it, taking careful note of the results and muttering measurements and characteristics to himself while a quill scratched away at a length of parchment behind him.
Suddenly, as mysteriously as he'd begun, the wizard appeared to finish, handing her wand back handle-first with a quiet, "That will be all, Miss Granger."
"Well?" she'd flatly demanded, oddly impatient. "What of it? Which poor sod do you have pegged as my 'soulmate'?"
"I am bound not to release the results of my examination to any person without proper Ministry clearance," Ollivander had replied, in a dry monotone. "Your matches will be owled to you within the month."
"But…is that all, then? I'm meant to just wait for a 'stud list' in the mail – without recourse to question the choices…to say nothing of your method of choosing, of which I know – "
"Miss Granger," Ollivander had broken in, a gleam in his eye Hermione could not make out, "what I can tell you, is this: You are – always have been – a most unusual witch…with a most unusual wand.
"Vine, yes? and dragon heart-string; ten and three-quarter inches. A precocious combination – for a...may I say...precocious young woman.
"Vine: with its endurance, perseverance, and great strength. Dragon heart-string: for power most potent, and a quickness to master.
"Your match…will most likely be found in hawthorn: its healing cloaked in harm your rock and wellspring in times of trial. And a unicorn core: purity of intention, to temper the dragon's eagerness away from recklessness and ruin."
With that, Ollivander had turned back to his shelves. "Now, Miss Granger, I'm afraid I must bid you good day."
She'd pondered the wizened old wandmaker's words with mounting skepticism for three and a half weeks...until the long-awaited, dreaded Ministry seal appeared in the morning's mail.
With shaking hands, Hermione had unfolded it – only to drop it like a hissing snake to the floor, where the name printed neatly at the top of the page winked up her, mockingly:
Draco A. Malfoy – match compatibility: 92%
She ought to have remembered from their time at Hogwarts – he used a hawthorn wand.
And for him to have been her top match...she, incredibly, must have been his.
Knees of a moment weak, Hermione had sunk into her kitchen chair in appalled stupefaction – while, deep in her breast, her heart gave a traitorous flutter.
In an agony of indecision, she'd dragged her feet (and herself) through her fourteen-day decision-making grace period.
Her friends – especially Ron – had been verbose in their horrified sympathy.
She'd ignored their well-intentioned advice in favor of her own judgement.
On the twelfth night, Hermione had summoned ink and parchment – and penned a proposal to Draco before she could change her mind.
His prompt response, while only one word in length, managed to knock her socks off:
Yes.
Thus had begun what had to be one of the shortest, strangest courtships in the annals of history.
They did not meet; they did not write.
She only saw him once throughout the entire hundred days – at his upscale townhome in a mixed community on the outskirts of London, where he'd gallantly pulled out her chair and they'd seated themselves down to discuss their impending marriage as though it were a common business deal...while his elves served a decadent tea so outrageously expensive, Hermione was sure, that knowing its cost would have her breaking out in hives.
"Freed – and paid," Draco had mentioned, upon noting her moue of disapproval.
In addition to the Ministry-mandated handfasting, he'd wanted a Catholic wedding. Caught off guard, she'd blurted out, "Whatever for?"
"Apart from blood politics, religion is long-standing in my family," he'd explained. "As one of our few worthwhile traditions, I find myself keen to perpetuate it." Born Catholic, though not being of any particular religious persuasion herself, Hermione had found no solid reason to refuse.
However, upon one point she'd wanted absolute clarity:
"Will it bother you – that our children will be half-blood?"
"If I am to be blessed with little feet pattering about my lawns," Draco said, looking as though he'd rather catch the croup, "I would sooner be concerned as to whether they run happily, than whether the blood in their veins is the correct shade of supposed 'blue'."
His eyes had been shuttered, flat as paned glass – and Hermione had known that she'd angered him.
"We all bleed red, Granger. I know – I've seen it."
He'd glanced rigidly at her left arm as he spoke.
After that, Hermione had questioned him no further.
The stilted remainder of the tea had passed broken only by the perfunctory exchange of faux pleasantries, until finally he'd stood – which she'd interpreted as her cue to leave.
"Will your parents be in attendance?" he'd asked, apropos of nothing, as he'd walked her back to the apparition point.
She'd shaken her head, closing her eyes against a sudden rush of tears; of course, there'd been no way he could have known. "No… They, ah – they're permanently out of the country. In Australia, actually. I...sent them there during the War, so they'd be safe… Their...memories were wiped. They think they're two childless dentists – um, teeth healers – who emigrated because they'd always wanted to." Despite herself, she'd sniffled, a single teardrop rolling down her cheek.
Soft as a moth's wing, a calloused thumb had brushed over her skin, wiping it away, and a gossamer handkerchief had been set into her palm. She'd blinked – and there was Draco, standing less than a foot away with both hands shoved deep in his stylish suit-jacket pockets, looking down at his boots.
"I'm so sorry, Granger," he'd whispered – and he'd seemed so sincere, Hermione had yearned desperately to believe him.
"My own mother will not be present," he'd offered, abruptly. "Since Father…" Here he'd trailed off into pained silence. "She has been...indisposed," he'd ended, tersely; his eyes having that flat, glassy look to them again.
Had he been Ron, or Harry, she would have thrown her arms around him, then, and hugged him tight.
But he was Malfoy – so, instead, she reached out rather timidly to cover his hand with hers, giving it a light squeeze of sympathy.
He'd said nothing for a long moment, then:
"Friends?"
"Oh, er – no," she'd decided, spontaneously. "It would be too...uncomfortable. But, Harry will be there – as my witness," she'd added. "You?"
"No," he'd said, shortly; and Hermione had thought he'd sounded almost sad. "My friends and I don't share the same views we once did. Although, I'll have to have Theo, of course… Nott," he'd elaborated, off her look of confusion.
She had struggled to dredge up the memory of a gangly boy with wavy, chestnut hair. "Oh."
"Granger," Draco'd said suddenly, and she'd looked up at him – and for a glaring instant, his eyes had been…
And then it was gone – so quickly Hermione'd thought she must have imagined it.
"You did the right thing, you know," he'd continued, without missing a beat. "I mean, for your parents." His voice had sounded odd - stuffy; choked, even. "The Dark – Voldemort, he'd...ordered MacNair to root them out. Your sending them away...you saved their lives."
She'd nodded her thanks, unable to speak, and waggled her fingers at him awkwardly in lieu of a wave.
"Well...goodbye."
And then she'd turned her back on him, spun on the spot, and disappeared.
At home, she'd found herself with more questions than answers. Was that look in his eyes really only in her imagination? Or had Draco really intended to tell her something else? She'd walked on numb feet to her living room, unrolled the crumpled ball of Draco's kerchief still clutched in her fist so it lay flat against the polished wood of her little coffee table – and stared at the fine stitching of the emerald-green curlicues in the corners until they blurred.
The next time she'd seen him had been before the altar of a quaint little chapel in the French quarter, a priest reciting prayers over them in archaic Latin as by turns they stood and knelt and received the consecrated host upon their tongues – she in pure white as became a virgin bride; he in a pearl-shaded tuxedo that brought out the grey in his impenetrable eyes.
The ceremony had flown by in a haze of candle-smoke and incense – all too soon, Theo and Harry stepping forward as a ring had been slid onto the fourth finger of her left hand.
The delicate golden metal had felt cold against her skin – but Draco's gaze was fever-bright, rooting her to the spot like an exotic butterfly caught and pinned in an enthusiast's collection...and Hermione had been unable to look away as she repeated faithfully after the presider:
"With this ring, I thee wed…"
The words of the vow rolled off her tongue...but all she could concentrate on was the gentle, barely-there sweep of a thumb across her cheek, the shocking warmth of the hand beneath her own –
And a pair of oh-so-earnest eyes that burned like molten silver.
Wizarding marriage was quite different, she'd discovered – and, yet, somehow, the same.
The handfasting had found them entirely alone at the centre of a druid's circle, the focal spoke of a wheeling mandala inscribed with countless runes representing the four elements, prosperity, longevity, fertility...and more besides.
Gone were their elegant clothes – instead, each had worn a simple cream shift that fell to bare ankles, for they had worn no shoes. Underneath it, they had been bare...which had made Hermione fight the urge to fidget in embarrassed discomfiture.
They spoke their vows – a Celtic verse – in tandem, forearms clasped and bound...and with each phrase of the rhyme Hermione felt the binding magic seep beneath her skin like rainwater, gently pulsating.
Draco's eyes had again carried that nameless sheen, locked on hers in a gaze she could not break – and her one reassurance had been that magic – especially such ancient magic – could not lie...and every warming pulse of Draco's solemn oaths passing through her bones told her he spoke true.
He'd meant every word.
And again, her heart had fluttered.
But tonight...tonight they are to lie together, for the first time – as true husband and true wife…
And Hermione is... afraid.
She is bound, for the rest of her natural life, to Draco Malfoy – to bear his children, to raise a family with…
A man who did not want to marry her.
A man she has only ever caught half-fleeting glimpses of, and still does not really know.
A man she does not love.
What is to become of them?
The bedchamber door swings slowly open, breaking in on her musings – admitting an also-naked Draco to the room.
His mask of indifference has slipped this night – his face is moon-pale; his eyes wide and sheepish, nearly nervous, as he steps towards her on coltish legs.
A foot away, he stops, and cautiously reaches out a hand.
Hermione makes herself take it – and, together, they totter to the bed; sitting perched on its edge facing each other, timorous as two rabbits, primed and ready to bolt.
At such close range, nudity is no longer sufficient distraction, and Hermione's gaze falls to her lap.
A gentle palm cupping her jaw makes her flinch, has her looking up –
Again to be met by those earnest, ardent dove-grey eyes...eyes that she cannot break away from; that drown her, and will forever hold her captive...
Eyes, she only just now realizes, are lambent and glistening with unshed tears.
"I cannot promise to love you," Draco begins, voice rasping with the weight of his emotions, "if only for the simple fact that I have never tried.
"But," he leans forward, "I will, as I have vowed, cherish – and honor – and obey...every day, for the rest of our shared life."
His fingers punctuate each word – brushing back errant curls from her forehead, her chin, her shoulders. "For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health…"
Trembling fingertips lightly trace the faint lines of her brow, the contours of her cheeks – before coming to rest over her heart.
"I am a practical man, a realist; some would say a ruthless pragmatist. But I am also notoriously selfish." These words, murmured into the darkened, hushed air, are barely audible. "And I am selfish enough...to want this, though I know I have done nothing to deserve it.
"I want you, Hermione – "
Has her name ever sounded so beautiful?
" – to have, and to hold."
"Ye cannot possess me," Hermione quotes softly, "for I belong to myself."
Clasping his hands stiff with tension, she tugs them gently toward her to place them on her waist – where they flex, and settle. Their mild heat radiating through her belly, she amends:
"But while we both wish it...I give ye that which is mine to give."
Draco's fair head bows under her pronouncement, lips finding shelter in the secret valley hidden between her breasts. Prostrate before her now, he is unspeakably fragile.
"Say yes," he begs hoarsely against her skin – open and raw and vulnerable in an ecstatic agony of anticipation. "Say we might have this much, together."
In an instant, she could crush him with a word.
Hermione's gaze flits of its own volition over to the ornately-carved, scarred cherry dresser...where their wands lie, lined up, side by side.
She pauses for a moment – considering the uncanny wisdom of a master wandsmith...and the harmonious duality of hawthorn and vine.
"Vinewood," she whispers reverently, "is renowned for its versatile nature, its innate flexibility.
"But," she adds, feeling Draco freeze in sudden comprehension, "it could do with the support of a goodly tree."
"...Hawthorn, perhaps?" he gasps, near-to-bursting with burgeoning hope.
"...What better?"
The kiss Draco presses right to the centre of her chest is wet with tearful gratitude as he sags into her, limbs quaking – in a full-bodied shudder of profound relief.
As her arms wind around him, drawing him close, and her mouth presses a first kiss of its own to the feather-fine hair of his crown, Hermione thinks that, indeed, this has been a mistake –
– in their not having done this much, much sooner…
Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone.
I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One.
I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done.