Chapter Text
There was a knock on her office door and Hermione looked up to see Kingsley’s long-suffering assistant Armendie standing in the doorway looking bored, folded arms covered in gold bangles.
“A message from the Minister of Magic: Hermione, please come to my office to chat,” Armendie huffed, smoothing down her fringe.
“He sent you to say that? Why wouldn’t he send a memo?” asked Hermione.
Armendie gestured to the pile of roughly 40 memos, folded up paper planes all jostling in place behind an enchanted barrier Hermione had thought was rather clever to restrict them from flapping in her face, “How would you have received a memo?”
Hermione’s lips quirked, “Fair,” she conceded, “OK, I’m coming.”
She wove her way through the towers of clutter in her small office and around the desks of the main office in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Her office was a sanctuary of controlled chaos, she knew precisely where everything was despite Harry mentioning that it looked like a bomb had gone off inside it.
“Back in a moment, Ida,” she called to an elderly witch who was scribbling down furious notes whilst a house elf sobbed in the chair facing her desk.
Hermione could already tell what this was about, Kingsley never summoned her - it was always the other way round. It was always her banging down his door for what she perceived to be egregious injustices at the Ministry, for him to help straighten out Harry and Ron or else for him to consider her latest stroke of inspiration.
In the last few weeks, the Marriage Act had passed in the Wizengamot. Following two wars, a rise in the cost of living, unemployment and people choosing to settle down later in life, the magical population had been facing a negative birth rate which was getting worse every year and it was nothing that lower childcare costs or tax breaks seemed to remedy.
Hermione did agree that the negative birth rate was a problem, she thought as she followed Armendie into the lift, and she agreed that something needed to be done about it but as far as she could see the government incentives hadn’t helped and they weren’t wrong when they said that time was running out. And now she was being summoned to the Minister’s office. Had he already heard who she’d been matched with? No. It had to be too early for that, surely. And the matching system was reportedly tamper-proof, even for the Minister, surely.
The lift dinged and she was brought to her senses, “Head right in, he’s waiting,” nodded Armendie, settling back to her own desk outside of Kingsley’s office.
Hermione knocked before cracking the door ajar.
“Hermione Granger,” said Kingsley, wheeling around in his chair.
“Hi, everything ok?” She smiled, taking a seat in the office.
“That remains to be seen,” said Kingsley, “Who did you ride with the night Mad Eye died?
“You,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes.
“Ok. Just checking…You’re suspiciously agreeable about this whole Marriage Act business,” said Kingsley, furrowing his brow.
“Did you expect me not to be?” Hermione asked.
“Well… yes, frankly. I was waiting for you to be tearing down my office door the last few days. I didn’t think you’d be on board with marrying a stranger.” He shrugged.
“Aren’t you getting married to a stranger?” she pointed out.
“I’m the Minister, and unmarried and under 50, I have to be seen to… you know, be sporting. I thought that once you’d heard, you would pair off with someone you knew…” He studied her expression.
“Who? I’m not exactly very… compatible with most men. Or… any men so far for that fact,” she said irritably.
This felt like an understatement when she considered her and Ron’s failure of a relationship, the dates with muggles where she felt like she had to hide her entire personality to satisfy the Statute of Secrecy and the parade of creepy dates she’d been on with wizards all hoping to bed the golden girl or else get close enough to be BFFs with the Harry Potter.
“Really? You’re not going to fight me on this?” pressed Kingsley.
“No. It’s a good idea, something needs to be done and… if I can be paired up with a partner who is found to be magically compatible with me then so much the better.” She shrugged glumly, “I mean don’t get me wrong, it’s not exactly how I pictured finding my husband but…” she trailed off.
“But?” probed Kingsley.
“It is logical,” said Hermione, frowning as if she wasn’t happy that it was the best option, “I do want to have children.”
“They’re hoping it will reduce unemployment…” said Kingsley, starting to cringe.
“That’s nice,” sighed Hermione but she was hardly listening, the perfect match of a husband was potentially something to be excited for.
“Did you already submit your blood sample and get your wand screened?” he asked.
“Yes,” she nodded.
“I’m going later today, with a photographer from the Prophet,” he groaned to Hermione’s laughter.
“Oh, very nice.” She smirked.
The matching algorithm had been hush-hush but through some careful questioning of the right people, Hermione had discovered it was calculated based on a mix of magical power, arithmancy and divination.
“Hm. The letters should go out next week. You know…” Kingsley tore his gaze away from the scroll he’d been fiddling with to look up at her, “it isn’t too late, and Ron-“
Of course, Hermione thought bitterly, the eternal public theory that she was somehow meant to be Ronald Weasley’s property as part of the fairy tale ending. Despite him having zero chemistry with her after being stuck in the friend zone for years on end, no shared interests and a wandering eye.
“Why don’t you marry Ron, if you love him so much?” said Hermione, rolling her eyes.
“Point taken,” said Kingsley, holding up his hands in defence.
*
“I’m not ready to get married,” huffed Greg.
They were sitting inside Draco’s trailer on the built-in wraparound bench seating. Just him, Greg, Pansy, Millie and Theo.
“Why? What are you busy doing?” asked Draco with some disdain.
“Just… you know… this…” complained Greg, gesturing to the inside of Draco’s trailer.
Draco looked around the trailer to see what it was that Greg meant. The Ministry said they were supposed to call them ‘static caravans’ but Draco thought that was being overly generous. Slim one-bedroomed trailers, the bare essentials and everything seemed vaguely dated and depressing.
At least 50 cramped trailers practically on top of each other, wedged in like sardines and full of ex-convicts on probation under close watch on the Norfolk coast. It sounded nice when you thought of ‘the Norfolk coast’ but Draco’s view was of the back of someone else’s yellowing trailer.
“We always knew we’d have arranged marriages,” said Pansy, sounding resigned.
“I’m married, it’s not so bad.” Theo shrugged and said brightly, “it really hasn’t changed my life much.”
“You’re married to Daphne,” grunted Greg.
“Daphne is one of us,” said Millie, “who knows who we’ll be paired up with… or what.”
“They’ll be political matches, I bet,” said Pansy coolly, taking a sip of her drink.
“We always knew we’d have political matches.” Draco shrugged.
“They said they’d be compatible matches, magically compatible,” offered Theo.
“They’ll still be political, it will be compatible with the Ministry’s agenda. After a war? It’s the smart move to make and Shacklebolt’s no fool,” said Draco darkly.
“God, I hope I get a pureblood. I’ll just die if I don’t get a pureblood,” huffed Millie.
“As if that matters anymore.” Draco shook his head.
“If old Lucy heard you saying that, old Lucy-“ started Theo.
“-is in prison, for life,” finished Draco bitterly, “there’s no escaping this time unless we all got married fast and I mean… who’s on the market?” He screwed up his nose.
“Don’t you have a betrothal contract to my wife’s sister?” asked Theo thoughtfully, bottle hovering near his lips as he considered this.
“I did, but that went by the wayside with my father and I have no interest in renewing it. I’d rather roll the dice… maybe someone who was compatible with me…” Draco trailed off hopefully.
“You could marry Greg,” said Pansy, turning to Millie and bumping her gently with her shoulder.
Greg just shrugged.
“We’ve known each other since we were toddlers,” said Millie with a grimace.
“I’ve known Daphne since I was a toddler,” said Theo.
“And are you in love with her? Is there sexual chemistry?” asked Pansy.
“Err… I mean not yet, but it’s early days,” said Theo, looking around for encouragement.
“You’ve been married for over two years haven’t you, mate?” asked Draco.
“Mm,” conceded Theo with a nod and they all drank, deep in thought.
“Pans and I should be off, the curfew is coming up,” said Theo, consulting his watch.
“Ugh,” responded Pansy, forcing herself to get up.
“Hang in there, yeah?” said Theo, as Pansy air kissed Millie, Greg and Draco goodbye.
“Bye,” said Draco glumly.
Millie and Greg got up to leave too, “This is so depressing,” sighed Millie, bumping Draco’s cheek as she kissed him goodbye.
“See you at work,” grunted Greg to Draco who nodded.
Draco looked around the empty trailer and sighed. What woman would want to live here with an ex-Death Eater in the shabbiest corner of wizarding Britain? The Ministry must really be desperate if they wanted him to procreate.
*
The flames fired up as the floo glowed and Harry, closely followed by Ginny got out of the fireplace in Hermione’s flat. Ron was already here clutching a letter and looking ashen-faced.
“Did you open them yet?” asked Ginny, looking from her brother to Hermione.
“No, we waited for you,” said Hermione, sounding more cheerful than she felt and also clutching her letter that had been delivered today.
It was true that they had waited to open the letters but it was also true that Hermione felt like the letter was burning a hole in her hand every second she held it and didn’t open it. Her future husband’s name was in this letter. How could one letter contain so much weight? One name to steer her entire future to happiness or ruin.
Once again, Ron had explained, as they waited for Harry and Ginny that they didn’t have to go through with this, they could marry each other. Once again, Hermione had politely declined. Next to Ron, a random match sounded like hope. Ron was a good man but after all this time she had zero attraction to him and they were really better as friends - a fact Ron was not quite grasping, now that the pressure was on.
And then an invasive thought blossomed in Hermione’s head at the same time that Ron voiced it, “What if we’re holding each other’s names?” he chuckled.
“What if we’re not?” he then said moments later.
And that was how they’d sat waiting to open their letters, in a silent horror on Hermione’s blue sofa until the Potters found them. Harry and Ginny were without letters, having gotten married last year in a beautiful ceremony obsessed over by Molly Weasley.
“Well, go on then,” urged Ginny.
Although he was famous for his bravery, Harry took the chair furthest back from his friends with their letters and adopted an expression that clearly told anyone watching that he expected a bomb to go off at any moment.
“I’ll go first,” offered Ron, easing his thumb under the Ministry seal and straightening out his letter.
Hermione, Ginny and Harry watched Ron’s eyes skim the letter and saw his expression grow worried.
“That can’t be right-?” said Ron, rubbing his eyes.
There was a silence as he reread the letter until Ginny snatched it from him. “It’s Eloise- oh… Eloise Midgen.”
Ron shook his head looking stunned.
“She’s nice,” said Hermione timidly, but she soon abandoned her attempt to console Ron as he threw a filthy look her way as if this was all her fault. Maybe it was.
Hermione took a deep breath and read her own letter aloud, “Dear Miss Granger, following the Marriage Act and your compatibility submission, we are pleased to inform you that your future husband’s name is… Draco Malfoy,” her voice grew quiet.
“What?” asked Harry as if he’d mistaken her. He leant forward and gestured for the letter which she passed him weakly.
“Draco Malfoy,” read Ginny faintly over Harry’s shoulder, “well, fuck.”
Harry squinted. “Please see attached profile and details of your wedding date, on behalf of the Ministry of Magic we congratulate you and wish you all the best for your… future? Fucking hell.”
Ginny went to snatch the letter from Harry but he took the profile on the second page out and read, “Draco’s hobbies include drinking alone and… hugging house elves? What the fuck?” asked Harry, turning over the letter to flash a photograph of Draco Malfoy to Hermione and Ron.
“Those are his hobbies?” asked Ginny, confused.
“They’re automatically generated,” said Hermione vaguely, curling her legs up under her on the sofa.
How could this be possible? There had to be some mistake with the algorithm. Yes, Hermione had to concede that Malfoy was second to her in many classes, a similar age… many similarities now she came to think of it but what the algorithm had failed to consider, surely, was their shared history?! Her childhood bully! A Death Eater and blood purist.
“Alright,” said Ron, leaning in, “so we go to the Ministry and we ask Kings to just-“
“It’s done, Ron, once the matches are made it’s all done,” said Hermione looking worried.
“Malfoy, Hermione, Malfoy,” said Ron, shaking his head again.
Harry and Ginny exchanged worried looks.
“Well. It is… logical. His magic was always… proficient in classes so… compatible to have… children with,” said Hermione, her voice breaking at the end as her eyes welled up with tears. It was logical. And devastating.
“Ohhh, no, no,” said Ginny soothingly as she moved over to Hermione and put an arm round her, “You will barely see him, I bet. Just procreate and then bring the kids round to Auntie Ginny’s house. We’ll have so much fun, he will just be an after-thought.”
“And we won’t stand for any of his bullshit, this isn’t Hogwarts anymore, your best mate is in law enforcement,” said Harry, nodding along with Ginny, “if he tries anything we’ll lock him back up.”
Hermione nodded dumbly.
“Eloise Midgen,” said Ron, frowning, rifling through his own letter to see what her hobbies were and scrutinising her photograph.
*
There was a sharp and insistent rap at his door early that morning and Draco got up with a groan. He made his way to the door and had just unlocked it when Millicent Bulstrode shoved it open pushing him aside.
“Did you read it?! Did you-? Did you read yours?” she demanded.
A miserable Greg trailed in after her and sank silently onto the sofa.
“Read my-? They came?” said Draco, spotting letters in his friend’s hands.
Millie frowned as she opened the small casement window to let an owl in that held a leg out to Draco who plucked his letter from it.
He started to rip open his letter but paused. “Are they bad?”
“They’re so bad,” said Greg, who looked like he was in mild pain.
Millie’s mouth opened but she was apparently too outraged to even speak because she just held out a hand and shook her head.
“Who-“ Draco started to ask.
“Neville Longbottom! NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM, that pathetic loser from Gryffindor who could hardly… he could hardly stand up straight let alone do anything else worthwhile!” exploded Millie.
“He’s a pureblood,” said Draco unhelpfully, grasping at straws.
“So?! And who the fuck cares?!” said Millie with a face like thunder.
This was bad. It was just as he had suspected, a political match. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
“And you?” Draco asked cautiously.
“Lovegood,” Greg grunted.
Draco grimaced and considered his letter with suspicion.
“Go on,” ordered Millie.
He sighed and opened the rest of it, straightening out the parchment, the words bleeding into his brain.
“Oh fuck!” he whispered, his hand closing over his mouth in shock.
“Who?” asked Greg.
Draco sat down like the wind was knocked out of him and when Millie went to take his letter from him he shook his head and held it close to him, silently. Granger. It had to be Granger. Was this just further punishment for him? But then surely it would also be a punishment for her? Could the Ministry really be sacrificing one of their poster children just to spite him?
There was another knock at the door and before anyone had had a chance to open it, Pansy Parkinson strode in, “George Weasley!” she shrieked.
“George bloody fucking Weasley! His hobbies include composing limericks and making things explode!” she let out a deranged laugh, “What the fuck am I going to do?”
“Neville Longbottom,” said Millie with venom.
Pansy stopped in her tracks and looked at her three friends.
“You all got duds too?” she hissed.
Greg nodded but then looked pointedly at Draco who sighed and held his letter out to Pansy, still unable to speak.
She read it and screamed, “Hermione Granger! What the fuck is happening to us?!”
Greg moaned and Millie just closed her eyes.
“All these people hate us!” said Pansy, her voice high and reedy.
“Sit down, Pans,” said Greg, guiding the nearly hysterical Pansy onto the bench seat.
“Her hobbies include writing complaint letters and… taping TV shows she’s missed?!” asked Greg, twisting his face to read the profile that Pansy held upside down.
“Taping TV shows? What is that?” asked Draco, momentarily distracted.
“They’re little black boxes that play pictures of muggles moving,” said Millie darkly.
“And she puts tape over them?” asked Draco confusedly.
“What if my babies are ginger,” asked Pansy gravely.
“What if my babies are mental,” scoffed Greg.
“I’m not having babies with fucking Longbottom,” Millie shook her head.
“Granger would never have sex with me,” said Draco, still looking shaken.
“She won’t have a choice,” said Pansy frowning, “none of us will.”
“Oh god, I can’t bring her somewhere like this,” groaned Draco, looking around the trailer.
“Maybe you’ll get to live with her?” suggested Pansy tentatively.
“They won’t bend the probation terms for the Golden Girl,” he snorted, “fuck!”
“Do you think Lovegood still wear vegetables for earrings?” sighed Greg.
Draco patted his friend’s back in solidarity because he had no good answer for that.