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Marriage Most Malefic Part II

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 II - Nuptial Negotiations
by
Margot Le Faye

Gryffindor courage sustained Hermione as she sent an owl off to Gringotts explaining why she wouldn’t be in that day. It kept her mind clear as she picked out the right clothes to wear to the meeting--business robes in midnight blue--as she showered and dressed, as she took a deep breath and a pinch of floo powder before stepping into her fireplace and calling out, “Ministry of Magic.” But it began to ebb during the long minutes while she waited impatiently in the lobby for Ron to join her. She was understandably anxious when she arrived, and had a particularly bad moment when she had to surrender her wand. She might have made a fair beginning with wandless magic, but she was hardly an adept, beyond which there were any number of wards and protective charms that would prevent her from getting very far with wandless magic in this of all places. Being without her wand left her feeling unusually vulnerable, a feeling which, given her purpose at the Ministry, she could certainly have done without.

She paced back and forth, fretfully twisting her engagement ring on her finger, as if the small, though lovely, diamond in its simple gold setting could sustain her through the coming interview. The minutes dragged by until Hermione realized she was on the verge of being late to the meeting, and reluctantly turned to the lifts. Fortunately, Ron rushed into the Ministry just as she turned to go.

“Thank Merlin,” she sighed, collapsing against him.

“What’s going on?” he asked, concerned, as he rubbed her back soothingly “Your owl just said to meet you here and that it was urgent.”

“So, you don’t know then?” she said leaning back in his embrace and looking up at him. She saw concern on his features, but nothing more. Which meant he likely wasn’t the man who’d petitioned for her, and that some other wizard was waiting in the appointment room. “Bugger,” she said succinctly, breaking their embrace and taking him by the arm to lead him to the lifts. “There’s been some sort of cock-up. I’ve no idea why, I mean, our engagement was registered with the Ministry months ago.”

“Of course it was. Right after Christmas. What has that got to do with anything?” Ron asked as they got into the lift headed for the floor where she was to meet the petitioner. But several other people had gotten on with them, and she shook her head, indicating that she didn’t wish to say anything in public. As it happened, the lift did not empty before they reached their floor, so Hermione was forced to hold her tongue until they were in the relative privacy of an empty corridor.

“It’s this thrice-damned law they’ve passed.”

“What? The Marriage Law?” Ron said uneasily.

“Yes. I got notice of a petition. I thought maybe you’d sent it? Just for form’s sake?” she asked hoping against hope that it was Ron and not some other, unknown wizard the Ministry had approved.

“A petition’s been filed for you?” Ron said angrily.

“So, not by you then,” she said in disappointment as her last, faint hope was ruthlessly dashed. “Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger! Someone must’ve mixed up the paperwork on our engagement so that my name got put on the list of eligible witches by mistake. Now some poor sod has petitioned for me, and we’re going to have to straighten this mess out.”

When Ron said nothing, she turned to look at him. He’d gotten very red, and his face was suffused with a look she knew quite well. He was bloody furious. The sight reassured her immensely.

“Steady on, love,” she said, patting his arm reassuringly. “It won’t be pleasant, but I’m sure we can clear up the confusion After all, we’re properly engaged, so the law really can’t touch me. Oh, here’s our room.” Confident that she could sort out whatever needed sorting, she unhesitatingly opened the door and swept inside, Ron trailing warily behind.

There were, as it happened, four persons waiting for them. The first was a middle-aged wizard seated at a round conference table, busily scrutinizing one of a stack of parchments piled before him. Her gaze passed over him dismissively, as she correctly deduced that he was the Ministry official here to ensure that both parties arrived at a satisfactory marriage contract. She was also unconcerned with the short, plump witch in a conservatively cut, elegant business robe of a purple so deep as to be almost black, her long gray hair coiled into a sophisticated chignon beneath a peaked cap cut from the same cloth as her robes. Hermione focused, instead, upon the two men with whom the witch was conversing, a tall fair-haired wizard standing with his back to the room, staring out of one of the illusory windows with which the Ministry was fitted, and the dark-haired, slightly shorter wizard beside him who was speaking in low, urgent tones. One of them had to be the petitioner, but which? Then the taller man turned to face her, and she thought she had her answer.

Clearly, it couldn’t be Draco Malfoy who had petitioned for her, so it had to be the other wizard.

Although they had developed a mutual respect and a distant sort of camaraderie during the war, Hermione didn’t delude herself that Draco had lost all the prejudices he’d been raised with. He remained, in her opinion, the very last wizard on the face of the earth who would submit himself to the strictures of the Marriage Law. The young pureblood would likely enjoy five years of bachelorhood while spending galleons by the vault full to get the ridiculous law repealed so he could marry Pansy, or perhaps Daphne Greengrass or some other perfectly pedigreed witch.

Hermione therefore turned her attention, briefly, to the other wizard. A cursory glance told her he was young enough--thirty at the outside--prosperous--his jet black business robes were of excellent cut and fabric--and rather handsome. His eyes were a deep and intense blue, a striking contrast to his ink-dark hair, his features were strong and impressive. Hermione was mystified as to why such a wizard would not only find himself still single at thirty, but, if he wanted a wife, why he would petition for a witch he’d never met.

She thought he must be some pureblood friend of Draco’s. Perhaps, knowing they’d gone to school together before working with each other during the war, the man had asked Malfoy to come to this meeting, probably with the view to winning her over. Not that he could.

“Hallo, Draco,” she greeted Malfoy warmly. “You’re friend’s made an awful mistake. Please tell me you’re trying to talk him into retracting his petition.” Draco’s unnamed friend sighed, shook his head and went to take his seat directly opposite the Ministry wizard, while the witch gave an an amused chuckle, but stood where she was. Hermione bit her lip in consternation.

Draco gave her a small smile and bowed his head politely in greeting.

“Hello, Hermione,” he returned, then a bit more frostily, “Weasley.”

“Malfoy,” Ron returned coldly, before turning a baleful eye upon the dark haired wizard who, it seemed, was trying to steal his girl.

“Hermione,” Draco began, “I should explain--”

“No need, Mr. Malfoy, I’m sure,” the Ministry wizard interrupted. “Our purpose here is plain, and we’ve much to attend to. This is Miss Hermione Granger, then?” he continued, shuffling parchments and uncapping his ink bottle.

“Of course she’s Hermione Granger,” Ron all but snarled. “Haven’t you seen her pictures in a thousand or ten Victory Day photos?”

“Yes, well, polyjuice potion might answer that, young man,” the Ministry wizard said, favoring Ron with a disapproving glance. “There are reasons why I have to ask these questions, you know. So, then, Miss Granger?”

“Yes, I’m Hermione Granger,” she said in exasperation.

“Excellent, excellent. I am Aethelberht Woad, representing the Ministry. The parties being here, if you will each take a seat we can begin. Is Mr.--ah Weasley did you say?--yes, well, is Mr. Weasley acting as your solicitor, Miss Granger? If so, Madam Rowan’s services might be dispensed with.”

“My solicitor? Certainly not,” Hermione snapped. “This is all a dreadful misunderstanding, but I can’t see the need for a solicitor to sort it.”

“Indeed?” the Mr. Woad sniffed, shuffling parchments once more. “Well then, Madam Rowan, you affirm that, on behalf of the Witches International Legal Defense Society, you undertake to represent Miss Granger’s interests?”

Madam Rowan gave Hermione a reassuring smile. “I so affirm,” she said formally to Mr. Woad, than leant toward Hermione and added. “I’m delighted to do so, my dear. It’s a true honor to be of service.”

“You’re Zenobia Rowan, aren’t you?” Hermione realized, the mention of W.I.L.D.S. having given her the clue. “I’m quite sure the honor is mine, though I do believe you’ve been brought here on a wild goose chase,” she said ruefully.

“That remains to be seen,” Mr. Woad said, before Madam Rowan could reply. “And as the representative for the petitioner has already affirmed willingness to serve, we are ready to begin. Presuming, Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Remington, that you’ve no objection to Mr. Weasley’s presence?

“Draco?” the other wizard, Mr. Remington, asked, seemingly willing to defer to the younger man’s decision.

“Objection? No,” Draco said easily as he came around the table to draw out a chair for Hermione. She cast him a wary glance, but really, he just couldn’t be the petitioner, she told herself. He had to be here on the other wizard’s behalf. Hermione smiled at Draco and took the seat he offered while Ron fumed silently.

“I do admit,” Draco went on as he seated himself on the other side of the table, between Woad and Remington, “to a certain surprise that you would be here, under the circumstances Weasley.”

“Of course he would be here, he’s my fiancé!” Hermione said. Draco cast Ron a sharp glance.

“Merlin’s beard, man, you haven’t told her?” Draco said softly.

“Perhaps a word with my client is in order?” Madam Rowan suggested to Mr. Woad. Before the Ministry official could reply, Ron spoke up

“What the hell are you on about?” he growled at Draco, taking the seat between Hermione and the older witch.

“Ah, so you’re that Mr. Weasley,” Mr. Woad began.

“Bloody hell,” Draco said, before Mr. Woad could get any further. “Even you can’t be that thick, Weasley.” He turned his attention back to Hermione, and continued in a much different voice. “I am so sorry, Hermione. Of course when I saw the lists, I thought you must know, and that, circumstances being what they were, my offer wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

“Are you saying you filed a petition for me?” Hermione said in amazement. “But why on earth would you do such a thing? Even if I believed for one moment that you’d condescend to marry a Muggleborn, you know I’m engaged to Ron.”

“Yes, well, as to that,” Mr. Woad said, shuffling through his stack of parchments. “Sorry, Zenobia, but we might as well thrash this out now. There was, indeed, an engagement between Miss Hermione Jane Granger and Mr. Ronald Bilious Weasley duly registered with the ministry on the 27th of December, last.”

“You see?” Hermione said, breathing a sigh of relief. Too soon.

“Which engagement,” the wizard continued, consulting a second parchment, “was perforce terminated when Mr. Weasley betrothed himself to the half-blood spinster witch, Miss Serena Burton--

‘”What? shouted Ron at the same time that Hermione gasped, “Betrothed?”

“What in the hell do you mean I betrothed myself to Serena?” Ron demanded, surging to his feet and knocking over his chair.

“I’d very much like to know the answer to that myself,” Hermione said coldly.

“I’m so sorry,” Draco murmured again.

Mr. Woad regarded them sharply over his pince-nez.

“Do pick up your chair Mr. Weasley. If I may proceed without further interruption? As I was saying, the engagement between Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley, not being a formal betrothal, was necessarily terminated when, on or about twelve February, Miss Burton conceived a child of Mr. Weasley.”

“Conceived? Conceived?” Hermione choked out.

“Bloody buggering hell,” Ron groaned.

“’On or about twelve February?” Hermione repeated. She stared at Ron, “You right bastard. That was the night of the Ministry benefit for war orphans. You disappeared for so long I was about to send Harry after you, and then you showed up looking rumpled and said you’d gone out to the gardens and fallen asleep in the gazebo. But really, you were off betrothing yourself to some witch I’ve never even heard of. Merlin, Ron, how could you?”

“Hermione--”

“Don’t,” she choked. “Just...don’t, Ron. There is absolutely nothing you could say that I would want to hear, right now.” She took a deep breath. “Perhaps you should leave.”

“Leave?” Ron spluttered. “Over some bloody stupid, meaningless, roll in the hay when I was dead drunk?”

“Meaningless?” Hermione rose to her own feet, facing her erstwhile fiancé. “There’s a child, now, Ron. How in Merlin’s name is that meaningless?” Hermione demanded. “And, of course your being dead drunk makes it all so much better. “

“It was a bloody mistake,” Ron said, fiercely. “You don’t throw away what we have over one bloody mistake.”

“Look around you, Ron,” she said bitterly. “Where we are. Why we’re here. It’s too late. You already have thrown it away.” She turned to Madam Rowan. “I think I would like that consult now, please,” she said, hoping she could remain composed long enough to keep from bursting into tears in public.

“For the love of Merlin, Hermione,” Ron began, reaching for her shoulder, trying to get her to face him again.

Under the circumstances, it was exactly the wrong thing to do. Hermione was a powerful witch, who had been dealt a sudden, unexpected emotional blow. Ron’s touch on her shoulder was enough to set her off into an unthinking rage. For one moment, Hermione quite literally saw red. The next moment, sanity returned.

The red, however, remained.

It bloomed in a perfect circle, encompassing Ron Weasley’s neck, as he stared at Hermione in confusion and supplication. Then the red bloom became a red flood, as Ron’s head parted company with his neck, and tumbled one way while his body fell another.

“Oh, my god,” Hermione whimpered.

“Now see here,” Mr. Woad began as she started crying, wavering on her feet. Draco was around the table, supporting her, before she could fall.

“Remington, see to Weasley,” he snapped. From the expression on Ron’s face, he seemed to approve that idea, though it was hard to tell as his head was undergoing a further transformation.

“Clearly a case of accidental magic, Bertie,” Zenobia Rowan informed the Ministry official, getting up from her own chair, and going to the distraught witch, who was still crying and shaking, repeating her litany of Oh, my god, while the pureblood wizard holding her murmured soothing reassurances to her. “Nothing we need bother the Wizengamot about,” the older witch added, producing a large embroidered handkerchief and handing it to Hermione to mop her tears.

“Certain about that, are you Zenobia?” Aethelberht Woad inquired, eyeing Ron’s oddly gyrating body with suspicion. “It is unheard of to see such a powerful spell unleashed unintentionally.”

“Nonsense,” Madam Rowan said. “We can all attest that she was under extreme emotional duress.”

“I have to concur with my esteemed colleague,” Mr. Remington added, from where he knelt by Ron’s body, trying to stem the flow of blood so that he could cast a binding spell to keep Ron from hurting himself further. “Miss Granger is wandless, she uttered no spell, and had just received a severe shock. This can be nothing but accidental magic.”

“Oh, very well, very well,” Mr. Woad grumbled. “I will issue that as my finding, and we will not disturb the Wizengamot about the matter. Though I cannot answer if Mr. Weasley chooses to press civil charges in the matter.”

“I should like to see him try,” Madam Rowan purred with a singularly vicious smile.

“Do you think we might see about getting Weasley to St. Mungo’s, now the legalities are sorted?” Draco asked dryly. “I rather imagine he might like having his head reattached.”

Ron’s head, which appeared to be in the process of turning into a bag-pudding with raisins for eyes and a bit of strawberry jam for a mouth, seemed to agree. At least, the jam mouth looked to be opening in a shape that indicated he was trying to say Yes! Sadly, the fact that his head was not attached to his body meant he could not fuel speech with air from his lungs, and as strawberry jam isn’t particularly conducive to emulating the movements of human lips, it was impossible to say precisely what idea the bag-pudding head was trying to convey. Assuming, of course, that Ron’s brains were still brains and not suet, at the moment, and that his bag-pudding head was capable of having any thoughts at all.

“What have I done?” Hermione whimpered in horror.

“Steady on, dear,” Madam Rowan said bracingly. “Not your fault and a trip to the Spell Damage floor at St. Mungo’s will set him right as rain, never fear. Perhaps, Mr. Malfoy, you’d be so good as to floo the Healers while I have bit of a chat with my client?”

“Are you going to be all right, Hermione?” Draco asked gravely. He did not let go of her and take himself off to do Madam Rowan’s bidding until Hermione had shakily assured him that she would be fine. Madam Rowan patted Hermione’s shoulder reassuringly and led her through one of the doors at the side of the conference room that proved to lead to a smaller meeting room.

Hermione was, in fact, hell and away from being anything remotely resembling fine. and no sooner had the door closed behind them than she burst into tears. Madam Rowan clucked soothingly, transfigured one of the leather-backed office chairs into something large, comfy and overstuffed, then pushed Hermione into it before summoning up a bracing cup of tea.

“There, there, dear, you’ve had a bit of a shock, but it will all come right, you’ll see,” Madam Rowena told her, placing the cup on the table beside Hermione.

“How?” Hermione sobbed. “How in Merlin’s name is anything going to ever be all right after this?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re well shot of a man who wasn’t above cheating on you,” Madam Rowan said bluntly, “and if the consideration he displayed for you in the other room is anything to go by, you are about to marry a man who will do everything in his power to protect and provide for you. And who, to be frank, has the means to provide for you very prettily. You’ve traded up, my girl. And given the absolute idiocy of the current law, you are bloody lucky to have done so.”

The reminder of the law, the realization that with her engagement to Ron now broken she was at the mercy of whichever pureblood wizard offered for her--and that Draco Malfoy had, indeed, offered for her--did nothing to soothe Hermione’s shattered nerves.

“I don’t bloody want to trade up,” she wailed brokenheartedly. “I want Ron! I’ve always wanted Ron.” A fresh flood of tears soon drenched the lovely embroidered handkerchief. Madam Rowan calmly produced another one which she handed to Hermione.

“I know you didn’t want this,” she said gently, vanishing the first handkerchief and conjuring a stack of fresh ones to keep in reserve. “But the new law leaves you no choice in the matter. I very much wish I could let you take some time to mourn the loss of your relationship, but as your solicitor, I can’t do that. An eligible pureblood wizard has petitioned to make you his wife, and while you have two other offers you might accept, you must select one of them, or the Ministry will subject you to a positively loathsome spell that will deprive you of magic, permanently, and you will be exiled from the Wizarding world forever. I cannot believe you want that. And I cannot, in good conscience, recommend that you even consider either of the other two offers that have been made for you.”

Hermione looked up, eyes red rimmed, and stared at the other witch.

“The sodding law only went into effect at midnight,” she said. “Who else could have offered for me in such a short time?”

“Thaddeus Mulciber and Quintus Rookwood,” Madam Rowan said grimly, lips pursed in distaste. “Son and younger brother, respectively, of two rather notorious Death Eaters.”

Hermione stared at the other witch in horror.

“You can’t be serious! They despise Muggleborns. What on earth would possess them to petition for me?”

“I would think that the opportunity to gain control over the witch who helped Harry Potter defeat You Know Who, to have the power a husband has over a wife in our world--or force her to give up magic and leave the Wizarding world forever--was too tempting to pass up,” Madam Rowan said grimly. Hermione shuddered in reaction. She could easily believe vengeance as a motive. The wizards probably felt trapped by the new law, and decided that if they had to suffer, she would, as well. And, oh! How they could make her suffer if she were fool enough to let one of them bind her in marriage.

“That’s vile,” she said, with a shudder. Her tears weren’t precisely drying, but they had slowed to a trickle, allowing her to set aside her handkerchief in favor of taking a sip of the hot, sweet tea. “I can’t believe the Ministry will permit that sort of atrocity.”

“Oh, there are supposed to be safeguards,” Madam Rowan said, transfiguring another one of the stiff leather chairs into a more comfortable wing chair and drawing it close to Hermione. “Although I’m not certain how effective they would be if W.I.L.D.S. weren’t involved. The Ministry oversees the marriage contracts, and all witches are required to be offered legal representation, at the Ministry’s expense, while the contract is negotiated. Unfortunately, the Ministry's standards for legal representation are based more on economic considerations than legal ones.”

“Quelle surprise,” Hermione sniffed. “That explains why a representative from W.I.L.D.S. is here, I suppose. I mean of course I know all about your group, and the work you’ve done on witches’ legal issues. But I would think the president of such a large international organization would be far too busy to take on my case, personally.”

“Ordinarily, you’d be right,” Madam Rowan said, conjuring a second cup of tea for herself and taking a sip. “But it isn’t only the Muggleborn witches who are unhappy with this law. A number of pureblood families have donated very generous sums to W.I.L.D.S. for the purposes of opposing the law, or working for its repeal, and to represent any witches petitioned in the meantime. Most recently, we received a rather sizable donation, from an anonymous source, with an explicit request that I should personally represent the first witch affected by the law. I suppose they want to see that the proper precedent is set, and I am not one to underestimate the legal importance of a proper precedent. Beyond that, considering just how much we can do for the witches of Great Britain with a donation of the size concerned...well, I was happy to agree.”

“Lucky me,” Hermione said wistfully. “Oh, believe me, I am beyond grateful that I’ve got the best legal mind in Britain on my side right now. But unless you can figure a way for me to wriggle out of any marriage at all and still stay in the Wizarding world...well, I don’t feel particularly lucky.”

“I wish I could find a way for you to, ah, wriggle out of this situation,” Madam Rowan said. “But until this idiotic law is repealed, there’s simply no avoiding the necessity of accepting one of the petitions.”

“So then, I’m right where I started,” Hermione said heavily. “I either marry Draco Malfoy or leave the Wizarding world forever, because there is no way in hell I would marry one of the other wizards petitioning for me.”

“Yes, my dear. I'm sorry, but that is exactly how matters stand,” Madam Rowan said gently. Hermione nodded her understanding, reached for a fresh handkerchief to dry the last of her tears, and finished her tea. A glint of light caught her eye as she crumpled the handkerchief in her left hand, while reaching for the tea with her right. She looked down at the lovely little diamond still sparkling on her finger, announcing a promise that had now been irrevocable broken. She stared at it a moment, grief swamping her anew.

Grief would not serve her now. Hermione resolutely pulled off her engagement ring and dropped it in the small zippered compartment of her purse for safekeeping. She would send it back to Ron as soon as she got home and found the jeweler’s box it had come in. A flash of memory, Ron having done things properly for once, down on one knee, opening the velvet-covered box to offer her its contents, his eyes as he watched her full of laughter and of love...

“Right then,” Hermione said determinedly, putting down her purse and pushing aside the cup. “Tell me what I need to know about the marriage contracts.”

Madam Rowan smiled, then conjured a stack of parchments and began to explain the finer points of nuptial bargaining.

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

“I wish you hadn’t insisted on immediately settling ten million galleons on her,” Philip Remington fretted. “A hundred thousand for each month the marriage lasts, to a maximum of one million for the first year, with accruing vestments each year thereafter is usually considered more than generous.” Healers from St. Mungo’s had taken charge of Ron Weasley, a cleaning witch had tidied away the blood, and Aethelberht Woad had gone off to file the appropriate forms clearing the soon-to-be Mrs. Malfoy of any intentional wrongdoing. Remington and his client were thus alone in the main conference room, and free to discuss the marriage contract currently being reviewed by Zenobia Rowan and her client. Not that Remington felt they would find much to quibble over in the papers Draco Malfoy had required him to draw up. “Honestly, I don’t know why you bothered to consult me,” he said, shaking his head. “You might have done better to just let Zenobia dictate terms. I’m positive she would have been happy to get much less than you are giving away.”

“Ah, but it isn’t Zenobia Rowan’s happiness that concerns me,” Draco informed his solicitor. He was heartily bored with the conversation, and the strain of keeping up the facade of merely being a concerned friend to Hermione, of leashing his true feelings for the girl, was beginning to wear on his nerves. But things had gone exactly as planned, if not better. The sight of Ron Weasley’s head turning into a bag-pudding was a memory he would savor for the rest of his life. Hermione might not have signed the contract yet, but he knew she would, that she had no choice but to do so. Victory was so close, he could taste it, and that gave him the patience to listen to yet more of Remington’s tiresome objections.

“Never tell me Miss Granger’s happiness depends upon the number of rubies you insist upon draping ‘round her neck,” Remington said. “There’s been enough press coverage about the girl since Victory Day to make it clear she’s not that sort.”

“You mistake me,” Draco bestirred himself to answer. “It is my happiness that depends upon Hermione having ten million galleons, to do with as she pleases.”

“Sorry?” Remington said faintly, completely nonplussed.

“Oh, you’re perfectly correct,” Draco said, realizing he would have to offer the man some explanation to stop his carping, and deciding that he should go with as much of the truth as was politic, given the circumstances. “Hermione Granger doesn’t care about money in the general way of things. But she’s proud, and she’s independent, and our union is going to curb that independence rather straightly. She isn’t entering into it for love, or for social advantage, where she might see giving up some of her freedom as a fair exchange for my heart, hand and fortune. While her status as my wife entitles her to the use of any of my assets during the course of our marriage, it will take some time before she feels comfortable availing herself of the properties, the jewels and the bank accounts. By settling such a large sum on her immediately, I give her access to more money than she could possibly need, money that is quite legally hers, rather than mine, or even joint property. She’ll feel more independent having control of it, her independence will make her happy, and her happiness will more readily reconcile her to our marriage. Therein lies my own happiness, however indirectly.”

It was an explanation any Slytherin would have appreciated, with not a few of them understanding the subtleties without Draco needing to say a word. For better or worse, Remington had been sorted into Ravenclaw, so while the finer points needed to be spelled out for him, he was certainly able to grasp them well enough.

“Well, that explains why you’re letting her keep the property she currently owns in her own right, without insisting it be settled on any children that might issue from the union,” the solicitor said thoughtfully. “Still, if she retains her flat in London, does she really need an estate in Britain and one on the continent?”

“I need her to have them. And the rubies. She was in Gryffindor, you see. The rubies will suit her.”

“The rubies have suited a great many Malfoy wives over the past six centuries,” Remington replied. “But those wives who left the family, including the ones who remarried after the death of their Malfoy spouse, left the rubies behind. Giving them to Miss Granger outright is a great extravagance.”

“Not really,” Draco said, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. “The Malfoy rubies are far from the most opulent of the family jewels. Now, if I’d given away the Malfoy emeralds, your accusation of extravagance might have had some merit.”

Whatever Remington might have been tempted to reply went unsaid, as Zenobia Rowan chose that moment to emerge from the smaller meeting room.

She did not look happy.

“We’ve hit a sticking point,” she said bluntly. “Oh, not with the contract per se, Philip, so you needn’t ruffle your feathers at me. We both know the terms offered by Mr. Malfoy are a model of liberality.”

“Then why is there a sticking point?” Remington demanded.

“Because Miss Granger cannot bring herself to simply walk out of that room, sign the contract, and then go directly to the Ministry registry to be married,” Madam Rowan said roundly. “She’s asked me to see if Mr. Malfoy will consent to an immediate betrothal instead, while delaying the actual wedding for at least one month. I believe you will agree, Philip, that as a betrothal is also legally binding, and would require dissolution by the Wizengamot, and given the emotional trauma my client has undergone because of the unfortunate actions of her erstwhile fiancé, it does Mr. Malfoy here no harm to agree to her stipulation, especially as it is the only concession she asks you to make.”

“In the remote chance that you actually are interested in my advice, Draco,” Philip Remington said wryly, “you will accede to Miss Granger’s request. Zenobia is quite right about the legalities, and if your bride’s happiness is as important to you as you claim, you must see that granting her this point can only make her more grateful to you in the end. You must admit, it is not an unreasonable request.”

“No, it isn’t,” Draco agreed calmly. “In fact, I thought she might make it. Well, with your permission, Madam Rowan, I would like a few moments in private with Hermione, as I believe this matter is best sorted betwixt the two of us, alone.”

Zenobia Rowan nodded thoughtfully.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, and went back to her client. A few moments later, she emerged from the room once more, to tell Draco that Hermione had agreed to grant him fifteen minutes. Draco smiled and thanked her, knowing he was that much closer to the victory he craved.

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


Hermione looked up when the door opened to admit Draco into the room. She was curled into the overstuffed chair Madam Rowan had conjured for her, and she didn’t feel much like moving. She was miserable over Ron’s betrayal, appalled to find herself caught up in the Ministry’s insanity of a new law, and distraught at the thought of finding herself married before the day was out, and not to the man she had been engaged to when she woke up that morning.

“Draco,” she acknowledged.

“Are you all right, Hermione?” he asked solicitously. She favored him with a watery smile.

“Not a bit of it. I’m bloody miserable and I want to go home and have a good cry, then eat a carton of ice-cream and mope about in my dressing gown for a week. Please say that you’ll let me.”

“Oh, my dear, if only I could,” Draco said gently. “If I thought it would keep you safe from the petitions of other wizards, I would be happy to settle for a formal betrothal that might last as long as you pleased, to the five year limit the law allows, if it came to that.”

“But why shouldn’t a betrothal keep me safe?” Hermione asked. “It confers almost the same status as marriage. I mean, we aren’t expected to live together, but if we,” Hermione ground to a halt, blushing prettily. “Any children born to a betrothed couple are considered as fully legitimate as children born in wedlock,” she continued. “You can break an engagement on a whim, but ending a betrothal requires a divorce, just like a marriage. Why isn’t that enough to keep me safe?”

“Because unlike a fully consummated marriage, a betrothal is not the final, inalterable step in a relationship. Betrothals require formally dissolution, it is true, but the grounds for dissolving a betrothal are much less strict than they are for dissolving a marriage. Because of that, betrothals are subject to challenge in a way that marriage is not.”

“Challenge?” Hermione said uneasily.

“There are three petitions for you, Hermione, or were as of this morning. I’ve no idea if others were received while we’ve been here, but what I do know is that if you leave the Ministry today as anything but a married woman, the wizards whose petitions you have rejected will have the opportunity to register a legal challenge to your choice, and given the current state of the law, there is no guarantee they would not win.

“How could they win a legal challenge to a marriage contract the Ministry approves?” Hermione cried.

“Easily enough. You might wish to check with Madam Rowan, but I’m certain that they have but to allege that we do not really intend to go through with a marriage,” Draco pointed out, “If Mulciber or Rookwood can convince the Wizengamot of that, the Ministry might be inclined to overturn whatever agreement we reach in favor of handing you over to a wizard who is willing to wed you and bed you immediately. Don’t forget, one of the alleged purposes of this law is to rebuild the Wizarding population, so depleted by the recent war.”

Hermione put her head in her hands, fighting off another bout of tears which threatened. What Draco said made perfect sense. She wanted to scream, but that would hardly help matters.

“Right then,” she said brittlely, drying the latest tears, and facing Draco once more. “Please send Madam Rowan back in. We just need to go over the last few things, so that I’m sure I understand everything.”

“In a moment,” Draco said. “I have something else to say to you.” His expression was solemn, and his tone of voice conveyed that whatever he had to say, it was serious.

“I...” Hermione hesitated, feeling she’d had enough emotional trauma for one day and not sure she was ready to hear whatever it was Draco was determined to tell her. Then again, they were about to be united in wedlock, no matter how unready or unhappy she was to take that step. The truth was, Draco was saving her from leaving the magical world forever, as there would be ice dancing in hell before she accepted one of the other petitions that had been made for her. The least she owed him was to listen to whatever he had to say. “All right.” she told him. He gave her a small smile.

“When we worked together during the war, I thought we’d built, if not precisely a friendship, then at least a mutual trust, that we’d come to respect each other, at the least.”

“Yes. So did I,” Hermione agreed

“What might not have been clear to you is that I had grown to do more than simply respect you, Hermione. I admired you a great deal, so much so, that had it not been perfectly clear that you were with Ron, I would have...said something, done something...tried to explore the possibility that admiration could lead to something...more.” She stared at him wide-eyed, and he gave a rueful laugh. “No, my dear, I am not giving you a declaration of love, merely stating that I had come to believe that, were your heart not already disposed elsewhere, love between us might have been possible.”

“Oh, Draco,” she began, but her forestalled her.

“What I mean to tell you now is, I know this marriage is not what you would have chosen for yourself. Given that you only broke up with him a few hours ago--and suddenly, unexpectedly, at that-- I expect you must still love Ron as much as ever, despite your anger over his own, ah, betrothal. These are not ideal circumstances under which to begin a new relationship, much less one so complete, so consuming as a marriage.

“But I want to call upon the trust you gave me during the war. I don’t ask that you forget about Ron. I’d be a fool to think you could do so. But I do ask that you understand that this will be a real marriage, that even if the law did not compel me to act quickly to secure you from danger, I would in any case hold it the greatest honor to be able to make you my wife. I want you to know that I will never do anything to hurt you, if I can hep it, that I will instead do everything in my power to make you happy. I ask only, Hermione, that you let me try.”

Hermione stared at the young wizard before her in a mixture of surprise, admiration and gratitude. She had guessed he must have some feelings for her, otherwise why petition for her hand? But his willingness to make this not a temporary arrangement until the law was repealed, but a real marriage that might possibly last the rest of their lives was very moving.

And his honesty deserved nothing less than her own honesty in return.

“You must understand that I can’t promise you anything, right now,” she said slowly. “My heart...is disposed elsewhere, as you said, although I currently regret that disposition. I don’t know when or if I’ll have it free again, and I can’t promise that if I do get it free, that I will want to offer it to you. But, I will try Draco. If you want this to be a real marriage, not just a sham to protect me until the law is repealed, then I promise to try to...well, give it my best shot, I suppose. Unromantic as that sounds.”

“We may thank the Ministry for the lack of romance,” Draco said lightly, “but perhaps, in time, the romance will come. I take it you will agree to an immediate wedding, then? We can have as grand a reception as you wish when we return from our wedding trip.”

“Oh, I’m to have a honeymoon?” Hermione said with a rueful smile. “Where are we going?”

“I thought France, for a start,” Draco told her. “I’ve a villa on the Côte d'Azur that is quite lovely this time of year. We’ll take a few days to enjoy the beach, while you consider where you’d like to go and what you’d like to do.”

“Just how long a honeymoon were you planning?” she asked him. “I need to know how much time to ask off from Gringotts.”

“As for the wedding trip, I believe a month will be sufficient, and I’m fairly certain that as you are marrying one of their largest account holders, they won’t begrudge you the time. As to the honeymoon,” he took her hand, and bent over it gallantly. “it is my intention it should last the rest of our lives.”

Hermione could not but be moved by so charmingly worded a declaration, and gave him a tentative smile as he left her to return to the conference room. Schooling his features to show nothing more than the moderate relief his success at persuading her to accede to his demand for an immediate wedding would be expected to cause, Draco informed the solicitors of her capitulation, then told Remington that he needed to return to Malfoy Manor to make a few last-minute preparations for the impending nuptials.

Only when he had returned to the privacy of his study did he let the smirk spread across his features, the light of triumph burn in his eyes, as he savored his painstakingly orchestrated, delicately executed victory. He then sent the owls Gladrags Wizardwear of Paris, Thaddeus Mulciber and Quintus Rookwood were expecting, and the one Zabini was not, before moving toward his liquor cabinet and the bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky that had pride of place there. Catching the eye of his father’s portrait, staring down at him with its usual hauteur, Draco raised the bottle in a mocking salute.

“Congratulate me, father,” he said as he poured himself a shot. “I am about to ensure the next generation of Malfoys.”

“I believe I’ll wait to wish you happy until after the divorce,” the portrait of Lucius sniffed. “When you are free to take a pureblood wife to continue the family properly, I’ll have reason to offer congratulations. Until then, we must bear up under our disappointments, as best we may.”

“Disappointed?” Draco said musingly studying the glass in his hand, and the amber liquid within. “Is that what I am? And here I thought I was...ecstatic.” He smiled up at Lucius. “Ah, well, it’s all a matter of perspective, I suppose.”

“Yours certainly seems to be somewhat skewed, my son,” Lucius said dryly.

“Does it? Probably this damned sobriety I’ve been trying,” Draco smirked. “No fear, then, as I’m about to put an end to it.” He lifted his glass high, offering his father’s portrait a toast. “Here’s to Gryffindor trust and Slytherin cunning. May my beautiful bride remain full of the former and in happy ignorance of the latter...until it is far too late.” And, laughing, he drained the glass.