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Marriage Most Malefic Part I

Disclaimer: Harry Potter (the boy-wizard, as opposed to the Harry Potter, Sr. and Jr. of Troll infamy fame) and the other denizens/artifacts/spells/etc. of the Wizarding and Muggle worlds are the creations of J.K. Rowling. No profit is made from this work, which is intended as a commentary on the original, not as a derivative work. No infringement on the rights of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Publishing, et al is intended. To the extent permissible by law, I retain the rights to my language/text/story.

Pairing: HG/DM
Rating: NC-17
Genres: Angst, Romance, Drama, Humor, Smut
Spoilers: Through HBP

A.N. My take on the Marriage Law concept.

Marriage Most Malefic
Part I - Laws and Loopholes
by
Margot Le Faye

There were decided advantages to Malfoy wealth, Malfoy power, and Malfoy influence. Malfoy power had ensured that young Draco’s trial for his involvement in the invasion of Hogwarts and the death of Albus Dumbledore was held before those members of the Wizengamot who were apt to see his actions in the most lenient terms. Allowances were made for his age--sixteen when he’d taken the Dark Mark--and for the circumstances of his taking that mark--the threat to his father’s safety, his mother’s life, as well as his own. The assistance he subsequently provided to the Order of the Phoenix and his other actions in the ultimate overthrow of Voldemort were also highly mitigating factors, although without Malfoy power it is doubtful he could have avoided serving at least a token sentence in Azkaban. As it was, he was released from the Ministry a free man...and with the Order of Merlin, Third Class in recognition of the admitted danger he had faced in undertaking to betray the Dark Lord.

Malfoy influence had been useful, at the time, in seeing that the press coverage of the trial had been entirely sympathetic, and that the opinion of the general public was swayed to sympathy, as well. In the ensuing year, Malfoy wealth had been liberally donated to popular charities, with particularly large gifts being made to the War Orphans Fund, and the new wing of St. Mungo’s dedicated to war victims whose injuries required long-term care. Where, just past his seventeenth birthday, Draco Malfoy’s name had been one of the most reviled in the Wizarding world, just before his nineteenth, it was one of the most respected. His power and prestige in the post-Voldemort era was every bit as formidable--if not more so--than Lucius’ had been in the days before the Dark Lord’s final fall.

Lucius would have been proud.

As it was, Lucius was dead, Narcissa consoling herself in a villa on the Mediterranean, and Draco was left to consolidate the family holdings and interests for the next generation of pureblooded Malfoys.

It was almost a pity, he reflected, gaze running down the parchment once more, that there weren’t going to be any.

What other reflections he might have made while brooding over the parchment and drinking firewhisky were forestalled by the arrival of Blaise Zabini, one of the few Slytherins still on speaking terms with him after he’d become the greatest blood traitor of them all.

“Fire whisky at this hour, Malfoy?” Zabini asked, brow raised in ever so slightly contemptuous amusement as he entered the library where Draco sat sprawled in a leather armchair before the fire, a bottle of Ogden's Old beside him on an end table. “Ah,” Zabini said, enlightenment dawning, “you’ve already received the news.”

“Of course I received the news,” Draco said dryly, refilling his glass. “And the wonder isn’t that I’m drinking firewhisky at ten in the morning, but that you aren’t. You’re as buggered by this as any of us, Zabini. Join me in drowning our sorrows?”

“Oh, well, if you insist,” Zabini sighed, taking a seat in the chair matching Draco’s on the other side of the fire, “although I don’t admit to being as buggered as the rest of you.”

“How do you reckon that?” Draco asked, Accioing another glass, pouring Zabini a shot, and floating the glass over to his guest with a desultory flick of his wand. “Are you suddenly not a pureblood wizard primarily domiciled in Great Britain, and therefore subject to the laws enacted by the Ministry of Magic?”

“Of course I am,” Zabini responded, smoothly intercepting the glass, “but I, at least, am clever enough to find ways to comply with the law that don’t leave me in immediate difficulty. While my African heritage ensured that I wouldn’t take the prospect of what amounts to legalized slavery very well, I credit my Italian heritage with showing me how to get ‘round the matter,” he said, then paused to take a sip of firewhisky. “Lovely stuff, Ogden’s,” he sighed happily.

“Legalized slavery?” Malfoy inquired.

“Forced marriages? Breeding us as if we were chattel? What the devil else can one call it but slavery of the most invidious sort,” Blaise fairly snarled, his rage apparent in the thinning of his lips and the narrowing of his eyes, signs that did not abate until he had taken another fortifying sip of Ogden's Old, regaining his composure enough to finish his explanation. “At all odds, while the rest of you, Brits to the core, were all decrying the latest idiocy the Ministry was planning, loudly proclaiming that it simply couldn’t happen here, and that the Act would never pass, I, with typical Italian fatalism, was taking the long view. There were two or three Muggleborn witches a few years behind us at Hogwarts, who clean up nicely. They are, most happily, too young to marry right away, but not too young to be formally betrothed.”

“You didn’t,” Draco said admiringly, catching where this was going.

“Of course I did,” Zabini said, his lips twisted into a smirk that would have done Draco, or even old Lucius himself, proud. “Chit’s name is Aurora March, a third year Ravenclaw. Her parents were horrified when I introduced myself and explained the law to them...in as unfavorable a light as possible, of course, focusing on the unfair burden placed on the poor Muggleborn witches who have to marry a pureblood or be stripped of their magic and leave the Wizarding world for good.”

“Oh, of course. Poor things,” Draco snickered. “Go on. How did you convince them?”

“I explained the Wizarding practice of betrothal, reassured them that I had no intention of forcing their daughter into marriage when the time comes, and added a clause that gives her a lovely sum of galleons should our contract be voided. Galleons I am only too happy to part with if it ensures my freedom.”

“And how do you ensure that she voids the contract?” Draco asked, intrigued by Zabini’s solution to the problem. “Perhaps she’ll like the idea of being married to a handsome, wealthy and sophisticated older pureblood Wizard. Well, four or five years can seem older when you’re only seventeen, yourself.”

“Do give me some credit, Draco,” Zabini went on in a pained voice, raising his glass once more. “Why the deuce do you think I went after the Ravenclaw, first? Aurora is a clever girl. She knows she’ll be better off taking her galleons than forcing me to honor our contract. And there’s a loophole in the law that just begs to be exploited.”

“Of course there’s a loophole,” Draco said sardonically, “and of course you would find it. Do tell.”

“I’m trying. Well then, Article 23, Paragraph A, Subparagraph 7, of the Act for Post War Reconciliation and the Peaceful Integration of Muggleborns into Greater Wizarding Society--”

“The Marriage Act,” Draco said.

“Yes, well, that bit--Article 23, and etceteras--specifies that if a long betrothal is broken, the parties in question are given an extension to come into compliance with the law. The brilliant part is that the extension lasts as long as the betrothal was valid.”

“So, you betroth yourself to this Aurora who is, what, fifteen?”

“Fourteen,” Blaise corrected.

“Ah. My mistake,” Draco said with a bow. “You did say third year, not fourth.” Trust Zabini to find a suitable girl who was the bare minimum age for betrothal with parental consent. “Let me see if I can figure out the rest. While you could legally marry her in three years, no one will expect a wedding until she’s at least finished school four years from now and perhaps had a year to adjust to the adult world after that. Meaning, you’re betrothed for five years, which is, coincidentally, the limit you can remain single under the terms of the law.”

“Got it in one,” Zabini beamed.

“And, of course, as a betrothed girl, Aurora’s name won’t appear on the list of eligible witches,” Draco went on thoughtfully. “Which is why, intelligent Ravenclaw that she is, she’s agreed to this scheme, or talked her parents into agreeing to it. She doesn’t have to worry about someone petitioning for her and forcing her into marriage at seventeen, before she’s even out of school. I suppose there will be token visits to keep up appearances? You’ll spend one day of the Christmas hols visiting her Muggle family, take her to Madam Puddifoot's on Hogsmeade weekends?”

“As you say,” Zabini said, toasting him with the firewhisky. ”A small sacrifice, but worth it.”

“Of course. It buys you so much time, doesn’t it? She graduates from Hogwarts, the two of you begin planning your wedding, you realize that you are hideously incompatible and dissolve your betrothal by mutual agreement. You’ll cite irreconcilable differences, and as neither party is contesting the dissolution, the Ministry will have no choice but to void the contract and award you your divorce. Aurora collects her galleons, and the two of you have an extra five years to avoid parson’s mousetrap.”

“And if this bloody law hasn’t caused an outright revolt and been repealed before then, I will likely simply turn my wand on myself and use Avada Kedavra.”

“Brilliant,” Draco said admiringly.

“Yes, it is. Do you want the names of the other two girls? The Hufflepuff is quite a beauty.”

“Then why didn’t you offer for her?”

“Because she’s a Hufflepuff,” Zabini shrugged. “One must have standards. Even in a sham betrothal. No one, other than you, knows it to be a sham, after all”

“I see. So, the beauteous Huffelpuff is not good enough for a Zabini but she’ll do for a Malfoy?” Draco said lazily.

“Draco, old son, don’t let’s pretend we have the same standards,” Zabini returned unperturbed. ”I’ve never known you to prize brains over beauty. Bloodlines, perhaps. But not brains.”

“Haven’t you?” Draco said. “Well, I might be about to show you something new, then.” He tapped the list he had been reading, lightly with his wand.

“What have you got there?” Zabini asked curiously. Draco floated the list to him. Zabini gave a low whistle when he realized what he held.

“Impressive. These damned things aren’t supposed to be made public for another three days. I suppose you bribed someone in the Ministry to get them to you earlier, so that you could have first pick?”

“Something like that,” Draco agreed, setting down his glass, getting up, striding over to the fireplace and tossing on another log.

“Don’t see why you’re bothering,” Zabini said thoughtfully. “There’s no need to rush. It’s the wizards who get to petition for the witches. You have five years.”

“Perhaps I don’t want them,” Draco said, glancing up at Zabini, who saw something dangerous glitter in those silver eyes.

“Steady on. What the devil is that supposed to mean? You can’t possibly want to tie yourself to a Mudblood bride an hour earlier than you absolutely must.”

“Perhaps, Blaise, you’re not Italian enough. Or have you no desire for vengeance?”

“Vengeance?” Zabini asked, surprised. “On whom? For what?” Draco merely sneered on his way back to his seat, and the bottle of firewhisky. Zabini caught his meaning. “If this is about the Dark Lord, old son, you need only look in the mirror to see who most of the remaining pureblood families blame for his fall,” he said bluntly. “Potter may have cast the killing curse, but it was you who made it possible.”

“Oh, I made it possible, of course,” Draco admitted bitterly, filling his glass once more. “After I was left with absolutely no bloody choice. Voldemort was never going to forgive me my failures, or my father’s. Going against him was simply a matter of survival.”

“No quarrel there,” Zabini said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “But I don’t see how tying yourself in matrimony to some little Mudblood is going to give you any sort of satisfying vengeance for whatever it is you feel requires avenging.”

“Don’t you? Well. Have a look at that first list, Muggleborn witches. Page four, two thirds of the way down. I’m sure you’ll catch it.” Draco shut his eyes, savoring his firewhisky. A rustle of parchment, followed by an indrawn breath.

“Bloody blue blazing hell,” Zabini whispered, awed. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“As the proverbial grave, Blaise, I do assure you.” Draco kept his eyes closed, taking another sip of whisky.

“How the hell is her name even on the list? “ Zabini demanded. “It can’t possibly be correct. Everyone knows Weasley fixed his interest there years ago.”

“Perhaps. But as it happens, there were other interests,” Draco opened his eyes again, and Zabini saw that they still glittered with that odd and dangerous expression he had noted before. He wondered, briefly, if Draco was feeling quite the thing. Perhaps this mad plan was the result of some sort of brain fever. But no, Draco was too controlled, too cool for his plans to be the result of a disordered mind.

“What d’ye mean?” Zabini asked uneasily as Draco refilled his glass.

“He’s quite the war hero, is our Ron Weasley. Order of Merlin, first class. The Boy Who Stood By the Boy Who Lived, part of some golden sodding trio, with Potter and Granger. Any number of young witches have been throwing themselves at him with great regularity since the final battle. Its a bit of an open secret that he’s caught more than a few of them.”

“Not a secret Granger is in on, I wager,” Zabini said thoughtfully. “I can’t imagine her turning a blind eye.”

“Nor can I,” Draco allowed. “But however he’s managed to keep her in the dark for the past year, he’s made a rather bad misstep, now. The most recent witch who caught him caught something else along the way, and is well and truly up the spout.”

“She’s never preggers!” Zabini said. “Good lord, didn’t they use a contraceptive charm? Everyone uses contraceptive charms.”

“But not, it seems, a drunken Ronald Weasley nor a witch dazzled by his celebrity. Under the provisions of the Act, the pregnancy constitutes a legally binding betrothal, dissoluble only by divorce, and you will not find his name on the list of pureblooded wizards subject to the provisions of the new law.”

“Surely he’ll appeal,” Zabini said.

“The girl might be persuaded to give up her claim on him,” Draco agreed. “But a divorce will take time, and time is something Miss Hermione Granger, spinster Muggleborn witch, will find she does not have.” Zabini stared at Draco, speechless for several moments, going over all the implications in his head.

“Merlin’s beard, you’re really going to do it, aren’t you?,” he said in a sort of fascinated horror. “You’re going to have a petition before the Ministry the moment the bloody law takes effect, and Hermione Granger will be forced to marry you or give up magic, forever. You do realize they’ll kill you for this? Potter and Weasley? Because I’m quite sure she’ll burn her wand herself before she’ll agree to marry you, and those two won’t take her exile well.”

“You’d forgotten that the Ministry will strip her of her magic, first,” Draco said. “I can’t really see her letting them, can you?”

“What I can’t see is this mad plan of yours ending well for anyone,” Zabini said dampingly. “If she does agree to marry you, I place rather high odds on her becoming a young widow. If ever a witch were clever enough to find or invent a spell or potion to murder a man and leave no trace, that witch is Hermione Granger.”

“Quite possibly,” Draco said tranquilly, “but I don’t think she will. It’s that ridiculous Gryffindor sense of honor, don’t you know. If she makes a vow, she’ll keep it, probably hoping that the law will be repealed sooner rather than later, so that she can become an impossibly wealthy divorcee, and go off to marry the Weasel of her dreams. Well. After he’s groveled at her feet long enough to earn forgiveness and sworn an unbreakable vow to remain faithful upon pain of death...or having his balls hexed off.”

“You’re barking,” Zabini opined. “I can’t imagine what sort of vengeance you hope to exact on Granger, or why you’d even want to. I thought you’d worked together during the war, that you actually, well, maybe not liked her, but at least didn’t despise her as you used to.”

“I assure you, Blaise, that working with her during the war did nothing to change my feelings about Hermione Granger in the slightest,” Draco said in a tone of voice Zabini could only describe as dangerous. “We might have treated each other with more civility, and perhaps she made the mistake of regarding me more favorably than she did in school, but for my part, my feelings for her were exactly what they had always been.’

The words were exactly what they should have been, said in exactly the tone that ought to have been used. And yet, Blaise found himself going very, very still, as a dozen memories from school passed through his mind and suddenly came together in a pattern different from one they had ever formed before. The picture thus revealed was shocking, unexpected. It couldn’t possibly be true. And yet...

“I’d forgotten,” he said softly. “Pansy did pitch a right fit after the Yule Ball, didn’t she?”

“Pansy was rather given to pitching fits, Blaise,” Draco said in a bored tone. “Was there a point to recalling that one?”

“It would seem not,” Blaise admitted, shaking off the mad idea that had occurred to him. What had he been thinking to imagine something like that? “But if working with her during the war didn’t change your opinion about Granger, you hid it well, I must say. I really did think you’d come to respect the girl,” Blaise shrugged, sipping more of his firewhisky. “Well, no matter. If you go through with this, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were the one to suffer in this ridiculous marriage scheme.”

“Undoubtedly. But I rather fancy that the suffering will be worth it.”

“I cannot imagine why you should think so,” Blaise said with absolute sincerity. “But on your own head be it. Just do yourself a favor and wait until you’re sober before you submit the petition, all right?”

“Oh, Blaise,” Draco chuckled. “Hadn’t you noticed? I haven’t been sober since sixth year.” And with that, he raised his full glass in a mocking salute and drained it of firewhisky in one go.

**************************

There were times, Hermione Granger thought sourly as she read the headlines of The Daily Prophet, when she wondered if she, Ron and Harry hadn’t been a tad hasty in destroying those Horcruxes. Whatever his other sins, Voldemort might at least have had the right idea about overthrowing the sodding idiots running the Ministry of Magic. Perhaps they should have waited until he’d hauled Scrimgeour’s ashes before they put an end to him? Well, not really, she admitted grudgingly. The old bastard and his Death Eaters were running around the country killing and terrorizing and couldn’t be left alone to simply have at it. Of course he had to be stopped.

But, someone needed to stop the Ministry, too.

Hermione, still dressed in her pajamas, was seated at the breakfast bar in her little flat, sipping Earl Grey from her favorite mug and reading the morning paper while, with a wave of her wand, she set her breakfast to sorting itself out on the stove: an omelet aux fine herbs with just a splash of white wine, a slice of lightly toasted rye bread with orange marmalade. Heaven. Or, it would have been if the morning paper hadn’t quite soured her mood.

Honestly, what were they thinking? Their stupid Marriage Act, which had been passed into law three days earlier, amounted to virtual slavery for every unmarried witch in Wizarding Great Britain. With one stroke of his pen, Scrimgeour had signed into law a reduction of their status to that of baby factories, required to breed purebloods out of existence. Purebloods could no longer marry other purebloods, and marriages between two Muggleborns were frowned upon as well, requiring Ministry clearance. Nor was it being left at that, with people trying to sort their romantic lives out for themselves within the ridiculous constraints of the law. Oh, no. The Ministry, in its infinite lack of wisdom, had decided that instead of leaving matters to chance, they were going to try to regulate things. Wizards would be allowed to petition for unmarried witches--pureblood wizards for Muggleborn witches, Muggleborn wizards for pureblood witches--and heaven help the poor girls if they declined. Further, if parties subject to the act did not secure an approved partner within five years, they Ministry would simply assign one to them.

Today’s headlines had blared the fact that lists of those parties subject to the Act were now available through the usual ministry channels. There were four lists altogether, witches and wizards, purebloods and Muggleborns. Due to the incipient sexism of the Wizarding world, witches were not supposed to petition. The purpose of the two lists of wizards was simply to set forth who was legally eligible to submit a petition. Thank Merlin she and Ron were officially engaged, Hermione thought as she flicked her wand, setting the omelet and buttered toast onto a plate and floating it over to herself. He was pureblood, so their upcoming marriage fell within the law’s strictures, as did Harry’s engagement to Ginny. Well, Harry, as a half-blood, was free to marry whomever he jolly well pleased, but Ginny was affected by the law, so it was good that she’d managed to fall in love with someone whom the Ministry would approve. All the other girls in their circle were either married, or half-bloods immune to the law’s provisions. As to the boys, they weren’t the ones facing exile if they declined an approved petition. Instead, they had five years to find themselves an agreeable witch of the correct blood status. Surely this piece of legalistic insanity would be repealed well before then.

Still, best to know what was afoot. As she ate her omelet, Hermione read every detail about the lists, as she had read every detail of the law the Prophet had been reporting for weeks. As she continued to read, she found her disgust mounting as did her relief that her engagement to a pureblood wizard meant she wouldn’t have to deal with this madness, herself. She was still thinking that when she looked up from the last bite of her breakfast to see the strange owl tapping at her kitchen window. It was with only mild curiosity that she went to let it in. Even when she recognized the parchment as having the seals for official ministry business, she wasn’t alarmed. She was working as a cursebreaker at Gringotts, after all, and there was a fair amount of communication between the bank and the government. Surely this was another request for consultation, or for her assistance with some artifact in the Ministry’s possession. She was a Muggleborn girl engaged to a pureblood wizard. The owl couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the ridiculous new law.

Except that it did. Miss Hermione Jane Granger, spinster, was required to report to Conference Room 821-C of the Ministry at 10:45 a.m. that day for a preliminary meeting with the applicant whose petition for her hand in marriage had been duly approved by the Ministry, to determine if there were any reason why the match should not immediately go forward.

Ron, she thought. Ron must’ve decided that they needed to go through formal channels to make sure their marriage would go off without a hitch. Because her engagement had been registered with the ministry months ago, meaning there was no possible way any other wizard’s petition could have been duly approved. So she kept telling herself as she hurriedly dressed, and owled Ron to meet her in the Ministry lobby at half ten o’clock.

But the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach suggested that, impossible as it seemed, it was some other wizard, indeed, who’d secured the ministry’s blessing to bind her in marriage.

Well, she thought to herself angrily, Gryffindor courage to the fore, that was just too bloody bad. Because she was properly engaged, and if there had been some buggering clerical error, the Ministry would simply have to do whatever it took to correct it. Or, she decided grimly, mentally reviewing the nastiest jinxes, hexes and curses she knew, heads would do far more gruesome things than simply roll.